Page 56 of Bound By Flames
“And?” I whisper, my mouth dryer than the Sahara.
“It’ll only make me more feral,” he says in a low tone, inhaling my hair behind my ear and sending millions of sparks in my belly. “You just sit tight in your pretty little dress and watch me destroy that guy. Okay, princess?” I nod twice, wishing I could crawl under his skin and run away from him at the same time.
“Good girl,” he whispers in my ear, then opens the door and lets me walk out of his office, my back still turned to him.
Ares Malone, what are you doing to me?
Ares
Distractions aren’t good before a fight. I need to be sharp, focused, and ready to strike. But all I can think of is my wife and her mouth and her voice and the way she gets under my skin like she was born to do this. Thank fuck I got a workout in before tonight. Otherwise, I’d be jumping off the walls right now.
Her red dress and the way she looked at me, fuck, I may not own her heart yet, but her body is already mine. Reacting to me like fucking fireworks each time I get close to her. Even when we’re just in the same room, there’s an energy in the air, something so thick I’m sure it’s palpable. But owning her desires isn’t enough. Not in the least. Anyone can get a woman lusting over muscles and good looks. It takes much more to entangle someone else's mind with yours.
Body and soul, or nothing.
I’ll break her and rebuild her into a new fucking woman, and then, that’s where she will finally be mine. Destroy the things holding on from her past. Show her we can become more. That our home can be hers forever if she wants too. Not because I will claim her but because she will accept this claim with eagerness, becoming a vital need for her.
Focus, you can think about that later.
I have a lot on my plate. The club, the threats, the expansion, and Mia. But the club comes first, always. I won’t make the same mistake twice.
Business before women.
“Boss, it’s time,” I hear Tank’s voice outside the door. He’ll be cornering me since Vox is in Seattle this week. We’reused to working together. Even when I fight, he’s the one icing my face and giving me his thoughts on the opponent's moves, but Tank will do. He was in the military, had his fair share of violence on the field, a great fighter too. He knows his way around a cage.
Fight nights are always done the same way. Two fights lead up to a bigger one. The first two are usually from guys settling debt and folks betting over them. They have less stakes. People watch them to entertain themselves, grab a beer, and do not care if they miss a punch here and there.
But the last fight is much different. First, because it’s always with one of our brothers from the club. And second, because there are no rules, no limits, no referee to stop one of us from killing his opponent.
I fight most of them, but here and then, Carter, Shadow, Blade, and some of the toughest guys from our club fight in there too. Mostly when they have steam to let off or when they’re having a feud with another guy and want to settle it in the cage. The guy volunteers to get in there. It’s more about ego than anything else.
Those fights are harder to watch.
Raw, bloody, unforgiving.
‘Cause you never know how it's gonna end.
The last one was a month ago, and Carter broke a guy’s jaw with his fists, so much we had to stop him from turning the guy’s face into fucking pudding. Didn’t want to change the floor again. I can tell you one thing, when the guys are fighting, the crowds go fucking wild, but toward the end, when you know who won, you just sit there and watch a guy fucking die or get paralysed for life in front of ya, and I gotta say, you could hear a pin drop.
I walk out of my office, the air still filled with cinnamon and a hint of hairspray.
Don’t think about her.
Not now.
Tank in front of me, I advance from the corridor to the main hall, hearing shouts, hard-rock, and men's voices echoing all around me. They part as if they're burned by the sight of me and my fists, as if they were afraid I'd grab one of them on my way. I crack my neck on both sides, getting closer to the cage as the ceiling lights blind me for a second, the intensity of the energy pulsing in me, preparing me for the kill.
Shadow found a guy who’s been in debt from the club. Brendan McHallor, Canadian, in his thirties I would say, tall but thinner than me, with sleek muscles and a face trying to display confidence. But I know it's just for show. He’s already up there, bouncing on his feet as if his footwork could scare me. Technique isn’t what’s going to save you up there. Nor training or the amount of fucking boxing classes you took in your life.
It’s the adrenaline that’ll make you win.
The intense surge in you as if a beast was tracking you down, ready to snap your neck. This guy is scared as shit. Probably thinks he’s gonna win the club’s favor in his fight, that I’ll give him mercy for his six-month pay due of his rent and protection fees. Gotta be at least three hundred grand late. No wonder he’s here. The guy’s desperate, but he does have the musculature of a fighter, so we’ll see how long he lasts.
The roars of the crowd grow louder as I enter the cage, ignoring on purpose the stunning creature sitting first rank a few feet away from me. She’s got the best seat in the whole place to see me destroy that guy.
I’m here to show strength in front of my men. Why do I want to impress her so much?
McHallor jumps on his feet, punching his fists with one another. He should know that fifty percent of fighting is about mentally destroying your opponent, and mind games justhappened to be my thing. So I meander to him slowly, as if I’m ordering coffee or something, and lower my face to him for a second.
