Chapter 5
The Bride
I hum as I end the call with Caleb, telling him I need to get ready. This is just what I need, a night at the ring. And he’s always extra feral when he’s been fighting.
After draining the last of my wine and texting Shelby my plans, I head to the bathroom so I can shower and get changed into something a lot less comfortable than the oversized t-shirt and leggings I’m currently wearing.
While showering, I make sure I’m mostly hairless. There’s no way I’ll be able to resist Caleb when he’s panting and sweaty from fighting. Just thinking about it is enough to make my clit throb.
By the time I step out, the air smells like cherry and honey, remnants of my soaps. I inhale greedily while I towel dry, and then I get to work.
It’s almost ritualistic the way I release my long hair from the messy bun on top of my head. Like keeping it contained hides the darker part of me I’m letting out more and more often—the side that doesn’t just want release, but ruin.
Taking my time, I separate the strands into two and braid each section so they fall down my back. Once I’m done, I move on to my makeup. I’m in the middle of adding a second coat of mascara when my phone rings.
“Shel,” I say as a way of greeting my friend.
“Eve,” she hollers so loudly I’m glad the phone is resting on the sink instead of against my ear. “I can’t believe you’re going out again tonight. I thought for sure you’d be nursing a hangover after yesterday.”
“Look who’s talking,” I mutter. “At least I didn’t have to work.”
“I know,” she groans theatrically. “Trust me, I was tempted to call in sick.”
When I ask if she’s coming tonight, she throws herself head first into a long story about all the work she’s behind on.
“Well, that—”
“And you wouldn’t believe the amount of shit I’m going to unleash on my intern,” she interrupts, her tone heated. “There I was, in court. In front of the honorable judge or whatever…”
Knowing I’m probably close to running out of time, I get dressed while she tells me all about the intern sending her to court with the wrong folder.
“… I looked like a fucking fool. Oh, and the best part is I got fined for wasting the court’s time.”
“That sucks, Shel,” I emphasize.
The good thing about her distracting me is I don’t have time to second-guess my outfit for tonight. Once I’m done, I pause in front of my bedroom mirror, and run my hand over the hem of the cropped orange sweater I haven’t worn before.
The color perfectly matches my hair, and it’s soft and thin enough for late September, snug enough to hint at my shape without clinging. It ends just a couple of inches above the waistband of my black latex pants, leaving a deliberate strip of skin exposed.
I smirk at my reflection, wondering what any of the people from my old life would think if they saw me now—and secretly hoping they would, just so they’d choke on the proof that their good little doctor was never so good.
With the come-fuck-me outfit, heavy eyeliner and multiple coats of mascara, I’m a far cry from the professionally cold therapist they used to know. Hell, I’m a far cry from the person I thought I was at the core.
I ’ve read enough psych books to know that the new life I’ve embraced is fueled by my daddy issues, which are plenty.
My dad wanted a progeny, so he made me one. Instead of fairy tale bedtime stories, he read me text books. In our house, you didn’t get a cake or presents on your birthday. You got tests to prove you were worth celebrating.
Charles Mortis might have been a renowned psychiatrist and a successful professor. But to me, he’ll never be remembered as more than an all-around shitty human. Just like to him, I was a subject and not a daughter.
Since my mom died of an aneurysm when I was four, he got to raise me alone, with no one to contradict his cruel methods. And the sharp edges of his methods are exactly what shaped me into something twisted enough to crave nights like this.
But ask me if I care that what I’m doing would most likely be diagnosed as belated teenage rebellion. Just for the record, I don’t care one bit. I never got to do it when I was a teenager, so why should I rein myself in now?
“… Eve? Helloooo… are you still there?”
Shit, I forgot about Shelby. “Umm, yes, I’m here,” I confirm, shaking the unpleasant memories of my dad away. “Sorry, Shel. I’ve got to go.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she sighs dramatically. “Okay, so before I forget why I called you, did you ever fill out the online questionnaire I sent you last month?”
“What for?”
“The Sanctuary,” she sing-songs. “They need some extra details for the Bride applicants.”
I frown as I step into my ankle boots. “I think I did…” I stop talking, trying to remember if I did or not. “Can’t you check for me if your firm has access to all their paperwork?”
“Sure,” she confirms. “I probably should have done that before calling.” There’s something in her tone that sounds almost forced.
“Are you okay, Shel?” I ask, wondering if the late nights and workload is finally catching up with her.
