Not Bishop lurking off to the side, concern etched into his dark gaze.
Not the rowdy crowd of fans pleading with me not to kill my opponent.
Not the flashes of Lake Sutton in my mind, crying in my arms and begging me to end her life.
Nothing.
I’m a man on a mission, ready for a kill.
It’s what he wanted. A fight to the death. What he goaded me into until rage finally filled me up after hearing the cruel and brutal things he wants to do to my Lake. My sweet haven. The only slice of heaven I’ve ever found.
“Come on, finish him!” someone yells.
“Please don’t,” a feminine voice sobs.
“Do it, do it, do it!” multiple people chant.
My thirst for blood has always gone unmatched. Not even my father, who was the boogeyman of Florida for decades, understands the lust and rage I feel for the crimson liquid.
It’s sick, I’m sick, but I was made this way for a reason: Five feet, three inches of pure innocence that was tainted while she should have been having the time of her life.
She needs the killer in me. The psychopath without a conscience. The brute without feelings.
Except where she’s concerned.
Lake is the only thing I care about. I’ve been her protector from the day she was born. When she was assaulted in Texas, I burned the camp to the ground. When her brother Nolan’s wife, Bea, was found, we discovered a connection none of us expected.
Once Luther and I received all the details, I smiled as I tore the head off Bea’s stepsister’s body. I’d have happily bathed in her blood, but it was the wiser choice to refrain from such terrifying actions because if Lake ever found out, she’d run from me.
And I couldn’t have that.
It’s unacceptable, and I won’t tolerate it.
“Come on, big boy, come meet your maker,” my opponent taunts. He’s already beaten to a pulp, my fists broken and bloody from the thrashing I’ve dished out to him.
Shaking my head, I lean against the cage where Bishop, Easton, and Hendrix stand, watching, waiting for the perfect opportunity to unleash my fury on the man nearly twice my size. I’m six four, where he’s six eight. He has 60 pounds on my 250. The difference is I’m built from solid muscle; a brick shit house is what they call me. Despite his confidence, the man doesn’t stand a chance.
“Quit playing with him already,” Easton hisses in my ear. If anyone in the family harbors a bloodthirst similar to mine, it’s Easton and Holden.
I can see the “officials” debating whether to allow the fight to continue. Even though a death match was agreed upon, I don’t think anyone expected me to win.
I’ve been coming to fight in Destin for a little over a year now, needing the escape from Lake’s perpetually sad eyes, sucking me in until I can’t think straight because there’s nothing I can do to heal her. It hasn’t helped all that much, but at least I’ve found an outlet for this pent-up fury that inevitably flows through my veins like it belongs there.
“Fuck him up.” Bishop finally grins.
“Before Mia has my head.” Hendrix’s dry voice averts my eyes to him, looking down at his phone—no doubt texting his pretty woman all the filthy things he wants to do to her.
“Does it work?” The question pops out as I give him my attention while an idea forms.
All three men look at me like I’ve lost my damn mind. Maybe I have.
“Does what work?” Hendrix asks.
“The dirty texting.” My tone lowers, wanting no one else to overhear this conversation.
Hen snorts but nods. “Yeah, it gets us through being apart, and when I finally get my hands on her, she’s begging for a deep, dirty fucking.”
“And that…” I search for the right words. “Connects you both? Emotionally, I mean.”
