Wild Side (Rose Hill #3)

21. Tabitha

CHAPTER 21

TABITHA

I walk toward my house with a new husband trailing behind me and a ruined pair of panties beneath my dress. Though I’ll never give him the satisfaction of admitting it out loud.

Ford gave us a ride back from dinner, and it was so short that no one got a word in edgewise over Rosie raving about the food. Not gonna lie, I live for that kind of praise. Knowing that something I made—a menu I created—brought a friend so much joy brings a deep, satisfied hum to my bones. It’s the simple things that get me off.

Plus, all it took was one glance for me to see that while Rhys wasn’t battling the full erection he had earlier, the front of his pants was still looking thick . He busted me staring at his lap, and I was grateful for the cover of darkness so he couldn’t see just how hot my cheeks flushed. Needless to say, I quickly found something very interesting out the window.

Oh, I’ve decided .

Just remembering the way the words came out—full of so much promise—had me crossing my legs to press down on an unwelcome throb.

I hadn’t set out to taunt him. He’s just so… smug. So sure of himself. So perfectly in control all the time that flustering him has become my new favorite pastime. It’s in those moments that I get a glimpse of passion from him.

The low hum of the TV drifts from the living room, a sure sign that Cora, Ford’s daughter, is still awake after babysitting Milo for the night.

Reaching down, I hook a finger under each stiletto heel in turn—they’ve been trying to kill me all night long—and fling them into the front closet with a vengeful toss. When my bare feet hit the floor, I groan and let my eyes flutter shut.

“Sore feet?” Rhys’s deep timbre startles me.

“Jesus Christ. You’re like a massive ninja sneaking up behind me. It makes no sense.”

He’s about to respond when a cheerful prow prow prow noise draws our attention. And there’s Cleocatra, gunning for Rhys like he’s her best friend. She presses her forehead against his slacks, her tail curling around his calf as she rubs herself against him like a stripper on a pole.

I giggle. “She loves you.”

“The feeling is not mutual,” he grumps, standing frozen as he stares down at her.

I bend at the waist and stroke the top of her head, getting a few purrs out of her, though she never stops circling Rhys. “Cleo, I’m the one who rescued you. A little gratitude wouldn’t hurt.”

“Yeah, cat. Like Tabby instead.”

I roll my eyes. Disliking Cleocatra is impossible. Rhys is just…

I blink as I look back at my husband . Rhys has a way of shutting everyone out. I’m not sure what it is, but something about the moment makes me wonder if the man I married even knows how to let someone love him.

He’s not overt in the ways he shows his affection. It’s all sullen acts of service or restrained thumb strokes to show support. And if I think too hard on it, it makes me sad. So, in an effort to escape the big, overwhelming man that I know little about, I pad through the foyer and into the living room.

Cora lounges on the couch with a sketch pad against her legs and a pencil in her hand while professional wrestling plays on the TV.

“Hey,” she says quietly, giving me a soft smile from beneath the heavy black fringe of her bangs.

“Hey,” I flop down on the couch beside her feet like a dead starfish and let my eyes fall shut before making an exaggerated snoring noise.

“How’d it go?”

A tired smile spreads across my face. “It was perfect.” And I’m not lying. It was perfect. The ceremony. The reception. The guests. Aside from the fact that I married a man who shares nothing and mystifies me at every turn—something I try not to fixate on because marrying him was the lesser of two evils—everything was great. “How did it go here? Milo was all right?”

“Yeah. He’s awesome. We played with Cleo, and he introduced me to Erika, which was cool.”

I snort. Only Cora wouldn’t be put off by a plant named after a kid’s dead mom. Rosie calls her little storm cloud , and I can see why. “Perfect,” I mumble.

Rhys walks past with a quiet, “Hi, Cora. Thanks again for your help tonight. Your dad and Rosie are waiting outside.”

“No problem,” she replies, an unusual hint of shyness in her voice, as she pulls a pencil case off the table and packs her things.

When I can hear Rhys moving around in the kitchen, Cora leans closer and whispers, “Is getting married as exhausting as it looks?”

I snort and roll my head along the back of the couch to look at the teenager. “Girl. Have you met men? Everything about them is exhausting.”

She smiles down at her sketch pad with an amused shake of her head. “That’s fair.”

It occurs to me that I should act more excited. More… I don’t know… in love? What will she tell Ford and Rosie when she gets in that car?

“I’m just blissed out. A dream of a day.” I’m impressed with how easily I say it. My brain is a twisted fucking place to be, talking about marrying Rhys Dupris like this.

“I mean, yeah. Can’t blame you. Have you seen your new husband?” Her head tilts as though she could see around the corner and into the kitchen. My lips press together to hold back a chuckle. Then I watch a splotch of red take shape on her cheek as she slowly turns to face me, mortification painting her features as though the words just slipped out. “I’m sorry.”

I smile kindly. A watered-down representation of the way I want to just throw my head back and howl.

“Nah”—I wave her off casually—“don’t even worry about it.” I nod my head toward the television in a desperate attempt to save her from this conversation. “What are we watching?”

