Justin
Anger was too tame a word to describe how I felt.
What boiled through my veins, hotter than any fever, was pure rage. Sean, that smirking bastard, was deliberately trying to surf it. He wanted me to lose it, to make a fool of myself, to give him more ammunition.
My fist throbbed from the satisfying crack of knuckle against his jaw, but it wasn’t enough—not for the years of snide remarks, his constant undermining, his ambition to take what was mine.
The bastard deserved more than a split lip.
I wanted to feel his bones break under my hands.
I lunged again, ignoring the pain that lanced through my knuckles. My fist connected with his side. He grunted, the smug look finally wiped from his face, replaced by genuine anger.
He retaliated with a punch to my gut that stole my breath.
