Chapter 5 #2
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to having you here with me, Doc,” Caleb murmurs, brushing his knuckles against the small of my back as we slip through the crowd.
People part for him, recognizing the cut of his jaw and the gleam in his eyes. He’s not the biggest man here, but he’s the one they avoid brushing against. That says everything.
I glance up at him with a smirk. “Oh?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow. I don’t expect him to answer since we both know why.
Caleb was assigned to me through court-ordered therapy after too many brawls and a possession charge. I assessed his anger issues, and put together a treatment plan. That was basically all I managed before he was reassigned or something.
If I’m honest, I’d completely forgotten about him until he showed up at my apartment two or three months ago. He just stood outside my door, arrogant and oozing the right kind of danger. In other words, my perfect kryptonite.
He refused to leave until I agreed to at least one drink. Which we’ve still never had. All we do is hook up. We don’t go on dates or cuddle. Hell, we don’t talk about anything that matters.
Caleb uses my body like I’m just a wet, willing hole. And he makes sure I remember that’s all I am to him. That’s why it makes no sense if he’s the one who sent the courier.
We reach the fighters’ corridor—bare bulbs overhead, flickering weakly —and he stops just short of the curtain that separates blood from breath. “You good?” he asks, turning to face me.
I nod, the pulse between my legs already steady and low, like a warning hum.
Caleb watches me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. His hand curls around the back of my neck and he leans in. The kiss is rougher this time. Less heat, more possession. His teeth scrape my bottom lip. My knees almost buckle.
He pulls back before I can chase him. “Stay close. Don’t talk to anyone,” he orders, fingers tightening just enough at the back of my neck to make it clear what happens if I don’t follow his orders.
“You’re not my keeper,” I dutifully point out, but his sharp grin says he’d enjoy proving otherwise.
“Tonight I am.” His grin is all teeth and hunger. “I better go.” With those parting words, he disappears through the curtain.
I exhale, forcing my composure back into place. I press closer, slipping between two thick-necked spectators until I reach the front where I’m close enough I can touch the ring.
The crowd shifts. A bell rings. And then the first fight begins.
If I’d paid money to be here, I would demand a refund after the first fight. It’s so tame that people start pulling out their phones, mindlessly scrolling instead of paying attention. The people here want carnage, not whatever that was.
The second fight is better, but it’s the third fight that really gets me shouting and cheering with the rest of the audience. As the fight ends, I make my way to the corner where a few guys sell cheap, lukewarm beer.
It’s not my favorite, but it’ll do. While I drink my beer, I keep my gaze fixed on the ring. Caleb hasn’t emerged yet, but I feel him coming. The low thrum at the base of my spine starts to pulse harder, a hunger coiling like smoke in my gut.
“Hi doll. Are you—”
“Out of your league?” I quip, interrupting the guy who moved closer when I wasn’t paying attention. “Yeah, I’m afraid I am.” I turn my back to him and buy a second beer before returning to the front.
A sharp whistle cuts through the murmurs, and the next two names are ca lled. Caleb steps into the ring like he owns it. The crowd responds differently this time—everyone here chants his name as he holds his arms up in a salute of sorts.
He’s already soaked in aggression. Violence clings to him like cologne, and every step says, you bleed, I win.
While Caleb makes an entire production of removing his hoodie and flexing, my gaze flickers to his opponent, a tough and heavy looking guy with a shaved head and thick neck.
“Get him!” I shout just as the bell sounds.
They collide right away, and the first few blows are fast, clean. But then Caleb shifts—his stance tightening, body lowering—and he starts to hit. His fists find the other guy’s jaw, ribs, gut.
Each punch is punishingly precise, and it doesn’t take long before blood spatters, making the crowd roar. Caleb takes a hit to the temple, staggers half a step, and then laughs—low, mean, like he enjoys it.
He retaliates by driving a knee into the man’s gut and finishes it with a brutal elbow to the face that sends his opponent crumpling to the ground. It’s a clean knockout, and the crowd erupts.
While I join in, I press my thighs together, trying to quell the fire pulsing through me. It’s not just lust—it’s an ache. The sickest part of me gets wet for ruin, for the sight of men breaking each other open.
Caleb doesn’t wait for a towel. Doesn’t even acknowledge the men slapping his back. His eyes lock on mine as he pushes through the crowd, knuckles bloodied, sweat still slick on his brow.
As soon as he reaches me, I drop the half-full plastic cup and throw myself at him. I wind my arms around his neck and yank him down into a bruising kiss. My mouth parts for him without thought, tongue curling around his.
“Caleb,” I moan his name into his mouth as I become slicker with want. “I need you.”
He breaks the kiss abruptly. “Let’s go,” he growls, voice dark and frayed at the edges. His grip on me tightens just enough to make my knees falter. “Now.”
Words are beyond me, so I just nod and let him lead me back to his car. He throws open the door, and I slide in, skin prickling against the cracked leathe r.
