“I touched you once and swore that I’d rather cut my hand than hurt you in any way possible again.” Sure, that will help, reminding her of the second biggest obstacle. How we began—rape.
Her hands’ movement stops, thankfully, because my dick didn’t get the damn memo.
Her eyes become slits, slicing me open. “God forbid you touch me again, right? Afraid I will like it just like then? You hurt me by not wanting me back. You said you’d give me anything I asked. I want you.”
A brief pause follows, carrying enough explosive to blow up my entire world.
She straightens herself as if getting ready for a negotiation. “You and I… together until my brother returns. We’ll never talk about it again. It will be our secret. Just let me live my dream for a bit.” Her eyes shine with a hope so bright it twists my heart, digging the knife deeper. The ones who call me a butcher don’t know the veritable expert she is.
It takes everything in me to deny her, but a taste would never satisfy me. Once we cross the line, I won’t be able to return to how things were. “No.”
“Fucking egotistical asshole.” She stomps away while I hold my face between my hands, not knowing what to do to make itbetter for her. I gave up on finding solace and peace a long time ago.
I march straight to my car. If I don’t leave, I will do something stupid, like chase after her. In my weak state, I will want to regret taking her but that won’t stop me.
I speed toward the club, storming past my men who sense my mood and give me a wide berth. I shut the door of my office and slap my palms on my desk. My head hangs with the ton of rage pressing down on my back. If I could resurrect my father to kill him again, I would. I am that fucking furious.
I was a child unable to prevent my mother’s murder and my sister being taken from me. At least Calla can protect herself.
But I failed Dahlia. I failed to protect her, and that regret is a festering wound, always pulsing but failing to kill me with sepsis. How could it when it feels like my blood is pure poison?
Needing to dispel some of the dark energy swirling in my head, I get on the private group chat and type.
One fight. 500k to the winner.
Five replies within the next ten minutes. Good, that will keep me occupied for a while.
Waiting for the opponents to show up, I do some shipment tracking while thoughts of Dahlia threaten my focus. Anything to keep me busy for the next two hours before I take the elevator down to the basement.
While the ceiling vibrates with the music and the partygoers thumping above, several special guests fill the secret room in the club’s basement where the cage fights take place.
In the back room, I get ready by changing into black shorts with a golden lion sewn on the side, before I reveal myself. In the cage, anything goes. You either tap out or it’s a fight till death.
The dim lights add to the illicit atmosphere as the regulars place bets. I smirk, knowing I will get richer by a few million tonight.
It’s always a spectacle when I fight, the underworld greedy to take me down, to prove that I am human after all. Years later, they have all failed.
Something tells me that by the time Enzo returns, no one will want to fight me again.
Stepping inside the cage, I crack my neck and sway from foot to foot to loosen my muscles and pump the air in preparation. The thirst for blood rages inside of me, wanting to beat someone to a bloody mess—purple skin and broken limbs.
My opponent resembles a mammoth. The steroids he has injected popping his veins up. As if he’s made of damn cement, the ground cracks under his heavy weight. It might appear as a challenge, but fighting is more than brute force. He will fall, just like everyone before him and anyone who will come after.
The padded floor shakes under his feet as he comes at me. I shake my head, insulted when I swiftly hit him in his stomach without real effort. His defense is shit because he counts on knocking me down with a fist that flies past my ear.
I get behind him and kick him in his calf, the sound of tearing muscle ripping through the atmosphere. He plummets onto his face with a resounding thud. Rolling him over, I straddle his chest and deliver a rapid series of fists until his face is unrecognizable, and I haven’t even broken a sweat.
The few guests have gone silent, their eyes wide with unmistakable awe and blatant fear. Some gasps hit my ears, but I am too far gone to care or stop as I pummel his face in. I just wish to appease this all-consuming rage, delivering each punch with swift precision as if I can distance myself from wanting her.
You can’t have her.
Stay away from her.
Monster. Monster. Monster.
Some of my men pull him out, leaving a trail of blood behind as I stare at my battered knuckles.
I never tape them, craving the pain. If I draw enough blood, it will satiate my hunger for violence and her damn allure. It never does, dragging me further into its addictive haze where nothing is on my mind. But that’s not true.
