Page 120 of Undisputed Chaos
She was the perfect counterpoint to my hardness, my rough edges, my constant destruction.
I shrugged, the knife continuing its familiar dance between my fingers.
"Last-minute replacement. The scheduled fighter pulled out with an injury." I grinned, the prospect of violence already making my blood sing. "Their loss, my gain. Easy money."
"How long will you be gone?" she asked, and I caught the slight furrow of her brow, the hint of disappointment in her voice that made something warm unfurl in my chest.
She would miss me. The thought was maddening.
"Wewill be gone for about twelve hours," I corrected, watching her expression shift from confusion to understanding.
"The jet leaves at two, fight's at seven. We’ll be back before midnight. No need to pack."
"We?" she repeated, though the smile tugging at her plush lips told me she already knew the answer.
"You,ourfamily, and I.” I set the knife down and moved to join her on the floor, my much larger frame dwarfing her space.
The scent of her vanilla and paint filled my senses as I settled beside her. "The girls always come to the fights. It's tradition."
"Is it tradition, or is it an order?" she teased, tilting her head back to look at me.
The movement exposed the line of her throat, the ribbon a contrast against her skin. My mark. My claim.
I traced my thumb across her lower lip, watching her eyes flutter at the contact.
"Both," I admitted shamelessly. "But mostly because I want you there. I need you there."
Her expression softened, those ocean eyes warming like sunlight on water. "Then, of course I'll be there."
"Good girl," I praised, leaning down to capture her mouth in a brief kiss that tasted of coffee and possibilities.
I pulled back to watch her work, shifting so I could see over her shoulder.
Her body fit perfectly between my legs, her back occasionally brushing against my leg as she leaned forward to add paint to her canvas.
The first strokes were hesitant, almost unsure, but as she lost herself in the creation, her movements became more confident and fluid.
There was something fucking magical about watching Isla paint.
The transformation was subtle but complete; the soft girl I'd claimed as mine morphed into something wilder.
Her breathing changed, grew deeper, more measured. Her eyes darkened with concentration, that same intensity I'd seen when I'd buried myself inside her, when I'd watched her come apart under my hands.
The brush danced across the canvas, leaving trails of blue and gold in its wake.
Her wrist, so delicate, flicked with precise movements, creating something from nothing.
The power of it, the creativity, made my blood hot in my veins.
"I've been thinking," she said, her fingers never pausing in their work. "After your fight, after you win, I want to post about you. About us."
I stilled, processing her words, my eyes fixed on the curve of her neck where my teeth had left marks just hours ago.
"You want to tell your followers about me?"
She nodded, a hint of uncertainty crossing her features. "Is that okay? I know we haven't discussed how public to be, and some figured it out, but my audience?—“
I cut her off with another kiss, this one deeper and hungrier. My hand slid up to cup the back of her head, fingers tangling in the silky strands of her hair.
