Chapter 27
Noah
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself as we walk toward the parking lot. The cool night air bites at my sweat-dampened skin, carrying the distant hum of New York traffic and the faint, acrid scent of warehouse exhaust. Every step sends a jolt of sharp pain through my ribs.
My head’s still pounding from that first hit in the ring, a dull throb that echoes with each heartbeat.
I don’t remember the last time I got beaten this badly.
High school, maybe, when a kid from another class called my mom a Xanax zombie.
I fought to protect her honor then, just like I’d fight for anyone I care about now.
I think this was when everything started. Back then, it was raw teenage fury; now, it’s something deeper, more controlled—usually.
Tonight though, control slipped away the moment I saw Bea in that crowd.
None of the physical pain compares to the anger simmering inside me, bubbling like molten lava under my skin.
It’s not just anger—it’s a mix of fear, frustration, and something I can’t quite name.
Fear for what could have happened to her in that den of fighters, frustration at her for following me, and something else that came up upon her stupid admission about joining a sex club if I was in one.
She wiggles out of my grip and moves to walk a few steps ahead, with arms crossed defensively over her chest and her posture rigid like she still might be scared.
Good, she should be. That place isn’t for someone like her—soft, curious, way too innocent for the underground world I’ve been stepping into here and there.
Who the fuck knows what could’ve happened if Dante hadn’t found her first?
He can be an asshole, sure, and he was taunting me by gripping her arm like she was a prize.
But deep down, I know he wouldn’t have hurt her.
Out of everyone there, he was probably the safest bet besides me or George.
And both of us were too preoccupied, blinded by the bloodthirsty haze of the fight and roar of the crowd.
If it had been one of the newer guys, or worse, some bidder with a grudge…
I shove the thought away. She’s safe now, but that doesn’t erase the what-ifs gnawing at me.
“Wait,” I call out, my voice rough from pain and lingering adrenaline. “I don’t have my keys. George has them.”
I turn to head back, but her warm hand wraps around mine.
My eyes snap to where we’re connected, and a jolt runs through me that has nothing to do with my ribs.
Her skin is soft against my calloused palm, and for a split second, the pain fades.
Why does her touch always feel like that?
Like a spark igniting something I’ve been ignoring.
“I’ll drive.”
Her eyes flick to my torso, catching my wince before I can hide it. The bruise is probably blooming purple by now, proof of tonight’s mistake of seeking out the voice I thought I hallucinated in the middle of the fight.
“You can’t drive right now, Noah. I have my car here.” She nods toward the dark street, her tone firm despite the earlier vulnerability.
She’s right. My side’s on fire, a burning ache that radiates with every breath, and my hand’s shaking too much to grip a steering wheel properly. Adrenaline from the fight and seeing her be held to bait me still has my blood boiling, my muscles tense and ready for another round.
If I were alone, I’d risk it—push through the pain like I always do. But not with her. I can’t put her in more danger. I’ll grab my car tomorrow. For now, we’ll get to her place in hers, and I’ll Uber from there.
We reach a line of cars, and she walks directly toward a yellow bug-sized thing, and I stop dead.
Parked crookedly under a flickering streetlamp, with two wheels kissing the curb, its door practically falling off, a beat-up Fiat covered in dents and scratches looks like it’s been through a war zone.
I didn’t even know she had a car, and honest to everything, I can’t even call it that.
I don’t hide my disgust. “This is what you’re driving?”
Bea doesn’t flinch, her chin lifting in that defiant way I’ve come to expect. “Yeah. What about it?”
I shake my head, incredulous, a bitter laugh escaping despite the pain. “Jesus, Bea, Ezra actually lets you drive this death trap?”
“Ezra?” Her brows climb higher, surprise flashing in her eyes. “Lets me drive?” Higher still, her voice sharpening. “Why the hell would he tell me what he lets or doesn’t let me do?”
“Because you’re his sister-in-law, and he’s supposed to take care of you.
” The words come out harsher than intended, laced with my own frustration, but I get the point across.
I’m definitely talking to Ezra about this tin can—it’s not safe, not for her, not in this city where every corner hides a potential accident.
“Get inside, Noah.” Her command is clipped, but there’s a hint of amusement underneath, like she’s enjoying my discomfort. “My car is perfectly safe.”
She walks to the driver’s side, jamming the key into the lock. It sticks, and she struggles, her knuckles whitening on the key as she mutters under her breath.
“This is not a car,” I mutter, earning an angry glare over the car roof. Her eyes spark with that fire I both hate and secretly admire.
With pursed lips, she wrestles the key until the door finally gives after a minute of effort. Perfectly safe, my ass. Ezra’s getting an earful about this.
She climbs in, leans over, and unlocks my door. I pull the handle—it doesn’t budge. I try again. Nothing. Frustration mounting, I yank harder, hearing a screech that grates like nails on a chalkboard.
“Stop!” she yells from inside, her voice muffled but urgent. “You’ll break Betty.”
“Betty? Who the fuck is Betty?” I snap, imagining some pet expecting us inside this keychain vehicle.
“You’re holding her love handle, idiot.” She grabs the handle from inside, pushing hard, her face scrunched in effort.
“Anytime now,” I mumble sarcastically, leaning against the car to ease the pressure on my ribs.
“Shut up,” she hisses, shoving the handle with renewed vigor.
“Careful, Bea, you’ll rip Betty’s love handle off.”
She shoots me a death stare just as the door gives. I crack it open and freeze, staring at the cramped interior lit by the dashboard’s faint glow.
