Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
MONTY
T here are few better ways to wake up than in the arms of a beautiful woman. Or, in my case, the lap, which I only surmise due to the telltale silhouette of breasts that hover above my face. Clothed breasts, unfortunately, which tells me I’m not regaining consciousness in the middle of a particular kind of good time. Then again, it’s been a couple of years since I’ve last had that kind of good time, so what do I know?
That’s when a pair of dark eyes peer over those clothed mounds and pain erupts in my jaw.
I blink through my hazy vision until Daphne’s face becomes clear. When I see the faded green upholstery behind her, I recognize it as belonging to the settee in the club’s makeshift recovery room. A few glass orbs filled with fire sprites dangle from the ceiling, casting the dreary walls of peeling paint and partially singed wallpaper in a green glow. These particular fire sprites are known for their healing energies, as are the clusters of shelflike mushrooms that grow in the corners of the room.
My memories sharpen, reminding me of where I am and why I’m here. The match. My disqualification. The prohibited kick that knocked me out.
Daphne’s furrowed brow smooths with relief and she heaves a heavy sigh. “Thank the All of All you’re not dead.”
I shift my head in a weak attempt to rise but think better of it when my vision starts spinning. “I expected tears, Daffy Dear,” I say, my voice coming out weaker than I intend.
“What?”
“Tears. You once told me you’d cry if I died.”
She pulls her chin back, a perplexed look on her face. Then her eyes widen. “Are you talking about the time on the tour when I said I’d weep over your remains? That’s different.”
“How so?”
“The subject of your demise began with me stating I’d pay to see you get struck down by lightning. Then I said I’d laugh if you got hit by a train.”
I release a halfhearted chuckle that sends a spear of pain through my jaw. “Ah, right. Only then would you weep over my remains.”
“Only then,” she echoes. “Seriously, though, are you all right? Are you…concussed, or whatever that horrible thing is that happens to human brains?”
“I’m not concussed,” I say, though maybe I am. I’ve been concussed before, during one of the first boxing matches I participated in, long before I’d developed any skill in the sport. Even if I am, she need not concern herself too much. I feel fine now and heal relatively quickly, with or without the aid of the green sprites or the medicinal mushrooms in the room. But I don’t tell that to Daphne. “How long was I out?”
“A minute or two maybe? The referee and Master of Ceremonies dragged your pathetic corpse in here, and I rushed down to see if you were all right.”
I give her a coy look. “And you decided to offer me your lovely thighs as a pillow?”
She narrows her eyes to a glare and pokes me hard in the arm. “I sat next to you, that’s all. You’re the one who reached for me and wormed your way onto my lap.”
The blood drains from my face. I don’t recall doing that. Thank fuck it was Daphne beside me and not Grave Danger. Speaking of…
“Did that asshole get disqualified too?”
“Yes,” she says through her teeth, poking me in the arm again—my bicep this time. “What the hell did you say to him that made him want to kick you in the head? And why did you choke him?”
“What did I say? Me? He’s the one who…” I trail off, not wanting to admit the truth.
But Daphne can read it on my face. Her glare softens. “Then…what did he say?” She lowers her voice. “Was it my fault?”
I angle my head in her lap to pin her with a serious look. “Why the hell would you think it’s your fault?”
Her lips pull into a grimace. “I sort of…snarled at him.”
I purse my lips to hide my grin. “Did you now?”
“I did. He looked at me and I just…snarled. Teeth and all.”
Why am I so flattered by that? “It’s not your fault.” If I relayed the vile words my opponent spat at me, she would think it’s her fault, but it isn’t. It’s mine. I knew Grave Danger was goading me. That’s what he does when he’s in the ring. He riles up his opponent and makes them sloppy.
But I don’t get sloppy.
I get bloody angry.
At least I did this time. His words have never gotten to me during any of our previous matches because I’ve never given him the right fuel. All he’s had at his disposal before are petty jibes at my past, calling me rich boy , ridiculing me for being cast out of the aristocracy, disinherited by my father, fired from almost every job I’ve had.
Fucking laughable. Even more so because everyone knows Grave Danger is a rich boy too. A menace to the aristocracy I was ousted from.
Then tonight…
Tonight, I unwittingly gave him the right kind of fuel. Tonight, I gave him Daphne.
Is she your girl? No? Mind if I fuck her senseless after our fight?
Rage boils my blood at the memory, and that was only the beginning. What really set me off was what he said last.
She looks a little feral. Bet she likes it rough. How rough do you think she’d take it? A little teeth? A little blood? Some light choking ? —
All I could think was to silence him. Destroy every part of him that could form another word about her.
My only consolation is that perhaps my disqualification was all part of the plan. Not my plan, but my moneylender’s. Siegfried Financial has a heavy hand in fixed boxing matches, which is how I make my weekly payments—the ones I can no longer afford to pay on my own, thanks to the overwhelming interest that continues to rise. Each Friday I enter the roster of fighters, get called to fight a mystery opponent, and lose before the final round. Sometimes I receive instructions on which round to lose during, and on rare occasions, I’m even ordered to win. Tonight, I received no demand to get disqualified, only to lose.
If I fucked up this week’s payment, I’ll receive a penalty: the date on which my lender plans to reveal my secret will be moved up one week earlier. That’s my penalty whenever I miss a payment.
“Monty.” Daphne pokes me in the bicep again. Once. Twice. “Are you all right? Are you sure you’re not dying?”
Her voice mellows my distress. I heave a sigh and close my eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Do you want to put this on?” She drops what I assume is my shirt onto my torso. I clasp it to my chest without making any move to dress. “Your shoes are here too. They’re on the floor.”
