Chapter 172
I gasped, instinctively leaning forward and gripping the bench as Noah groaned and launched a roundhouse kick at Drake. He connected, catching Drake squarely on the side of the head. “Drake!” I cried, leaping to my feet. The fight had just begun, yet it felt far more vicious than a simple competition. It seemed they were out for blood.
But Drake didn’t falter for long. Spitting out blood onto the mat, he slid forward, wrapping his arms around Noah’s leg to throw him off balance. Noah’s arms flailed, his head snapping back in surprise as he hit the floor. Drake was instantly on top, raining punches down. Noah rolled and dodged, narrowly avoiding a direct hit to the face. He then used his legs to flip Drake, landing on top himself.
Unlike Drake, Noah didn’t miss. A solid punch landed squarely on Drake’s nose, causing blood to gush. “Noah! Stop!” I shrieked, lunging toward the ring and gripping the ropes, but I couldn’t enter. Drake had regained the upper hand; they were rolling on the floor, Drake’s arms around Noah’s throat, Noah’s legs kicking wildly.
“Yield!” Drake groaned, spitting out more blood. “Yield, dammit!”
Noah choked, sputtering, “Never.”
“Noah!” I shrieked. “Just yield, for Goddess’ sake!”
He ignored me, as did Drake. My shouts were lost in the flurry of kicks, punches, and snarls; fangs bared, blood dripping. I had to act—especially when I saw Noah on top again, unleashing feral punches. Some landed with sickening cracks and sputters; others missed, bloodying Noah’s knuckles against the mat. Noah would kill Drake if he didn’t get free; and if Drake did, he might well return the favor.
Spotting a sink and mop bucket in the corner, I gritted my teeth and sprinted over, filling the bucket with water. The rushing water barely drowned out the sounds of the fight. Tears pricked my eyes, my heart pounding as I waited for the bucket to fill.
Half-full, I whirled back, nearly dropping it. Drake had Noah against the ropes, his shirt clutched in his fist, pummeling him in the gut. Noah crumpled with each blow, but refused to fall.
With a final shriek, I sprinted to the ring, holding the bucket high. I dumped the entire contents over their heads.
Only then, in the icy shock, did their punches slow. Drake released Noah’s shirt, stumbling and falling. Noah wiped blood from his mouth, leaning against the ropes, panting heavily.
I threw the bucket down. “You animals!” I shrieked, stamping my foot. “This was supposed to be my training day! And you had to make it about yourselves!”
They didn’t respond; I doubted they were capable. Regardless, I needed fresh air, escape from the cloying scent of blood, sweat, and saliva. Before I succumbed to tears, vomit, or screaming—or all three—I whirled and fled the training center.