She shrugs. “Wrestling. Well, a replay. I’m weeks behind. Had to start from where I left off, so I don’t miss out on the storyline.”

I try not to laugh. The storyline .

My eyes roam over the screen. A full arena. Signs and screaming fans as far as the eye can see. There’s a man wearing spandex underwear curled up in the middle of the ring while three other huge wrestlers land blows on him. Punches. Kicks. Something that looks like the bum-drops Erika and I used to do on our trampoline.

I wince at the violence, but as the seconds wear on and the camera angles change, I can see the ways they protect him even as they punish him. A foot stomp to make the blows sound louder, an overacted facial expression to make the pain appear worse than it is.

Suddenly, bright white and lime-green lights flash overhead as the first few notes of a song ring out. The decibels from the crowd spike, and Cora lets out a whispered, “ Yes, ” as a huge man appears at the top of the ramp that leads to the ring in the middle.

Cora’s entire frame orients toward the television, her shoulders pitching forward as though naturally drawn to the man.

And then I watch too.

The wrestler who everyone is excited about is wearing a pair of black military-style pants that are just tight enough to trace his muscular thighs, while hanging low enough to show the two hard slashes that rise from his waistband. His abs are defined, but not comically so. He doesn’t look like a bodybuilder—he just looks big . All man.

Even the wrestlers in the ring stop their assault. It’s staged, but I’m still pulled into the drama of it.

The newcomer stands at the entryway, fists clenched at his sides, his head tilted downward as smoke billows out from behind him. His shoulders are broad and round, his pecs a perfectly proportional match. My gaze skims the hard planes of clear, tan skin, black tattoos scrolling up one arm, a dusting of hair on his chest.

He tips his head up, and a Batman-like mask on his face comes into view. It’s black with lime-green highlights and covers his nose and cheeks before opening below to a pair of shapely lips. Despite the mask, I’m leaning forward to see more of him. I’m pulled in by the mystery of it all, entranced by the inkling of familiarity.

“Oh my god. Yes. Fuck them up, Wild Side.” Cora has completely forgotten about the packing up she was doing.

And to be frank, I’m just as invested.

Harsh paintbrush slashes on the screens behind him spell out Wild Side . And then the man begins to walk as fucking fireworks shoot off on either side of him.

It’s watching him move that has me tilting my head.

It’s the way his fingers curl into fists at his sides, the thumbs swiping over his index finger.

It’s the way he walks that has my breath freezing in my lungs. The raw power he exudes, the way he holds himself like a king, commanding the thousands of people in that arena to acknowledge him, follow him.

It’s the detailed black tattoos that swirl on his right arm that give him away.

Heat suffuses my body. I may barely know the man, and I may have never watched wrestling before, but I identify him instantly.

Recognition pounds me, and all the bits and pieces of him come together. Hours at the gym. Weeks away. The bruises.

God. It all makes so much sense.

Now I’m the one turning toward the kitchen as though I can see around a corner. Can he hear us? Does he know? Is he assuming I won’t recognize him with that mask?

“Your dad is waiting,” I say, bringing my splintered attention back to Cora.

“Yeah. Just hang on. Wild Side is my favorite. This won’t take him long.”

Her definition of won’t take him long might be different from mine. Because the wrestler takes his sweet-ass time strolling down the walkway, the crowd growing more excited with each step. He doesn’t seem to be in a rush, considering there is a man getting the shit beat out of him by three others.

He stops close to the ring, and the screen switches to a camera angle with a closer view of his masked face. Those shapely lips quirk up in a cocky smirk, and his tongue presses into the side of his stubbled cheek. He oozes an unbearable amount of confidence.

It does funny things to my ovaries.

“They’ve done it now, Pete,” one of the announcers says with a gleeful flourish. “They haven’t had to worry about Wild Side doling out his own special brand of justice for several months. Looks like he’s here to remind them who the boss is around these parts.”

With that, the man who I’m sure is Rhys takes an absurdly graceful leap onto the ledge of the ring before planting one hand on the top rope and vaulting himself into the melee.

At once, the three men set their sights on him, but it’s a feeble attempt.

One goes down with a head butt that makes me wince.

The second meets his match in the form of a booted high kick.

The third lingers back a bit before charging.

“Ohhh, he’s gonna take him over the mountain. I just know it.” The announcer’s gritty voice rings through as Rhys ducks the man’s attack, then spins on him as he launches backward off the ropes like a rock from a slingshot.

Rhys picks the large man up like he’s nothing and spins him around in some sort of eye-crossing flip before body-slamming him onto the mat with alarming speed and strength. I can’t help but flinch.

“Dope, right?” Cora says with a slow nod and hearts in her eyes.

Me? I swallow away the dryness in my throat. “Yeah. Totally dope.”

The camera shows Wild Side giving the injured man from before a hand up and leading him out of the ring as he steps over a body he left behind. The fans are feral. There are men, women, children, people of every age and ethnicity. There are signs that read everything from WILD SIDE IS BACK to WILD SIDE, I’LL HAVE YOUR BABIES! and the frantic announcing only adds to the feeling of pandemonium.

