“I—” The word stumbles out, clumsy. I’m pulling back before I even think, cradling her wrists to gently put space between us. I force another smile, but it feels brittle on my face. “I think I’m gonna call it early, actually. Why don’t you give some love to Smoke or Ace? You know they love the attention.”
She purses her lips, confusion clouding her pretty features. Her eyes sweep over me, looking for a crack, a sign. Can she see the civil war raging in my skull? It feels like a battlefield, smoke and chaos, and no clear side winning.
With a graceful shrug, Rosie just places a chaste, almost pitying kiss on my cheek. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”
I watch her drift away, a beacon of easy pleasure moving toward other, less complicated men. I should feel a pull. A flicker of regret for a promised good time.
Instead, I feel… empty.
The sensation is a hollow, echoing space that cheap thrills and warm bodies can’t seem to touch any longer. It’s a hunger Idon’t know how to name, and it’s staring at a bottle of tequila on the other side of the bar.
* * *
Days drift by, but nothing truly feels like it changes.
Everyone’s back to having a good time. Most of my time feels like it’s at the clubhouse. We’re getting nice weather back to back, and instead of taking my bike out, I’m here, stuck by an invisible pair of shackles.
We’ve got a pair of ex-Crimson Road members hanging about, but I can’t even use them as an excuse as to why I feel the need to stick around.
Raven won’t look at me. Rather, instead of picking fights with me, she outright acts like I don’t exist. This shift that’s happened between us, one that was created out of my control, is not one I can easily fix. Not when we’re back to square one.
Every time I think about how I spend my nights alone on a bed that kills my back, I find myself wondering if I’m torturing myself for a reason.
I need to go back home to grab some razors. My face is starting to itch.
For the past five days, I haven’t woken with the rise of the sun. Instead, I miss breakfast, but always walk in on lunch being served. All to keep up with her schedule.
If it weren’t for all these women offering to help feed us beasts, I’d be worried poison would end up on my plate.
My afternoons are spent at the bar, and my evenings end up downstairs. Wherever I go, there’s always a common factor.
The beauty who hates me.
Tonight, she has barely even looked my way. She’s not punching her bag or taking out her anger on any of theequipment this time around. I guess she spars once a week. Now here I am, watching her take on her second opponent.
None of these assholes volunteered to babysit her, but when it comes to wanting to knock her down a peg, they’re happy to jump up for the opportunity.
Thwack!
“Fuck…” Muttering the curse, I watch as she flips Killer onto his back with a hard slam. “She was going easy on me.”
Sitting away from all these fools, I’m not entirely alone. Kansas is smart not to put himself with her future opponents. That, or he’s already gotten his own taste once upon a time.
He cocks a brow, confused. He remains that way because there’s no way in hell I’m going to announce that I got my ass kicked by her happily. Nobody does. I mean, I didn’t know about these sparring matches because no one talks about them.
Keeping my eyes on her is a compulsion. I don’t blink. The violent flush on her skin, the panting rhythm of her breath—my own lungs seem to sync to it. She’s coiled, then fluid, a spring unspooling as she waits for her opponent to rise. Every movement is a lesson in controlled fury.
Watching her has a different kind of impact. Taking her punches was a blunt, personal thrill. But this—seeing the artistry of her violence, the way she calculates and strikes—it does something else to me. Something deeper, in my marrow.
I want to be the one in that ring. Not to trade blows, but to dismantle that focus until it’s only on me. I wouldn’t play defense. I’d go straight for the tackle, feel the breath leave her in a rush as we hit the mat. I’d pin her, not to win, but to still that magnificent, furious motion. To have her under me.
My gut tightens, a low, hot pull. Fuck. It’s not a fight I’m imagining. It’s the aftermath. The weight of her, the heat. Getting myself between her thighs again, where the friction isn’t from fists, but from—
A groan escapes me before I can cage it. I drag my hands over my face, as if I could scrub the image away. My body is a traitor, humming with a relentless, single-minded current I don’t understand. It’s not just hunger clawing at me. It’s not anger. It’s a hollow, howling thing in the center of me that only her shape seems to fit.
Next to me, Kansas cuts a sidelong glance. He sees the tension in my shoulders, the clenched jaw. Thankfully, he’s blind to the rest—to the ache that has nothing to do with any wound I’ve ever earned, and everything to do with the distance she’s forced between us.
We watch for a few minutes until Killer is tapping out before he sighs next to me, somehow bored.
