Chapter 36
PAIGE
Sweat runs down my back.
It’s so hot in here. Hot and terrifying. I’ve seen boxing once or twice on television. Men with large gloves and quick feet, brightly lit arenas.
This is nothing like that.
The roar of the crowd is a physical thing, energy vibrating up through my body. The fear pulsing through my body has morphed into fascinated terror. Where the hell have I ended up?
Rafe is inside a crudely constructed cage.
Fighting.
The opponent must be his height, but at least fifteen years older and several pounds heavier.
There’s a cruel smile on his lips. But Rafe’s face is not smiling.
He looks focused, with barely a flicker of emotion showing.
He’s faster than the larger man. They circle each other, but soon, blows start raining down between them.
I knot my hands together to keep them from shaking.
Is this how he got the scar? The long one down his torso?
Rafe gets a solid punch to the ribs, and through all the noise, I hear his faint exhale of pain. Then they’re moving again.
I don’t understand what people are screaming at them. Who are they cheering for? Why is Rafe doing this?
Their fight becomes a flurry of movement. Sharp movements and quick legs, and neither of them is pulling their punches. They’re hurting each other. Rafe takes a punch to his face, and my stomach drops out. It doesn’t seem to stop. How do I get it to stop?
And then my heart gives out. Fabrizio gets a hit in, right to Rafe’s low abdomen, and he nearly keels over.
Shit. I’m halfway up out of my seat—
But then Rafe kicks out, and he knees Fabrizio right in the groin. Was that his plan? To absorb a punch in order to get an opportunity?
Fabrizio falters, groaning. And Rafe moves. He twists around, felling the man to the ground. He locks his arms and legs around the other man, and the room falls quiet in anticipation.
Rafe asks something in gruff Italian. When there’s no response, he repeats it loudly. The scent of sweat and smoke hangs heavy in the air, and my hands are clasped so tight in my lap that my nails leave little half-moons.
Fabrizio taps the mat.
Everyone erupts in a roar of applause. Rafe rolls away from the other man, who remains on the ground, and gets up.
I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s breathing hard, blood on his knuckles. That was hard, fast and dirty. I look at his chest, his torso, the gleaming scar, his thighs. That’s where he’s gotten all the bruises from. He’ll have more after tonight.
Why does he do this?
A man takes Rafe’s wrist and lifts his hand up high. Rafe calls something in Italian, and the people around me whistle and call back. Whoever he just beat, it’s clear it wasn’t what the crowd expected.
Rafe walks out of the open cage door and pushes through the crowd to me. My hands start shaking again.
“Come. We’re leaving,” he says. And it’s his voice, his deep, articulate voice, and I’m used to that. It’s everything else about him right now that I’m not used to. He holds out a hand. “Come with me?”
I hesitate for a second before I put my hand in his.
His skin is hot to the touch and wrapped in tape. It must be to protect his knuckles. He keeps me close as we walk through the crowd of curious eyes.
Rafe pulls me into a small room to the side, barely larger than a closet. He releases me and walks to a duffel bag in the corner. His movements are slower now, without a crowd.
He grabs a water bottle and drains it.
My hands are shaking again. “What was that?” The words are angry, but they don’t come out that way. They sound pleading. Explain this to me.
Make it make sense.
Rafe pours water on a towel and uses it to wipe across his face and chest. I recognize it. It’s one of the fluffy white ones from Villa Egeria. From his en suite bathroom. The room smells like man and sweat. Not vanity muscle, then, I think.
Is this what he trains for?
His expression is the most unguarded I’ve ever seen. Tired, and resigned, and angry. I’ve seen him half naked before. I massaged him. But somehow, seeing him like this feels different. He must be in pain.
I followed him expecting to meet his lover and found this instead.
He runs the towel down one arm, wiping away grime. “Wilde, what the fuck were you thinking? Don’t ever do that again.”
“You snuck out again. Out of our bedroom. And I was angry, and you wouldn’t tell me where you go, and I thought…”
His hand comes to rest beside my head. “You don’t follow me again. Do you hear me, Paige? It doesn’t matter if I leave the house late. You do not follow me. Promise me.”
My mouth is dry. The intensity of him is almost too much to bear, and there’s nowhere to go.
“Promise me,” he says. “I don’t want you near these people. You ever come here again, and it’s over. It’s all over.”
I nod shakily. “Okay. Yes, I promise.”
It should relax him. But it doesn’t seem to, his jaw working. “This place isn’t for you.”
“It’s not for you, either,” I say. The things out there… He must be in pain. “Why are you here? Why fight?”
He laughs darkly, but it cuts off with a wince. His ribs must be shot. “I didn’t have a choice with that second fight.”
“You don’t have a choice?” I shake my head, the possibilities endless. “Are you in trouble? In debt? What—”
“No,” he says. “It’s not like that. But these fights…
they’re not exactly open to the public, darling.
Fabrizio enforces the rules.” He starts unwrapping the gauze around his knuckles with slow movements, like it hurts.