It’s honestly a perfect match for what’s going on inside my head right now. Chaos, confusion, amusement. They all war together with a heavy serving of red wine as I walk Cora back out to Ford’s SUV and bid them good night.

Then I walk back into my house to face Wild Side.

Rhys is in the kitchen, his back to me, a glass of red wine in one hand, the other casually slung into his pocket as he looks out over the darkened backyard.

Like this, in his tuxedo, he looks too refined for the type of brutality I just watched him dole out on TV— allegedly dole out—and I could burst at the seams with all the questions perched at the tip of my tongue. I could use another glass of wine, but not before I get this out of my system.

“Hey…”

His head inclines in my direction, but he doesn’t turn.

“Can I talk to you in the living room?”

His body stills, but this time, he looks at me. And it makes me suck in a breath as though I’ve been sucker punched. The harsh lines of his face, that pronounced brow. He does look like he could kill me or fuck me. And with a face like his, I’d say thank you either way.

Thank you, sir. Will you please twist my panties and whisper something dirty in my ear one last time before I go?

I shake my head at myself. No more wine for this gal tonight. Throat too dry to speak, I wave a hand over my shoulder, urging him to follow me. I head straight to the TV and rewind the event Cora was watching right to about when I walked into the living room.

Rhys takes his sweet-ass time following, but when he makes it to me, his face is doing that blank thing he does so well. He avoids looking at the TV like a dog who’s made a mess in the corner and thinks if they don’t look, their human won’t either.

With two sure steps, I reach him, grab his arm, and drag him so that he’s standing in front of the TV.

Then I step back from him.

“Tabitha, what are you?—”

I hit play.

He winces at the announcer’s voice, the thumping of boots, the boos from the crowd. Then those first few notes of a song ring out, and the roar of the crowd almost drowns it out. This time, gooseflesh fans across my arms as I watch the masked man appear at the top of the ramp.

I pause it and draw nearer to him. And then I scrutinize the shape of Rhys’s lips. His hand so gentle on the crystal stem of his wineglass. The way his waist tapers in from impossibly broad shoulders.

“That’s you.”

His dark eyes bore into mine, and his Adam’s apple bobs heavily.

“You don’t leave for weeks at a time to fuck people. You leave for weeks at a time to fuck people up .”

His tongue pops into the side of his cheek, and that seals the deal for me. It’s him .

“Tabitha…”

My lips curve up. “Am I Mrs . Wild Side ?”

Rhys rolls his eyes and looks away.

“Dude. Are you famous?”

His free hand slides up over his throat before moving around to grip the back of his neck. Then he drops my gaze. His body language is all shy and bashful.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What is that?” I step closer again, landing a firm poke in the middle of his hard chest as I come toe-to-toe. “You’re looking down? What is that?”

He sighs, and his tan cheeks flare a similar shade to his wine. “I don’t usually tell people about this.”

“Why? It’s fucking cool . So much cooler than being a stunt double.” His nose wrinkles, and when he finally meets my eyes, he looks… “Are you embarrassed?”

A rough laugh fills the air between us. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. I love my job, but people always get so weird about it, so I just don’t talk about it.”

My head tilts. “Weird how?”

“Usually, I become the butt of their jokes. Or I have to listen to them talk about how it’s all fake. Or it just… it ends up putting a lot of attention on me that I don’t want.”

My chest twinges at the memory of the bruises on him. It may be scripted, but those were not fake. I shimmy my shoulders. Okay, I’m not Rhys’s biggest fan, but I’m stuck with him for better or for worse, and that has me feeling a little territorial.

At this moment, I decide that I am the only person allowed to mock him.

“Most things on TV are fake.”

One side of his mouth hitches up at that. “The other thing that happens is that people ask for money in a roundabout way. With my background, it’s just been… less complicated to fly under the radar. Keep the anonymity. I’ve learned to enjoy my solitude.”

At that, I pale.

Money . I knew he had it. But not like this.

“Oh god.”

“What?”

“We didn’t sign a prenup. You have stuff. I have… a restaurant.”

His smile is grim as he offers me one terse nod. “I know. I would never, though.”

I’m blaming the wine for the way my heart pitter-patters as he stares down at me. This big, brutal man who holds Milo with such gentleness, who turned his successful life upside down in ways I didn’t comprehend until now.

A man I barely know has put it all on the line to keep my nephew with me.

We don’t address the enormity of what he’s done, and I’m struck by the realization that Rhys is not who I thought he was, in more ways than one. It’s not just his job; it’s the type of human he is.

His soul—it’s a good one. And I don’t want to be another leech. I can’t promise him that I won’t crack some jokes about this, but…

I lift my pinky finger between us as I stare back at him. “I pinky promise that no matter what happens, I will never take anything that’s yours.”

His eyes bounce between mine, a nervous glint to them. “You know these aren’t legally binding, right?”

I swallow, transported back to the day he told me that exact thing. “Yeah, but only a total asshole breaks a pinky promise.”

He regards me for several beats, then he lifts his finger and repeats my words back to me. “I pinky promise that no matter what happens, I will never take anything that’s yours.”

We shake. And his expression is just as sincere as it was when we spoke our wedding vows.