Page 80 of The Devils They Are

A gasp escapes my lips. There, in the center of the room, is a large, fully enclosed cage. It could easily rival a proper UFC ring, the thick black fencing almost glistering under the industrial bulbs.

"Holy shit," I mutter, stepping toward it.

The white floor is pure and unmarked—though I have no doubt it won't stay that clean for long. The side door is open, inviting, and I step inside, still mesmerized by the perfect structure.

"Do you like it?" Rylan asks, stepping in behind me.

"Like it?" I repeat. "I love it. This is amazing." Spinning around, my body buzzes with excitement. I'm fairly certain in all of the warehouse history, there's never been a cage of this magnitude. It would have set Willowbrook back a pretty penny.

"I had them fast track it. But I still want the beach for the month as promised."

Turning to face him, I relax at the visible smirk tugging on the corners of his mouth.

"I suppose you still want the votes too," I joke.

"A deal's a deal."

My fingers run along the fence, the black vinyl-coated chain-link metal surprisingly warm. "Shit. Well, you've really outdone yourself, Astor."

"Impressed?"

I shoot him a smile. "Don't let it go to your head. We both know I'd be able to kick your ass in here."

Rylan steps toward me. "Want to put your money where your mouth is, Spencer?"

"Like a bet?" I laugh. "I didn't take you to be a losing man."

He snorts. "I'll go easy on you."

"I don't like things easy."

"Evidently."

His knuckles grace my cheek intimately. Our eyes are locked, both burning with need. But I can't make the first move. Guilt still eats at me, the silent fear that if I give in to my temptations, something bad might happen again.

"Stop overthinking," Rylan murmurs. "I can see the cogs turning in your mind. Fight me, Spencer."

Stepping back, he pulls off his shirt, tossing it to the side of the cage. Muscles ripple under the orange glow, and I'm not sure if I want to fight him or fuck him. Both seem equally enticing in my mission to escape reality.

I repeat the move, trying not to pay attention to the way his eyes flare at my bare torso. We're even now, both in shorts, though it's obvious my sports bra is a distraction for him.

Idiot.

He's still staring at my chest when I rush forward, punching him square in the pec. Rylan's solid frame stumbles back slightly, eyes shooting up. Only two seconds pass before he moves forward, throwing a hook toward my face. I block it with ease, annoyed that he's going easy on me like promised. I don't want easy. Or pity. I want to feel something other than the gut tearing pain that pulls apart each thread of my heart.

"You can do better than that," I taunt, the two of us circling off.

"I don't make a habit of hitting girls," he remarks.

"Spare me your nobility. Gender has nothing to do with this right now."

To prove my point, I swing my leg around, the top of my foot slamming into the side of his ribcage. Rylan growls in pain, the last piece of chivalry fading as he charges forward.

The two of us exchange blows carelessly. Even when my knuckles hit his flesh and his hand finds my face, I know we're both holding back still. But it's enough. The air rushes in and out of my lungs, chest heaving as we spar. Pink patches blossom on his torso with each hit, and I have no doubt my own skin is flushed. But the slight ache feels like home.

In a sickening way, it feels like justice. Allowing myself to feel pain. I can't help but continue to regret that night, but I know I can't hold onto that forever. Nothing I do will bring her back, and the longer I let myself fall into these feelings, the more I lose myself.

I can't do that.

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