“I’m not getting in there.”
The front seat’s practically the back seat, the space between dashboard and trunk nonexistent. It looks like a clown car designed for torture. “I can’t sit in here.”
“Stop being such a diva and get in,” she retorts, but her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile.
“I won’t fit.”
A loud snort escapes her, echoing in the quiet lot. “That’s what they all say.”
Is Beatrice Wrong being dirty with me right now? The thought sends an unwelcome heat through me and mixes with the current pain, and it’s not a good feeling.
“I’m serious. I won’t fit.”
Another snort. “You’ll be fine. Get in.”
I glance longingly at my sleek black car by the warehouse entrance, its leather seats calling to me. Am I really too hurt to drive? Probably, but the alternative is this sardine can.
“Get in, Noah, or I’ll push your ass in here. I’m serious.”
Her threat’s hilarious—and, fuck, it’s sweet, her concern wrapped in bossiness. I bend and try climbing in. No luck, of course, my broad shoulders catching on the frame.
“Hold on,” she says, sighing. “Let me move the seat.”
She leans over, trying to push the seat back, her blouse straining as she struggles. I get a front-row seat to the show, her curves shifting with each push, and despite my pain, my dick twitches. What the hell is wrong with me?
After a few jerky tries, she nudges the seat back—barely changing anything, but it’s something.
“Okay, try again.”
Sighing deeply, I lean forward, shoving my left leg in first. It fits. Barely. Gripping the car roof, I squeeze inside, freezing as pain shoots through my ribs like lightning.
“You okay?” Her gentle voice makes the pain worse.
“Fine,” I growl, not needing her concern right now. It only complicates things. I force myself in, knees jammed against the dashboard, head brushing the ceiling, feeling like a giant in a dollhouse.
She’s watching me with soft, worried eyes.
“Drive,” I order in a sharp tone.
“You need to buckle up.” She nods at the seatbelt behind me.
“I don’t.”
“You do,” she insists, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I can’t. The belt will crush my ribs.”
“Sorry.” She winces as her face pales. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“Not now,” I cut her off. Not when I’m half alive and still pissed she showed up tonight. Spying on me, risking her life to join a fucking sex club. “Drive.”
She stares for a moment, then jams the key into the ignition. I forget some cars still need keys, and a relic like this one sure does.
She leans back and rummages through a bag hidden behind her seat, pulling out a white cloth that she pushes into my hands. “Take this. You’re bleeding all over Betty.”
I take it and press it against the cut on my brow. Cuts in this location bleed like motherfuckers, and if you get this during a fight, say goodbye to your vision.
Thirty seconds into the drive, I wish we’d taken my car. I’m one breath from passing out from pain or muscle cramps. My legs are folded like origami, and I hope I can get out without looking like a stuck cricket, embarrassing myself further.
The engine sputters pathetically every few minutes while city lights blur past the cracked windshield.
At one particularly loud groan, I wince, expecting Betty to give its last breath.
But no, it lurches forward, Bea picking up speed like she’s outrunning wolves while the car rattles over uneven pavement.
“Trying to finish what the guy in the ring started?” I snap, gripping the seat as the car jerks and my pain flares anew.
She sighs, frustrated, but doesn’t slow; her hands are still tight on the wheel. “It’s not that bad. Relax.”
It’s bad. Very fucking bad. If I weren’t crammed in, I’d be flying around like a pinball. The suspension is shot, and every bump feels like a hammer to my bruises.
Rather than die in this Fiat, I reach for the seatbelt.
Another sharp turn presses my side into the car door, and I suppress a groan, wrestling the belt on.
It squishes my bruised ribs, and I grit my teeth, sweat beading on my forehead.
I’ll pass out from pain soon, and nothing could be more embarrassing than fainting in front of her from a boo-boo.
I try to block out the pain, but every turn, every pothole sends another jolt. Of pain and anger. Why her? Why tonight? The warehouse was packed with rough types—fighters nursing grudges, bidders with deep pockets and deeper secrets. She could have been collateral in some petty rivalry.
What was she thinking? Of all nights to follow me, she picks tonight, when I was on edge from the call, and the fight was supposed to be my outlet. The ring is my escape, where I control the chaos. But she shattered that, her wide eyes meeting mine mid-punch, distracting me at the worst moment.
Any other night, I’d have kept a cooler head, maybe even laughed it off later. But not now, not with her safety on the line.
“Jesus, Bea,” I start, gripping the overhead handle. “Can you slow down? This isn’t a race.”
She doesn’t. If anything, she speeds up, staring ahead, fuming, her jaw set in a stubborn line. That defiant look that makes me want to—what? Kiss her? Throttle her? Pull over and shake some sense into her, then pull her close and—
No. That’s dangerous territory.
This isn’t good. She’s under my skin, and I can’t afford distractions. Not with the Newside project on the line, family expectations, and this secret life I’ve built to cope.
The car hits a pothole, and pain shoots through my side like open fire.
I grit my teeth, trying to focus on it instead of how her lips press together when she’s pissed, or how she pushes her hair back, frustrated, the strands catching the passing streetlights.
She’s beautiful in her anger, fierce and unyielding, and it only fuels my confusion.
This drive’s given me two things: extra bruises and the decision that Bea needs a driver.
She absolutely cannot be trusted behind a wheel—too reckless, too impulsive, just like her decision to tail me tonight.
And when we get to her place, I’m confronting her about this spying bullshit and the sex club membership—whether I’m ready for her answers or not.
Because if I don’t, this tension between us might explode in ways neither of us can handle.