“It’s usually guys high on their own supply who get taught a lesson. It’s never pretty young women.”
It’s hard to think. “So you fought him… because of me.”
He flexes his now-bare fingers. “I’ve avoided Fabrizio so far. He’s older now, but he still knows how to throw a punch. He likes to go for a knockout. I had to avoid that to get you home.”
My eyes drop to his long fingers, with the broad knuckles and the short nails. I focus on his hands. They’re familiar now. “You took off your ring,” I say.
It’s a ridiculous thing to comment on.
But there it is.
His lips curve in a near-humorless smile. “Yes. But it’s in my bag, and it’s going back on after we leave. Don’t get any ideas about yours again.”
“Let me do that.” I reach for his other hand. He lets me take it, and I slowly unwrap the tape. There’s a dark-red smear on the bandage from where he punched the other guy in the face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says.
“Are you sure? You got hit.”
“That’s the point.” His voice is quiet.
“I like our games better,” I say.
His hand flexes once in mine, fingers brushing over the pulse point in my wrist. I wonder how sore they are. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you sound concerned.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I murmur, but there’s no bite to it. The words are a reflex at this point. “We’re in this together. I need you.”
He sighs. “Can I get you to say those last three words again?”
I toss the tape to the side but keep his hand in mine. “No.”
His smile flashes. It’s tired, but it’s true.
He won. He fought fast and hard and avoided hits more than he absorbed them, but I have no doubt he’ll have a black eye tomorrow. He needs ice.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” I take the towel from him. He’s not bloody, but he’s sweaty, and I gently wipe it over his shoulders and neck.
I move slowly, like he’s an animal that might spook. But I’m not sure if that’s for his sake or if it’s for mine. He watches me with eyes that look nearly black in this dim lighting.
If he wants me to stop, he doesn’t say it.
“At boarding school,” he finally answers.
“In the States?”
“Yes. I wasn’t very good at first.” There’s almost fondness in his voice. “It was for fun.”
“For fun?”
“At first,” he says. “This type of fighting… that came later.”
I drag the towel toward the hickey on his neck. The bruise. Someone hit him here. “So you’re not sleeping around, then.”
He keeps his eyes on me, and the distance between us feels charged. “I told you, darling.”
“Do you blame me for not believing you?”
“I want to,” he says hoarsely. “You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t know about this.”
“Is it a secret, then?”
“Almost no one knows,” he says. “The ones who do… don’t approve.”
I run the towel over his cheek. My movements have stilled, just a careful touch of cotton to damp skin. “I can’t imagine why,” I say, “someone who cares about you wouldn’t like this.”
He leans his face against my hand. “Good thing it won’t bother you, then.”
I think of the way he fought. The roar of the crowd and his quick, practiced movements. There was no hesitation. The hits he took, he absorbed. Like he welcomed pain like an old friend.
My hand rests against the side of his face. Outside the door, the crowd roars again. Rafe keeps his eyes on me. “You’re not scared of me now? Usually you can’t wait to bite back.”
“No,” I say, but I can’t tell whether he believes me. There is fear here, but it’s not of him. “Why do you fight?”
Rafe’s hand finds the end of my braid. He tugs at it lightly. “You came here in your pajamas?”
“I didn’t have time to change. I was following you. Do you know how fast you drove?”
“I’m aware. I don’t like that you did the same.”
“And you’re avoiding the question. Are you in trouble?”
His lip curves, and I see the hint of the dimple again. “Not in the way you’re thinking. I’m not forced to come here.”
“You want to fight.”
“I need it.” He slowly winds my braid around his hand. It’s golden against his tan skin. “You have your ways of handling anxiety, Wilde, and I have mine.”
My lips part. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t sit still when you’re overwhelmed.” His eyes are on my hair. “I fight.”
The words are quiet, spoken into the air between us. There is so much here I don’t understand, and yet that part of it makes total sense. He’s messy. Just like I am.
Someone pounds on the door, and I jolt. A voice speaks through the wood, in Italian. Rafe calls something back and let’s go of my braid.
“We have to go,” he tells me. “They need the room.”
“Are you okay? I mean, can you—”
“I’m fine,” he says, and grabs his duffel bag. He pulls on a shirt. “Stay close to me until we’re in the car.”
“Okay.”
He opens the door and wraps an arm around my shoulders, tucking me against his warm body. It feels like heaven when we emerge into the cool night air, on the path away from the house I’d tried to get a closer look at.
His Porsche is at the end of the street. I parked around the corner, farther away, and reach for the car keys in the pocket of my jacket.
“I stole the Ferrari,” I say. “Not the BMW.”
“You borrowed it,” he corrects. He’s walking fast, despite the exhaustion clear in every line of his body. “Leave it.”
“But—”
“I’ll have someone pick it up tomorrow.”
“Is this a safe neighborhood?”
“I don’t care,” he says, and his hand finds mine. “You’re riding in my car home. I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”