His Accidental Maid (Unintentionally Yours #16)

Prologue

Dominic

I can hear the blood rushing through my ears.

Adrenaline surges hot and violent through every vein in my body.

During the day, I am Dominic Wolfe.

CEO of one of America’s most infamous security companies.

Think Alcatraz level prisons, the guards who line the White House, or men positioned like coordinates on a grid at a sold-out rock concert.

I make sure no one is unsafe, no one is in danger, and no one gets away with murder.

But here?

Here is different.

Here I am Dom.

Here my fists are wrapped and bruised, and my lip is split from a lucky shot.

My gaze is hard on my opponent, and we look like we’re going for blood.

Here it’s all about agility, stealth, and internal frustration funneled into outward rage.

“You sure you’re not getting too old for this?” The twenty-something kid with Abercrombie-inspired blonde hair and a cocky grin nods up at me as we circle each other in the ring.

He’s stacked. I’ll give him that. He’s got a Disney villain jawline, but, if I had to guess, he can’t grow a beard.

They’re all like this, the rookie boxers.

And, one by one, I flatten them.

Thank you, next.

I don’t answer Mr. Abercrombie’s assault on my age.

Instead, I step forward, bulleting out a quick jab. It catches him in the face right next to that smug grin, but not hard enough to knock it off his face.

The energy in the room elevates and the ringing in my ears grows louder.

The Ring Room at the Cockpit.

It is small.

Hidden.

Like a speakeasy made for fighting.

It’s tucked behind a bar that everyone knows about. But the Ring Room itself is one of LA’s best-kept underground secrets.

Bare-knuckle boxing is legal…just not the way we do it.

Not for betting.

Not for this level of competition.

Here we don’t go for a tap out.

We go for TKO.

It’s ugly, bloody, dangerous.

It’s the only thing that relieves my stress at the end of the day.

The kid side-steps and goes for a jab, but I dodge it, planting my knuckles on his face again, this time slamming into his pretty, villainous jawline.

The crowd explodes, and the announcer says something about how that’s gotta hurt.

“Damn, old man. They were right about you,” he says, shaking it out. Blood glistens in the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah?” I nod up as we pivot again. “What do they say about me?”

I’m grinning now.

What these kids don’t know when they get into the ring is that I have been doing this for nearly as many years as they have been alive.

I’m in my forties, sure.

My thick black hair, flecked with streaks of silver caught in the overhead lights, is usually styled and slicked back during the day.

But now it is messy and tousled from movement and sweat.

My jawline is still sharp, despite being hit more than once.

Unlike these rookies that go to the gym to get “swoll,” my body isn’t built for show; it’s built for impact.

My shoulders are squared, my posture impeccable, my abs a ridged display of core strength. My torso tapers into a V, bragging militant repetition, not vanity. My muscles aren’t bulky. They're hard, immovable.

I don’t have to flex to showcase it.

I don’t even have to try to knock this kid on his ass.

He goes for a jab, and I let him have it. His arm tires as his hand contacts my chest, and that’s when I go for an uppercut. When he’s recoiling from his punch, his head is down, and his face is unprotected.

It knocks him sideways, and the crowd howls.

“Lucky shot,” he says after spitting a stream of blood onto the ring floor. He’s mad now. But like every other amateur boxer, that rage will come out raw and sloppy.

He jabs, I block it and get a jab of my own in. He goes for a cross and I step back, making him overstep and stumble. I get in a solid hook, knocking him to the ground.

He hops back to his feet fast, gritting his teeth, and blinking unevenly.

It’s in his head now.

His ears are ringing.

His judgement is off.

He comes at me fast and reckless, peppering jabs in my direction like bullets from a gun without a scope.

Dodge, duck, turn, step. AKA…miss, miss, miss.

“You think you’re hot shit, old man?” he growls. “I’m going to fucking flatten you.”

“Go right ahead,” I say with a smirk, motioning at him with both hands.

Come here, punk. I dare you.

Two steps forward, two steps back. One step, hard jab. A hook that brings his chin tucking down, an uppercut that knocks it back and a cross out with guaranteed knock-out power that pushes him to the floor.

I turn around, wiping my brow with the back of my wrist, flexing my hand that is already turning purple.

The crowd is on its feet.

The ring room girls are bouncing and cheering.

Girls like that have never been my thing, though.

Superficial and fake everything. More substance in their tits than in their heads. Not my type, even if their cheers fuel my ego as I pace the ring.

My eyes land hard on the only man in the room not cheering.

Not that I expect him to.

Rafe.

Rafe is sitting at one of the VIP high tops. His eyes are narrowed on me like the edges of a knife blade. His jaw is taunt. His lips are coiled into that signature smug smirk.

If I had to guess, his money is on the other guy.

The one flattened on the floor right now. It’s a poor bid in my opinion, but I expect no less.

Rafe Shaeffer isn’t a fan of mine.

The feeling is mutual.

He’s one of my opponents.

When we fight, the animosity between us runs thicker than blood, both in the ring and in the professional world.

I’d go as far as to say that he is my nemesis.

And right now, he’s calculating our next match.

Because he probably just lost a lot of money.

My view of him is suddenly skewed when one of the waitresses steps in front of him. She looks nervous and confused.

She’s new.

While these girls aren’t my type and don’t hold my attention, this one is different.

Olive skin, pouty pink lips, Aphrodite’s curves.

Damn…

My expression has no choice but to soften as I watch her juggle the drink tray.

Suddenly, as if she can feel my gaze on her, pricking her skin with heat, she turns and looks up at the ring.

Her eyes lock on mine.

Her deep brown eyes flash with something I can’t read, and I’m almost tempted to smile.

But then, in a miscalculated motion that makes my heart sink in my chest, she drops Rafe’s drink.

Right. In. His. Lap.

His attention jerks from me over to the waitress.

She is visibly mortified.

Rafe bolts up from his seat, rage filling his expression like a werewolf when the moon comes out from behind the midnight clouds.

When it comes to his temper, Rafe isn’t sexist.

Anger twists his mouth into a deep scowl, and the waitress steps back.

But Rafe reaches for her.

And in an automatic moment, I jump from the ring, landing right behind her.

I grab her and pull her against me, sidestepping backward as if I am still making calculated moves in the ring, removing her from his reach.

“Don’t you fucking touch her,” I growl in Rafe’s direction.

The girl’s body is pressed into mine, and I hold her against me.

I don’t care if we are in the ring or not.

If he so much as lays a finger on her, I’ll knock his fucking lights out.