Bad Blood (Bad Boys of Boston – The Irish #2) Read Online K.S. Ellis

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: Bad Boys of Boston - The Irish Series by K.S. Ellis
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Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 60653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
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PADDY
I know what they say about me: I’m dark, dangerous, and damaged. The opportunity to avenge my parents’ murders was stolen from me, and now I hate the world. Can you blame me? What has the world ever done for me? Less than nothing. Fighting and fucking are the only two outlets I have for my anger, and I’m very, very good at them.

LAUREN
When did life get so complicated? I’m all alone with nowhere to go. Before he died, my older brother, Josh told me that if I was ever in trouble, I should go to one of his fellow bare-knuckle fighters, Paddy Flynn, an enforcer for the Boston Irish Mafia. But now I actually need help, I’m a little nervous that the cure might be worse than the disease.
Paddy knows he should stay away from Lauren before his darkness completely envelopes her. But he’s drawn to her again and again, and nothing he tells himself can make him stay away. Can Lauren save Paddy from the darkness he seems content to drown in? Or will he drag her down with him into the cold, dark depths?

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Prologue

Paddy

There’s a good-sized crowd tonight, so the takings should be good. My opponent is a big, brutish Russian. Ivor Stravinsky. He’s got a good record. Mine’s better.

I turn my eyes to where my crew is sitting, lounging off to the side of the ring. Seamus Fitzpatrick, our fearless fucking leader and my best mate for the last twenty years is scanning the crowd. Connor Fitzpatrick, his cousin, is beside him, trying his luck with one of the gorgeous lasses dotted around the crowded warehouse.

Fitzy’s eyes find mine, and he nods, turning to grin at something his cousin says. Almost the whole crew is here tonight. Liam, the young lad, he’s still on babysitting duties tonight. Ronan’s a lucky fucker that he’s not there too.

Ever since Fitzy found out his missus was pregnant when she was involved in a shootout, he’s been a little over the top in the protective side of things. Needy fuck.

As it is, Ronan is distracted, stalking over to the back corner of the room. No guesses where’s he’s going. One of the strippers from the club, the little blonde one who is friends with Fitzy’s wife, shows up at these fights every so often. Ronan fucking hates it.

The crowd parts for him like water breaking over a rock, and his little stripper looks pissed that he spotted her. To her credit, she’s not backing down. It seems like he’s trying to convince her to leave, but she’s ignoring him, her eyes scanning the crowd. She is probably looking for the fighter she is here to see.

Perry, the announcer, does his little hyped-up spiel about Ivor. The fighter dances his way to the ring, the strains of whatever clichéd anthem he’s selected blasting obnoxiously loud as the Russian corner of the room erupts.

He does some shadow boxing once in the ring, and the crowd laps it up. The eejit looks like he’s in some grand Hollywood production, not an illegal underground fight ring.

When I’m announced, I walk over and climb into the ring. No music, no dancing or playing it up to the crowd. The Irish cheer, the Russian’s jeer, and Ivor juts his chin at me, a smug grin on his ugly mug.

He’s probably got about forty pounds on me. He’s solid like a black bear. But we’re roughly the same height, six foot three, so it’s a pretty evenly matched fight. Fitzy’s got a lot of money riding on this, but I’m just here to fuck cunts up. I don’t give a shit about the rest of it.

Perry announces Herman Ford, the referee, who climbs into the ring, says his piece about no eye-gouging, biting, or nut shots, and the bell rings out.

Ivor leads with three sharp jabs and a huge uppercut, going for the immediate knockout. How pathetically predictable. The man starts every single one of his fights the same way. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone not see it coming from a mile off.

Dancing out of his way, I clock him with a sharp cross to the jaw, following with a jab to the ribs. He stumbles back, growling, and glaring at me. I let a slow, feral grin steal across my face, jerking my chin in an invitation. It’s all he needs. He roars, charging me, swinging wildly.

The fight continues in the same vein. Ivor relies on brute strength, charging, swinging wildly as I dance out of his way, jabbing and parrying, landing some decent shots. My knuckles have split, and they'd be aching if I concentrated on them. I’m not concentrating on them, though. I’m too focused on fucking Ivor up. Just because I can.

Ivor is flagging while I’ve led him on a merry dance around the now bloodstained ring. We’ve been going at it for almost fifteen minutes straight, and he’s rapidly running out of steam.


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