“Thanks, Daph. Just give me a moment.”
We settle into silence, though after a few long moments, I feel another poke to my arm. And another. Then she lays her hand flat over my bicep…and squeezes. The softness of her palm mixed with the firmness of her grip and the fact that I’m lying in her lap…
My heart stutters and my eyes fly open. I catch her staring intently at where she’s groping me. “What are you doing?”
Her eyes whip to mine, and a deep blush infuses her cheeks. She snatches her hand back. “I was…uh…investigating.”
Her embarrassment calms that strange hitch in my heartbeat. “Investigating what?”
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, giving it an anxious nibble. My eyes lock there, and I realize I’ve rarely seen her mouth this closely. Not her human mouth, at least. I’m still more familiar with her furry pine marten face than this pretty visage with its dark eyes framed by black lashes, the coral rose tint to her cheeks, the plumpness of her lips.
“Monty,” she says, and I watch the way she shapes my name. The way she breathes it. “I need your body.”
My heart stutters all over again, taking the breath from my lungs. Her face is suddenly too close, even though she hasn’t moved an inch. Her breasts are even closer, and I can’t fathom how I sat here with them hovering over me all this time without an ounce of self-awareness until now. Not to mention the fact that I’m still fucking shirtless.
I sit up so fast it sends my vision spinning, and I grip the back of the settee to steady myself. “You…what?”
She angles herself toward me, eyes pleading. “Your body. I’m begging you to let me draw you.”
My mind takes several moments to catch up with her words. That’s what she meant? I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed.
What the fuck am I talking about?
Of course I’m relieved. Daphne and I can’t go down that…other road. I can’t go down that road with anyone. I only managed to get myself disinherited by convincing my father I’d never marry or even court someone publicly. And while I’ve engaged in the occasional bout of casual sex, Daphne is not a candidate for such acts. Because she’s my friend. She deserves better. Besides, I’ve lost interest in dalliances the last couple of years. No matter how I try to make it clear that’s all I’m emotionally available for, I still end up breaking hearts when I fail to want more from my partners. It really takes the pleasure out of fucking.
I run a hand over my face, wincing at the sharp ache in my jaw. At least the pain manages to shoot some sense into me and allows me to regain my composure. Adopting a casual demeanor, I pull my shirt over my head and begin rolling my sleeves up to my elbows. Her eyes follow my every move, locked onto my forearms. “You want to…draw me?”
“I need a model for my covers.”
“Which is why I invited you to tonight’s match.”
“But drawing from memory only works so well. I draw best when I have a live subject.”
I finish arranging my sleeves and settle against the far end of the settee, throwing my arm over the back of it. My heart continues to pound slightly faster than normal, though I do my best to pretend no such thing is happening inside my body. “Who do you use for your female models?”
She shrinks down a little, a shy smile curving her lips. “Me.”
And now I wish I never asked because all I can see in my mind’s eye is the sketch she showed me earlier. The one with the terrifying fleshy weasel-man, yes, but more pressingly, the sexy female in his arms. The one with half her clothing torn off, head thrown back in titillated rapture. My inner perverted asshole rears his ugly head and wonders if that’s what she looks like half dressed. When she’s drowning in the throes of passion.
I grip the back of the settee so hard I fear I might break the damn thing. This is dangerous. Really fucking dangerous.
I’m struck with a familiar panicked instinct. A need to pull away in every shape and form. To place several more feet of space between us. To say something cold and cutting to drive an emotional wedge alongside the physical one. Then, finally, to spread time between us and keep myself away from her.
It’s what I’ve always done when people get too close.
It’s what I’ve done to her several times already, to varying degrees, until the day I took it too far.
Nice knowing you, Daffy Dear.
I’ve replayed that farewell again and again since the day it happened, and I’ve regretted it every time. I can’t repeat that mistake. I can’t hurt her. Or maybe it’s myself I can’t hurt. Maybe I’m being selfish in wanting to revisit our friendship. To maintain a relationship I can only participate in so far. Not too deep. Not too honest. Just enough to satisfy the piece of me that’s felt so fucking empty since The Heartbeats Tour.
She brings both legs underneath her and faces me fully on the settee, hands clasped in a gesture of desperate pleading. “Please?”
My mind is busy erecting mental walls, but the echo of that single word halts their frantic construction.
“This commission is important to me. I…I need it.” Her throat bobs. “Will you help me?”
Was Daphne always so persuasive? Did she always have the ability to strip me of all my good senses and instill a desperation to say anything—do anything—to keep such a sad look off her face?
Yet there is a sly and calculating beast within that reminds me this is still a dangerous situation. I can’t give in completely. Not without some sort of safeguard.
And I know just the thing.
It gives me no satisfaction to consider this option, and I already rejected the idea once today. Yet, with cold resignation, I realize how necessary it is. We need the right kind of boundary between us, and I need a solid lead in securing the long-term employment and signing bonus my boss offered. I must pay off my debt with a legitimate loan and free myself from my lender. And I only have three months left to do it.
It takes all my restraint to speak with control. To force a taunting grin to my lips and pretend my every word isn’t contrived. “You need help with your career? It just so happens I do as well.”
“You do? Does it have to do with why you were at Fletcher-Wilson this morning?”
“It does indeed. You need a model. I need someone who’s a disaster at dating.”
Her eyes narrow. “What exactly are you implying?”
“Be my feral little muse, Daffy Dear, and I’ll be yours.”