Page 42 of The Fighter

His hand sifted through my hair one more time before finally his expression softened. “We have a lot to talk about but just relax for now. Watch TV, chill, and heal. Can you do that for me?”

That sounded nice. Amazing. My check-in with Chen wasn’t for hours. I deserved to relax for now, right? And in Con’s apartment, with his steady, dominating presence, I could almost believe it would last.

SIXTEEN

Conrad

I stood starting blankly at the oven. Inside was the leftovers of a breakfast casserole my chef had made. It had been too sweet for my taste, a French toast thing, but something told me Tav would love it. A bowl of cut up fruit sat on the counter, and two steaming mugs of coffee were on a tray, ready for me to deliver to Tav.

But I needed a minute. I needed a whole lot of minutes.

The weight of the last day was finally catching up to me. The fighting. Tav’s attachment to Devlin. The way Tav hid behind Husk to survive.

If all I wanted was a fuck, I’d go out and get one with a hell of a lot less complications.

This was true. Tav might be a dream, but his life outside this apartment was a million red flags, and I was a bull charging through all of them. Complications be damned.

Today wouldn’t be easy. Tav and I would have to talk. He was going to have to tell me things, and I was going to have to reciprocate. It was going to be hard, and it was going to hurt. Butat least he was here. He was in my apartment, safe, and with me. Everything else we could handle in due time.

The way he’d reacted when I’d called him Husk… that would haunt me forever. I’d lashed out, sick over this entire situation, and had only succeeded him hurting him more. I regretted it, but I didn’t regret what came after. Because when Tav’s anger burned out, he’d been so beautifully open with me.

I had never been the type of lover who wanted to take care of someone. I liked domination in the bedroom, but outside of it, I was independent, and I preferred my partners to be the same. But Tav was different. I wanted to hand feed him grapes. I wanted to tend to his wounds. I wanted to wash his big body with a soapy loofah and suds up his hair with shampoo.

When the casserole was sufficiently heated, I dumped a massive helping on a plate, placed it on the tray with the rest of the breakfast, and carried it into the bedroom.

Tav glanced up from where he was propped up on the bed with about three pillows stuffed behind his head and back. The TV was playing where it hung on the opposite wall. Some old movie he’d found.

I raised my eyebrows at him.

“I don’t—didn’t have streaming services at my apartment,” he said sheepishly.

His face looked awful—a mass of bruises and cuts. I had a hard time looking at him without wincing, without feeling that inner rage that almost had me marching to find that Shock fucker and ripping his throat out.

But my murderous thoughts fled when Tav’s face lit up as I dropped the tray on his lap. He ate like a starving animal, scarfing up the whole casserole and all the fruit while sucking down lava-hot coffee like it was ice water. Pleased sounds rumbled from his throat in between talking along with the movie. I sat down next to him, stealing a few strawberries andsipping my own coffee. When I asked him what movie was on, he stared at me, his mouth open and full of food. “It’sBloodsport.”

I stared back.

He chewed and swallowed. “Bloodsport,” he said again.

“Yeah, I heard you the first time.”

He waved his hand in front of my face. “B-but you had no reaction.”

“And what reaction am I supposed to have?”

He blinked, then squinted his eyes and pinched his lips. When he spoke, it was in a mock low voice. “Ah,Bloodsport. Yes, my Tav, of course. How could I be so silly not to recognize Jean-Claude Van Damme in what’s considered his finest cinematic masterpiece?”

I stole a stray casserole crumb off his plate. Yeah, still too sweet. “Do I really sound like that?”

He threw up his hands and turned back to the TV. “I’m sorry, this isn’t going to work out.”

I ignored that remark. “Jean-Claude Van Damme—wasn’t he in that Under Siege movie?”

His jaw dropped in horror. “Holy shit, stop talking.”

“Why?”

“That was Steven Seagal!” Tav’s voice had gone up an octave. His outrage was genuine, but I found it hilarious. My lips were twitching. I didn’t dolip twitching. I wasn’t sure I really did smiling. Or banter with a lover. Or whatever the fuck we were doing.