He drives like red lights are a suggestion, and with each one we blow through, my pulse spikes higher. He has one hand on the wheel, the other on my thigh. His grip is heavy, possessive. It’s only now, as I study him, that I notice we forgot his hoodie. Oh well.
By the time we hit the long stretch toward Riverdale, I’m pulsing between my legs and squirming in my seat. I reach over, palming his obvious erection. “I can’t wait,” I purr as I dip my hand beneath his waistband.
“Touch me, Doc,” he grunts, and I do. I wrap my fingers around his cock, squeezing at the base. “Fuck.”
“You looked so hot up there,” I admit while I stroke him. “Every woman in there was eye-fucking you—”
“I don’t care about other women,” he growls. “And you better not care about other men.”
“I know,” I say smugly, stroking him harder. “But I love knowing I have what they want.”
Caleb grunts low in his throat, hips lifting slightly off the seat. His knuckles go white on the steering wheel. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to pull over and fuck you in the front seat.”
I consider it for a second. The way he sounds, the heat radiating off him, and the smell of sweat and iron still clinging to his skin is almost enough for me to give in.
But we’re already pulling into the lot outside my apartment complex, and the craving to be skin-to-skin is stronger than the exhibitionist itch.
“Then get us upstairs,” I demand, giving his cock one last stroke before withdrawing my hand. He hisses as I do.
Caleb throws the car into park and gets out fast, slamming the door behind him. I barely have time to open mine before he’s there, taking my hand like he owns it—and maybe tonight, he does. His fingers are still dusted in dried blood. I don’t care.
We walk across the dark lot, headlights flickering from passing cars, the sound of the city distant but ever-present. Halfway across the lot, I falter. My body stops, yanking his arm slightly.
“What is it?” he asks, looking back at me.
I s can the edge of the building, past the dumpsters, to the shadows near the emergency door. There’s a flicker of movement. A car drives by and the headlights sweep across the shadowed corner, just long enough for me to see the masked courier.
The sight triggers a spike of awareness in my spine. Like déjà vu sharpened into a blade. It’s not fear, it’s hunger. Like something feral inside me just remembered it has teeth.
I step away from Caleb, squinting into the darkness. “Did you see that?”
“See what?” he asks, turning in a slow circle.
But the space is empty now. Quiet. Just the soft hum of a streetlamp and the rustling of dead leaves skittering across pavement.
I shake my head, though my heart’s still hammering. “Nothing. I thought I saw…” I pause, then exhale a shaky breath. “Never mind.”
Letting it go, I stride toward the entrance. Caleb follows quietly, I feel him a few steps behind me. He isn’t saying anything now, but I know the questions are coming.
In the elevator, he watches me from the corner of his eye. “What was that about?” he finally asks.
I hesitate, chewing the inside of my cheek, but I know he won’t let it go until I answer him. With a heavy exhale, I explain about the delivery yesterday. Well, technically today since it was after midnight.
“So you’re saying some random guy in a gas mask just showed up at your door?” Caleb’s voice carries a hint of protective concern.
I nod. “Yeah, he turned up at midnight. On the dot.” The memory of those round, vacant eye lenses staring at me sends a shiver through my body that I can’t entirely attribute to disgust.
“And you opened the door?” Caleb’s blue eyes narrow slightly. The faded tattoos on his forearms shift as he lifts his hand to brush some loose strands of hair behind my ear. It’s hard to concentrate when he’s standing this close and his torso is on full display.
“I looked through the peephole first,” I counter, defensive. “I’m not completely reckless.”
“Just partially, then.” His smile is quick and cutting, like he’s keeping score and I’m losing. “And what was in the box?”
“ A black rose.” I pause, trying to maintain clinical detachment so he doesn’t notice how intrigued I really am. “It was dried, and had these red speckles that looked like blood.”
The memory of the flower’s brittle texture against my fingertips makes my skin prickle with that same contradiction—revulsion twined with fascination, like wanting to press your tongue to a wound just to taste the blood.
“Was that it?”
“And a note,” I add, almost reluctantly. “Something about brides and blooms dying. It was poetic.”
“Poetic?” he mocks.
“I meant disturbing,” I correct too quickly.
This definitely shuts the door of any thoughts about the delivery being from him. But then who could it be from?
Caleb’s hand finds my thigh, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path higher up my thigh, and I become intensely aware of the heat radiating from his palm through the thin fabric of my pants. His eyes never leave my face as he studies my reaction.
“You’re flushed,” he observes, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Your pupils are dilated, too. I’d say this visitor left quite an impression.”
I scoff, but the sound comes out weaker than I intended. “It’s just a professional interest. I mean, it’s not every day someone delivers cryptic, wedding-themed packages to my door.”
“Are you into masks now, Eve?” His voice dips, not teasing so much as testing. Like he’s filing the answer away for later use.
At his question, I picture the courier, he’s somehow already under my skin. The thought makes me hotter than it should.