“ Peachy,” she replies absentmindedly.
While she taps away on her laptop, I dig out my small crossbody bag from the closet. “Shel,” I ask, regretting I didn’t ask this before filling the damn thing out. “The form’s legit, right? I mean, they’re not going to do anything weird with my details?”
Shel’s answering laugh is downright maniacal. “Bitch, I’m the one who created it. I promise you’re not signing away your immortal soul or whatever.” There’s a beat of silence. “Oh, here it is. Yep, you filled it out and checked all the right boxes.”
“Great,” I say, knowing I need to get off the phone. “Soooo, if there’s nothing else…”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m going, going, gone. Happy dicking or whatever.” With that, she hangs up, and I slip my phone and wallet into the bag.
I just about manage two steps when the intercom buzzes, letting me know Caleb’s here. Double-checking I have everything I need, I blow my dad’s grinning skull a kiss.
“God, I wish you could actually see me now, you bastard,” I laugh, slightly crazily. “You’d hate it so much.”
Still laughing, I adjust the plaque with the words ‘why so serious?’ that’s hanging above the remains of my dad, perched on the living room mantle. Then I leave and head to the elevator. Just as it arrives, I’m joined by my neighbor, Ned.
“Hi,” I greet as we both step into the waiting elevator.
“Looking good tonight,” he grins, waggling his eyebrows playfully. “Going somewhere special?”
Instead of giving him the truth, I just shake my head and laugh softly. “Isn’t everywhere special?”
He rolls his eyes. “Fuck. I forgot you’re a therapist and answer everything with a damn question.”
“Do I?” I ask, mostly just to fuck with him.
Reaching the ground floor, I wave before almost running outside, where Caleb’s leaning against the building. His icy-blond hair is pushed back, a few strands already falling out of place and across his forehead.
“Damn, sweetheart,” he drawls, gaze dragging over me like he’s checking out a purchase. “Are you trying to get me killed before the fight even s tarts? Or just make sure I’m thinking about you instead of the guy I’m about to break?”
I raise an eyebrow. “That would be stupid since I planned on betting on you tonight,” I retort.
He reaches for me, one hand finding my waist and pulling me closer while the other slides behind my neck. “Did you dress like that for me?” he rasps, moving his hands to my ass while fusing our lips together.
The kiss is hard, his mouth claiming mine, our tongues snaking around each other. I moan softly and reach for him, my fingers curling into the hem of his hoodie. I let him take what he wants, just long enough to feel my pulse kick harder.
When I’m tempted to suggest we skip the fight, I pull back. “No,” I quip, slightly breathless. “I’m dressed for me. You’re just lucky enough to see it.”
He chuckles, short and sharp, like the joke’s on me. “That I am.”
Loving the way he’s reacting to me, I put more sway in my step than necessary as we walk to his old dented car that’s parked by the curb.
I never trust it to make the destination whenever he drives, but I never complain out loud. Caleb loves this car, which is evident in the way he strokes the dashboard when we’re both seated.
“How many fights are you doing tonight?” I ask as we head toward Gowanus in Brooklyn.
The times I’ve been to see Caleb fight, it was in an abandoned factory. With its brick walls and blood-stained concrete flooring, it legit looks like something taken straight out of Fight Club.
“Only one fucker was stupid enough to challenge me,” he replies, cockily, grinning widely when I look over at him.
For a moment, I consider giving him a good luck handjob, but then I decide against it. Caleb’s always more eager to play once victory courses through his veins. He has that to the victor goes the spoils mentality, and once he proves he’s the best, he becomes deliciously rough.
The factory sits hunched between two warehouses, its rusted gates wide open like broken jaws. Floodlights mounted on scaffolding throw harsh light across the gravel lot, illuminating clusters of men with smoke- tipped mouths and predatory eyes.
This is the kind of crowd that doesn’t flinch at bruises, and doesn’t ask questions when someone leaves limping and bloody.
Caleb parks just past a stack of crumbled pallets, his engine growling low before cutting off. I step out, a shiver rolls down my spine as excitement settles thickly in my throat.
Inside, the air hits me like a wall. It’s saturated with sweat and something more primal. Like old blood and broken promises. The floor remembers every scream it’s soaked in—and tonight, it’s thirsty again.
Bodies press close around the makeshift ring—a square of chain-link fencing reinforced with concrete blocks. Blood stains streak the floor like sacrament, smeared and trodden into the concrete.