There’s a crack. Lochlan stumbles. Weaves. He’s not smirking anymore. But Killian—Killian’s grinning now. His eyes are bright gold with pale blue rims. “Get off on tripping lone females with bad legs, eh?” he pants. Lochlan’s a good fighter. He ignores the taunt and goes after Killian with a vengeance, throwing combination after combination, driving him to the edge of the open floor. Killian takes blow after blow to the face, the ribs. He’s jerking back and forth like a rag doll, but he never loses his balance, not for a second. He spits blood on the linoleum. “Rules don’t apply to you, eh?”
