Chapter 13 #2
Noah throws an arm over my shoulders, leading me toward a small fenced-off area near the cage, big enough for maybe ten people.
A few guys stand inside, my brother, Brock, and Creed among them.
He’s the only one not drinking. His knuckles are wrapped with fresh, snow-white tape and black sweats hang low on his hips, highlighting the V of his abdomen.
It’s criminal how ripped the man is.
My mouth goes a little dry, eyes roving the ink covering his arms and chest. A snake slithers from his right pec, around the back of his neck and down the left, identical to the one currently stamped on the inside of my wrist. I wonder if the stamp is a nod to him, or if his tattoo is a nod to the fight club.
Two mirror-image roses are tattooed in the dips of his shoulders, and a spider skitters down a web right below his sternum. Skulls, knives, wolves, and more odd doodles adorn his arms.
There’s no rhyme or rhythm to them, no common theme, just random objects, and yet every single one looks intentional.
“Look who we brought!” Dash announces.
Everyone turns our way, my brother’s jaw clenching harder than Creed’s as they zero in on Noah’s arm around my shoulders.
I no longer flinch at his or Dash’s touch, settling into their soothing familiarity.
Noah doesn’t remove his arm immediately, only shifting away when my brother comes closer, jaw tight.
“What changed your mind?” he asks, smoothing his tone.
It doesn’t match the hard look on his face in the slightest.
“Dash needed a wing... girl,” I say.
“Wing girl?”
“I needed Millie so her roommate wouldn’t think we were on a date,” Dash clarifies, slotting himself between us. “Come on, Mini Ward, drink. I’m getting more.”
I take a sip, jolting when Brock’s voice booms through two six-foot speakers, one of which is right behind me. The bass rattles through my ribs.
Two guys step into the cage, bare-chested, hands wrapped, shoulders rolling. I edge closer without thinking, adrenaline fizzing through my veins. The energy in the room thickens, and the crowd surges forward, tightening around the cage, as chants break out—Oscar, Oscar, then Damien, Damien.
My fingers curl into the cold chain-link, nose almost brushing the wire as the fighters circle each other, fists clenched and raised like in a professional fight. The metal bites into my palm when the first punch lands. A shudder shakes me, the crack of bone on bone much louder than I expected.
One of them—Oscar, I think—stumbles, then snaps back with a whooshing swing. People cheer, chant, whistle, and I’m holding my breath, lips parted, heart hammering.
My heart’s going crazy, pounding in my ear while adrenaline rushes through my veins. Damien catches a right hook, his head turning to the side, red gushing from his nose. He doesn’t get a chance to recover.
My eyes are wide, lips parted as I soak in the violence as Oscar barrels after Damien like a hurricane, driving blow after blow until he slams against the chain-link a few feet from me.
A tattooed arm wraps around my waist, yanking me back against a hard, muscular, warm chest just as Damien crashes into the fence again, closer this time, his shoulder scraping metal exactly where my ribs had been a second ago.
“Too close,” Creed says, his deep voice in my ear.
Heat blooms behind my ribs, the scent of cologne, smoke, and something dark and clean filling my lungs.
I don’t realize I’m shaking until his hand tightens at my waist and I feel the press of every finger through the fabric of my sweater.
It’s not gentle but firm in a grounding, possessive way.
A tremor rolls through my arms, stomach, and thighs.
God, it’s hot in here.
“Easy, Millie Baby.” He dips his head low enough that the warmth of his breath skims my temple. “Don’t forget to breathe.”
I automatically take a deep breath, but it does little to steady me when he’s so close. I feel everything. The rise and fall of his chest against my back, the flex of his hand at my waist every time the fighters crash too close, the brush of his breath over my hair.
Seconds stretch longer than they should.
The fighters finally stagger away from the fence, circling toward the center of the cage again, and only then does Creed loosen his grip. He steps back but hovers close until the fight ends two rounds later, Oscar winning on points. He grins, his teeth red, lip split, one eye swollen shut.
A minute later, I hear Creed’s name called, and my brother comes to stand beside me. Noah and Dash follow, the three of them surrounding me like bodyguards.
My fingers curl a little tighter around the half-empty cup, then tighter still when Creed’s opponent, Trevor, enters the cage. He’s built like a tank, his biceps larger than my head.
