Rhys staggered backward, arms flailing like someone had yanked the battery out of his spine.
Ashton didn't let up.
While Rhys was still figuring out which direction gravity was pulling him, Ashton calmly slipped off his watch and shoved it into his pocket.
Then he cracked his neck and grabbed Rhys by the collar.
And started swinging.
One punch.
Then another.
And another.
Until I lost count.
Until Rhys was spitting blood and barely able to stand, his body folding like wet cardboard.
And Ashton still wasn't done.
He let Rhys drop like a sack of compost.
Then he strolled over and stomped on him in the gut.
Not once.
Repeatedly.
Real slow. Real controlled.
Every hit drew another mouthful of blood from Rhys, like some horrific vending machine.
