Alright, boys, let’s dance.
My fists clenched tight, knuckles whitening as adrenaline surged through me like wildfire. The first guy lunged at me; I sidestepped and landed a solid punch to his gut that sent him reeling back. Another came at me from the side—I ducked under his swing and kicked his legs out from under him.
My fists connected with a jawbone and then a soft stomach with satisfying thuds. One grabbed for me; I ducked low again and came up hard with an uppercut that had him seeing stars not listed in any astronomy book.
Boots lashed out next—mine finding knees and shins with unerring accuracy born from desperation and street smarts. Another tried to flank me; I spun around and sent him crashing into his buddy with a well-placed elbow strike.
The scuffle was less finesse and more feral—as if every punch and kick dragged up from Mystic Spring’s dusty streets where I learned to stand my ground or get ground down. It was pure instinct—the kind that had kept me alive when life decided it wanted to chew me up and spit me out for fun.
A fist grazed my cheek; I retaliated with a hook that would make a boxer proud. Sweat stung my eyes; blood thrummed in my ears—a primal drumbeat urging me on.
They kept coming—like waves crashing against a cliff—but I stood my ground. My elbow connected with a nose, sending blood spurting; a knee jabbed into someone’s ribs elicited a pained grunt; another kick aimed at a kneecap brought another man down.
I fought with everything I had, bashing and kicking like my life depended on it—because it did. I’d been through hell and back, and I’d be damned if I let these thugs be the end of my story. Each blow landed was met with resistance; each strike taken only fueled my determination.
But there were too many of them.
A punch caught me off guard, knocking the wind out of me as pain exploded across my jaw. Stumbling back, I barely had time to register another hit before it sent stars dancing in my vision.
With one final punch that felt like it had been delivered by a freight train with personal issues, my legs buckled beneath me. The world went dark as I hit the ground with all the grace of a rag doll. It was lights out for Andy Donovan.
When consciousness came creeping back like an unwanted hangover, I was already wishing it hadn’t. My body felt like it had been used as a piñata at some sadistic kid’s birthday party. I tried to move, but my limbs wouldn’t cooperate. A groan escaped my lips as I realized I was bound, my wrists and ankles screaming in protest against the rough ropes.
Every inch of me throbbed with pain. My face felt like it had been used as a punching bag, and I tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. My head pounded in time with what felt like an amateur jazz drummer going to town on my brain. Disoriented and aching, I struggled to piece together what had happened, to remember why I was here.
The room was a blur of shadows and grime, the smell of mildew and old blood thick in the air. If pain had a color, it would’ve painted this room.
Then he walked in—Carlos Ruiz himself. Without so much as aHow do you do?,he drew back his fist and let it fly, the impact sending shock waves of agony through my already battered face. Each hit was a punctuation mark in his silent tirade—hot, hard blows that turned my face into something abstract artists might call “post-fight chic.”
I lost track of how long it went on, the world narrowing down to the relentless onslaught of Carlos’ fists. My head lolled to the side, my vision swimming in and out of focus as the numbness spread, a welcome respite from the pain.
As Carlos paced the room, muttering about his losses and how it was all Matt Caine’s fault, his words drifted through my foggy brain. He blamed Matt for everything—apparently I was just the message board he’d chosen to pin his grievances on.
Through the haze of pain and confusion, realization dawned on me—I was bait. A worm on the hook meant to lure Matt into whatever twisted game Carlos had concocted. And that sinking feeling wasn’t just from the punches; it came from knowing people I cared about were being dragged into this because of me.
Carlos wasn’t done yet; he came back for an encore performance that left me swimming in darkness once more. His fists were relentless—each strike an echo of hatred that resonated through my bones until all I could feel was numbness creeping up to claim me.
As consciousness slipped away again, two faces swam into view: Mia’s worried brown eyes filled with sisterly love and Matt’s stormy gaze that somehow promised both safety and danger. I couldn’t leave them—not without telling Matt what he meant to me.
Life had always been something I surfed on without much thought—a series of waves to ride until they crashed onto shore. But lying there, with each labored breath feeling like it mightbe my last, life suddenly seemed precious—a fragile thing worth fighting for.
I had to survive this—for Mia, for myself… and yeah, for Matt Caine. Because damn it all if I didn’t love him more than I’d ever thought possible.
And with that thought clinging stubbornly to the edges of my battered consciousness, darkness pulled me under once again.
Twenty-Six
MATT
Matt sat at the head of the conference table, a sleek expanse of polished mahogany stretching out before him. Important people filled the room—CEOs, investors, key stakeholders. Their voices droned on about quarterly projections and market shares, but his mind was far from the financial forecasts and corporate strategies being discussed.
His gaze wandered past the spreadsheets and pie charts, settling on nothing in particular as his mind traced the contours of a different sort of figure. Andy’s image flickered behind his eyes—the glimmer of light in his golden-brown eyes, the curve of his lips when he smirked, that devil-may-care swagger in his walk. Andy was a tempest in Matt’s otherwise orderly world. A spitfire with quick wit and an even quicker temper. But beneath that fiery exterior lay a tenderness that made Matt’s chest ache.
This fixation was maddening. He’d never been one to lose focus, especially not when his empire demanded vigilance. Deals like these were his lifeblood, yet today, they seemed like pale shadows compared to the fire that Andy ignited within him.
The room buzzed with talk of acquisitions, mergers—words that usually sparked his predatory instinct—but now they justfell flat. A surge of possessiveness tightened in his chest as he remembered Andy’s desperate offer to James. That foolhardy sacrifice for Mia had sent a jolt through him—a possessive streak he didn’t recognize as his own flaring to life. The idea of Andy with anyone else made Matt’s stomach churn. He’d known other lovers, sure, but they were ephemeral delights—candles snuffed out with a breath. Andy was different; Andy was…everything.
“Mr. Caine, if I could direct your attention to the projected growth chart,” one of his partners interjected.