“God, he’s huge,” I mutter, chewing my lip as Trevor rolls his neck and cracks his knuckles, preparing for demolition. “Who the hell matched them up?”
“Creed did,” Noah says.
“What?” I spin to face him. “Why?!”
Hyde chuckles, ruffling my hair. “Are you worried about my best friend, sis?”
I shoo his hand away. “Aren’t you?”
“Not at all.”
I turn back to the cage, my heartbeat on the fast side, stomach knotting tight. Creed rolls his shoulders in his corner—nearest to where we’re standing—as he tests the tape on his knuckles.
There’s no tension in him. He doesn’t look concerned about the size of his opponent. In fact, he looks almost bored.
Hyde calls his name and summons him with a lift of his chin. Creed comes over, stopping on the other side of the fence, close enough I can smell him again and I almost feel his muscles pressing into my back moments ago.
“My sister’s worried you’ll get hurt,” Hyde says, amusement and a hint of superior mockery clear in his tone.
“Is she now?” Creed’s gaze slides to mine as the whistle blows and the noise around us swells. “If you’re worried, I won’t let him land a single punch. Is that what you want?”
Who does he think he is? The Terminator?
But I nod anyway, hoping he means it.
My cheeks are on fire under his gaze, and so is my chest, the air growing hotter by the second as he turns toward his opponent, every move accompanied by people chanting his name. Those who can slam their fists against the cage, but the noise dulls beneath the sudden rush of blood in my ears.
Trevor comes at Creed with everything he’s got, his massive frame surging forward with enough force to make the cage tremble. He swings hard and Creed pivots smoothly, then drives his fist into Trevor’s ribs.
The sound of rattling bones makes me flinch.
Hyde’s arm comes over my shoulders, pulling me into his side, but I barely register it, eyes locked on his friend when, baring his teeth, Trevor throws another punch.
Creed twists out of the way, inked muscles flexing beneath the sheen of sweat.
The snake along his shoulder blades coils and stretches with every movement like it’s alive. He’s a sight.
Another tremor skitters down the inside of my thighs.
Trevor lunges, his moves growing sluggish. I guess his size is more of a disadvantage than I realized. Creed meets him head-on, his right hook connecting with Trevor’s jaw, and blood spatters the concrete beneath their feet.
A sharp breath leaves my mouth as my hand flies to my lips.
“He’s good, isn’t he?” Hyde says close to my ear.
That’s an understatement. Creed’s a machine, every move precise, no motion wasted. His eyes track Trevor and his body adjusts before the guy decides where to aim next.
The punches keep coming, each one making me finch.
Not one land’s on Creed while Trevor bleeds from his split lip, a gash on his eyebrow, even his nose, but he’s not done, swinging his fists left and right.
Creed lands another blow to his ribs. Then another.
Sweat beads at his hairline, catching in the dark strands falling loose across his forehead.
He catches my eye and my pulse riots in my throat, wrists, and low in my stomach.
Trevor swings wildly, growing more and more desperate with every passing second. I don’t know how much time has passed, but there’s not been another whistle. It feels like it should be time for the fifteen-second break Noah mentioned.
Trevor tries again, fails again and Creed advances fast. His chest glistens under the harsh lights, sweat trailing down his sternum and disappearing beneath his waistband.
I’m so hot I feel dizzy.
Right hook, left hook, one after another, each forcing Trevor backward until his spine hits the chain link. The cage rattles violently and Creed lands one final hit.
Trevor folds in on himself, his knees hitting the floor before he topples onto his side.
My pulse is wild, thrumming in my ears, temples, and the back of my throat as Brock moves in and the crowd erupts around us. People are shouting, chanting, losing their goddamn minds with Creed’s name on their lips.
“How long was that?” I ask, breathless and one-hundred percent certain they’ve been inside that cage for ten minutes straight.
“Forty-nine seconds,” Dash says, grinning. “Not a record, but not far off.”
I haven’t looked away once, but I double-check Creed for injuries, eyes roving every inch of him, noting how steady his breathing is despite the effort he’s exerted.
He looks untouched.
Untouchable.
Rolling his shoulders, he turns, his eyes finding mine again, gaze scorching. His tongue drags slowly across his lower lip, the move sending a sharp pulse low in my abdomen.
I’ve never been this turned on in my life.