Page 33 of Vow to Protect
Now, Brett is the only person I have to rely on for survival. That’s so messed up. He’s the link to my sister and the guardian of my niece. I have blown our crazy chemistry out of all proportion.
All that aside, when his strength circled me, the past stopped taunting, the present stilled, and my libido soared. In that lapse of sanity, all the suffering within me ceased. A slow burn of passion, so strong and reckless, bathed me in an unfamiliar envy. Brett never fully belonged to my sister; however, she will always be woven into his life.
On that basis alone, it was witless to kiss the man. Yet every controlling nucleus, in every single cell, commanded my lips to seek his.
It’s not my fault I’m attracted to him. It’s his fault for being the best-looking man I’ve ever laid eyes on, or for pulling me in and pushing me away all at the same time.
Brett De Courcy is an enigma.
A stunning god of war and sex.
My hero and the forbidden.
Life used to be simple.I partied like a king, fucked like a champion and worked my way up the ranks of power. Now I’m reduced to this—a traitor to my own beliefs. I used to laugh at weak men. I deplored them. Now I’ve become one.
A steaming hot shower didn’t cull the Irish storm licking my temper. Reading my sweet daughter the last chapter of her favourite book failed to dampen the tumultuous heat brewing under my skin.
I’ve forgotten how lust can drive a man mad. For the last few months, I’ve centered my well-being around physical strength and Tilly. Sex wasn’t in the equation until now. Forget the fumes of my favourite whiskey, I’m drunk on Raen’s scent.
I promised Syrah a future. I was going to marry her. Always and forever. Till death do us part.
A feral whirlwind racks my self-control. I can’t let it win. Raen has awoken emotions buried so deep inside me, feelings that are better left hidden. She’s conjured a force of nature so strong and undeniable that not even a billion euros could terminate its existence.
Now I’m here, knocking on a steel door and waiting for the hatch to slide open. Tonight, I will take part. I’m not here to throw a few thousand on the next competitor. I’m the underdog, self-trained but not unworthy.
“Name.” Shaded eyes spy me from inside the exclusive fight club, Scrios.
“Dólás.” Real names aren’t permitted. I’m not an idiot. Our identities are protected, and our credence stripped to flesh. That’s all we are beyond the trappings of wealth and status outside of this venue. Bones and muscle. Broken and torn.
Metal shunts, screeches and slams. Entry is granted with a nod. A forged staircase sinks down to the underground level, available only to those who can pay, and I can fucking pay.
Clammy sweat mixes with coppery dank heat. There’s nothing welcoming about Scrios. The name invites the vermin, and the vermin seek their fill of torture and financial greed. Spectator or competitor. You choose. These men are unrecognisable, baying for blood beneath the civilised street. In daylight, they wear pricey suits alluding to honor and decorum. Down here, elite men reveal the true colour of money. The only detail protecting us from incrimination is our fake names. We’re all the same—hungry for violence.
Scrios.
Destroy.
I’ve come here to butcher the flicker of fascination growing wilder by the day. Raen’s essence contaminates my tongue with a taste so divine I fear I’ll need it again. Visions of shapely hips, loose tendrils tumbling with tangles and poised elegance tainted with anarchy absolutely wreck me. I detest the unspoken chemistry between us, because truthfully, I long for it.
She’s temporary.
Once I get my hands on her fake passport, she’ll be out of my life for good. No point exploring a fleeting emotion.
Snarls and jeers compete with pummelling fists and high flung knees. Spotlights highlight the fighting ring where a duo lash out their fury. The tallest man ripples with lean muscle and quick jabs, whereas the smallest opponent dances and dives with agility and speed. They are not matched in physical attributes but tethered together in a brutal fight to the end. Not for death, that’s a fool’s errand. They crave supremacy, the title of champion.
“Back again? Thought you’d never return to Scrios after your last beating.” Out of the crowd, Aix pins me with a wry smirk. I recognised his Scottish brogue before his bronze slicked hair coated with perspiration blocks my view. Copper eyes blaze with a challenge.
I nod, working my jaw to a snarl. “Hubris, Aix.” My mouth twists. “Your pride is a common tragic flaw.”
His hand unfurls, and he holds it out. “I thought I’d killed you.”
“You only wish.” We link palms, squeezing tighter with mutual respect. Our humanity prevents us from tearing each other limb from limb.
“Where have you been, Dólás? Too scared to step in the ring with me again?” We met when physical pain was my master. Fighting was my grounding. endured punch after punch, withstanding the splintering strikes numbed the dólás—the grief. Months later, I’ve come back for more. “That crazy look in your eyes tells me you’re either well-disciplined or a sick fuck.”
I’m both. “Are you in the ring this evening?” I shout as the crowd whips up and the big brawny fighter hits the deck like Goliath defeated by David.
“Fuck!” Aix pumps the air. “I put a wager on that scrawny fuck. I knew he’d knock out the giant gimp. He’s all height and no substance. That’s a cool fifty grand back in the wallet.” He waves his left hand at my face, swaddled in a crisp white casing. “Broken hand. No sport for a few weeks, at least. I’ve got my sights on payouts tonight.”
