I’m his. I’m the woman who loves everything about him, from his most excruciating pain to his greatest pleasures. I fault him nothing. I would drink his darkest secrets, no matter how poisonous. I would take his place in the courtyard and let his captors put a gun to my head. I would crawl inside him and fold myself under his heart.
The admission is exciting and terrifying all at once. I’ve never felt so much, never believed I could even have such intense feelings. My mother was so volatile that I’d always kept myself in check, stifling all emotions from fear to joy—until cutting had been my only release.
Now I want to let all my feelings out, but only if they have a safe place to land. Otherwise they’ll ricochet back or just churn around inside me again, an endless spinning cycle.
As we’re leaving the restaurant, a broken sign points the way to the beach and a steep, rocky plateau stretching far out into the ocean.
“Can we see if there are tide pools?” I ask. “Just for a few minutes.”
He hesitates, but nods. We walk over the dunes to the deserted, seaweed-littered beach.
The tide is low, the wide outcropping slippery with sea spray and algae. Waves strike the bottom of the cliffs. Squawking gulls make slow circles overhead. Craters pattern the rocks like the surface of the moon. Inside them, miniature oceans teem with sea life.
Darius walks in front of me as we make our way over the reef. The air is cold and salty. I stop and study the little plants and creatures—the anemones, coral, crabs, limpets, and fish. I think of underwater photographers who capture the hidden life of the ocean.
I put my hand in the freezing water and gently touch an anemone to close the sticky tentacles. A wave crashes, the spray like pinpricks against my face. I watch a crab scuttle along the bottom of a pool. A rough cluster of mussels blooms from a crevice like a dark blue flower.
When I look up, Darius is gone. I squint against the sunlight. No…he’s walked all the way to the end of the rocks and is standing at the cliff.
Slowly, I straighten, locking my gaze to his broad back and slumped shoulders. His head is lowered, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. The wind rustles through his dark hair.
Against the massive stretch of ocean, land, and sky, he looks—for the first time in my life—diminished. Vulnerable. As if there actually is something in the world that might break him.
Or as if something already has.
CHAPTER 32
Darius
The air is blood, smoke, sweat. A right hook snaps my head back, jarring my spine. Yells from the crowd pound against my ears, ricochet off the walls of the abandoned factory. I fire an uppercut, catching my opponent under the jaw. He grunts. Spit flies from his mouth.
Adrenaline burns my veins. Every muscle is locked and loaded. Sweat runs down my face and chest. I drag in a breath and fire off a left hook. Spectators shout, packed into the room fifteen deep, crowded on stairwells and the metal walkways above. My opponent is losing strength. He’s the third one I’ve fought tonight. A couple more shots will take him down.
I could go another twenty rounds. Or more.
My brain is on autopilot. Every instinct focuses on the win. Right, left, jab, uppercut…down. He hits the mat like a rag doll.
The crowd roars. Thunder. Money exchanges hands. Blood and sweat pool onto the concrete floor.
The fight organizer, Vic, lifts my arm. I shake him off and stumble out of the ring, shoving away the shouts of victory, the yells for me to get back in and celebrate the championship. Noise shatters the air.
I make it to the restroom—cement walls and a single yellow bulb dangling from the ceiling. Falling to my knees, I puke my guts out into a rusty toilet. Pain scrapes my insides. Acid sears my throat.
I push away from the toilet. Slump against the wall. Hate the sound of my breath, the throbbing ache in my forehead.
“Hey, man, hurry up!” Vic sticks his head in the restroom. “Crowd wants you back out there. Next round’s in fifteen. Axel’s coming out for you next week, and he’s a big-ass motherfucker, but he’s slow. Most bets are on you.”
“Forget it.” I heave in a breath. “I’m done.”
“What? Dude, you killed it out there. Crowd’ll be pissed if you don’t come back. You got a shitload of cash tonight alone.”
“I just wanted to fight.” I drag myself to my feet, one hand on the wall, and get to the sink. I splash water on my face. Blood swirls down the drain.
“Fuck, man.” He lifts his hands in supplication. “I ain’t running a charity here. You come to fight, you fight to win.”
Yeah. That’s what everyone does. Fight to fucking win.
“I did win.” I shove past him to the storage room where I left my stuff.
“So get back out there and win again.”
“No.”
“Come on, man,” Vic wheedles. “You’re a huge draw. People wanna see you in action.”
I slam the door on him and lock it. He knocks, yelling to be heard above the still-thundering crowd. My head pounds. I pull on track pants and a shirt, grab my duffel, and unlock the door. I shove past Vic and head out. He follows, agitated and demanding a promise that I’ll come back.
Ignoring him, I stalk out to the parking lot. The night air is cold and damp. Cars and trucks are parked haphazardly over the isolated field. Tomorrow the place will be empty, the factory abandoned again. No sign of the fights. Except blood staining the concrete.
I drive back to the motel I booked yesterday after that blistering night when I’d crossed the line. The one I swore I’d never breach.
I get in the shower. I’m beat-up around the torso, bruises and a nasty laceration on my abdomen. After I wash all the blood off, a look in the mirror tells me my face didn’t take too many hits, but I’m still marked. A large discolored bruise forms on my jaw. Most of the blood is coming from the reopened cut on my forehead.
I can explain those away. Fell off my bike. Hit by a baseball. Tackled in a pick-up football game.
No one will say, “Mr. Hawke, were you in an underground fight?”
Jesus. How can I go back to teaching? How can I stand in front of twenty students and act like I deserve to be there? How can I listen to their questions, knowing they expect me to give them the right answers? How can I accept their respect and trust after what I did to one of their classmates?
What I still want to do.
After pulling on pajama pants, I lie on the bed. Adrenaline still rushes through my veins. I listen to the sound of my breath filling my lungs. My heart pounding.
Nell.
She falls into my mind like a shadow. A ghost slipping through heavy brick walls.
I should’ve stayed for another fight. The ring is the only place she can’t get to me. Everywhere else…I have no defenses.
But she’s not a shadow or a ghost. There’s nothing insubstantial about her. She’s pure flesh and blood. Vibrant. Alive.
I just want you to touch me.
Please.
I can’t wait.
My dick stiffens. I clench my teeth. I let it go too far. Wanted it to. But in the lowest, dirtiest part of me, I’m burning to finish what I started.
I want to strip her naked, devour her sweet mouth, kiss the scars on her thigh. I want to open her legs, spread her cunt, and sink my cock into her so deep and hard I’ll never want to pull out. I want her skin, damp with sweat, rasping against mine. I want the little cries and whimpers choking her throat. I want her eyes wide with shock and need, her tapered fingers flexing on my shoulders, her breasts bouncing.