Filthy (A Bad Boy Romance)(14)

Pop just shakes his head. I can see Carmine smirking out of the corner of my eye. That son of a bitch. I want to punch him in the face myself.

“No.” I can’t help it—the tears are back. I hate myself for it, but I’m so angry, so infuriated, and so afraid. Terrified. For Cain. For myself. My voice rises to a shriek. “If I want Cain, I’ll have him! There’s nothing you can do about it! I already slept with him!” I take a step backward toward the door as Pop takes a threatening step toward me. “Face it. I’m damaged goods. And I will not let you run my life!”

I whirl and head for the door, half expecting one or both of the men to stop me. But I hear Pop mumble something to Carmine behind me, and neither of them makes a move. I shove through the office door and head for the garage. I’ve got to get to Cain. Whatever’s happening to him right now, I have to stop it.

#

I’m not sure how I make it to the garage, much less to Cain’s place with the tears filling my eyes, blurring my vision, and the rage in my chest making it damn near impossible to breathe. But before I can quite process what’s happening, I’m powering down the road, and within ten minutes I’ve pulled up in front of Cain’s house. There are two black cars in the parking area that I know don’t belong to him. Pop’s men, I’m sure, and my heart beats even harder, if that’s possible. I feel like it’s about to explode.

He won’t kill him. It’s a weak reassurance, but I know it’s true. Pop won’t have him killed quite yet. He said he needs Cain for one more fight. Then, I’m sure, all bets will be off.

I run up the stairs to the front of the condo and bang on the door like an idiot. Sure, somebody’s going to come answer it. Good call, Jess. It’s unlocked, though, I realize, and I push it open.

I can hear what’s going on before I even get close. The sound of fists on flesh, rawer even than the sounds of the fighting ring from last night. I hear helpless grunts—Cain. Low, menacing voices—whoever’s beating on him. I run toward the sounds.

Cain’s got one knee down on the floor, and two men in dark suits are pounding him. One of them has brass knuckles on; I can see the glint of the metal as he swings at Cain. Cain ducks, though, and the blow slides just past the point of his jaw. He’s bloodied up, but not much worse than he was last night. Apparently he’s been holding his own. Barely.

“Stop it!” I scream helplessly. “Stop it! Leave him alone!”

The men turn to look at me. One of them has hold of Cain’s shirt collar, and he doesn’t let go of it as he gives me a feral grin. “Ah, Cain, I see you need your girl to rescue you.”

“Fuck off,” says Cain, and lands a hard punch to the man’s jaw. The man crumples, and Cain lurches to his feet. The other man lunges toward him, but Cain ducks again, grabs him by the back of his jacket, and swings him into the nearby couch. I hear a cracking sound as the man’s head hits the couch’s wooden framework. He’s down for a few seconds and then staggers halfway to his feet. I head for Cain, even though he’s waving for me to stay still. I move in to help support him, but he’s got most of his weight balanced back on his feet again, and doesn’t really seem to need the assistance. I can smell the blood and sweat on him.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” he says to his attackers. The men both make their way back to their own feet. The first one, the one who took the punch to the jaw, straightens his jacket.

“We weren’t supposed to kill you,” he says, almost as if he didn’t just get the shit pounded out of him. “Next time, though…”

The bruise growing on his jaw means it should be hard for me to take him seriously, but his words send chills down my back. They’re serious about killing Cain. My own father is dead serious about killing the man I’ve—

That thought breaks off, because I don’t know how to finish it. The man I’ve what? Chosen to sleep with? Taken as a lover? Been thinking about marrying, even though it is, as Cain said, the shittiest idea in the history of shitty ideas?

Except maybe it’s not. Cain takes a sharp step toward the two men, and they depart, trying to act like they’re not scared of him. Two against one, and still they’re slinking away to lick their wounds. I glare in their direction, not that it helps anything. I wish I could set their stupid suits on fire with my eyeballs.

The door falls shut behind them, and I turn to Cain. “Are you okay?”

He knuckles his lip where it’s bleeding again. The cut from last night has opened up again, wider, and there’s a trail of blood running down his chin. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

From the way he rolls his shoulder, wincing, I think maybe he’s not, but I’m not going to argue with him. “Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

I take his arm, though he doesn’t really need my support—he’s hurt but he’s not exactly off his feet—and he directs me to the bathroom. The last few steps, he’s a little unsteady, and I latch my arm around his waist, holding on to him. He takes a sharp breath, and I wonder if he’s been hit in the ribs or something.

“Sit,” I tell him, pointing to the closed toilet lid.

“Jess—”

“Sit.”

He sits. I start to unbutton his shirt, peeling it gently off him.

It looks like they beat him more along the torso than on his face. That makes sense if maybe they didn’t want to advertise the fact they’d beaten the shit out of him. I wonder if that order came from my father: “Not the face. Nothing that will show.” It’s the kind of thing he used to think about when he was smacking Mom around.

I feel my lips tightening against my teeth and force myself to focus on the present. Cain needs me. I ease the shirt down from his shoulders and take a good look at his body. I eye him with clinical detachment—it’s good practice for my future career, if nothing else. Disengage the emotion, the fear for him. Not to mention the desire. Just evaluate the injuries.

He’s got some heavy bruising along his ribs, right where my hand went when I went to grab him, trying to steady him as we walked into the bathroom. I touch the area again, lightly, and he winces.

“Broken rib?” I ask. My brain starts to race through all the things a broken rib could lead to. I redirect it to how a broken rib needs to be treated, since I’m pretty sure I’d know by now if he had a punctured lung.

“I don’t think so. They got me pretty hard there though.”

“Dammit.” So much for clinical detachment. I just can’t hold on to it. I clench my teeth and go rooting through the medicine cabinet. “This is my fault.”

“How is it your fault, Jess? I’m the one who insisted we go out to that restaurant. I’m the one who hit fucking Carmine in his fucking face.” He hesitates, rolling his shoulder again. When he speaks again it’s in an obstinate mutter. “I’d do it again, too.”

“Right.” I’ve got some alcohol and cotton balls, and I’m ready to clean his face. “Hold still. This is going to sting.”

But when I head for his cut lip with the cotton ball, he grabs my wrist. “Jess. It’s fine. I don’t need doctoring.”

“You’re a mess, Cain.”

“Yeah. I’ve been a mess before, and I’ll be a mess again. I’ll get over it.”

“But he’s going to expect you to fight…” I stop. Sobs are rushing up my throat, and it’s all I can do to swallow them before they burst out. “Cain. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t let him keep hurting you.”

His hand is firm on my wrist but not harsh. Now his fingers loosen a bit; he strokes the inside of my wrist with his thumb. “It’s my job to get hurt. Always has been.”

“In the cage, maybe, but not…” I stop again. I’m not sure what I’m trying to say to him. I just know I hate this—where we are, how we got here, and the certainty that there’s no real way out of it. “God. I hate him for what he’s done to you. I hate him for what he’s done to me. I hate him, Cain!” Everything inside me is breaking apart. I want to fly at Cain, pummel him with my fists until he understands. I can’t do that. He’s hurt. And it’s my father who’s hurt him.

“Yeah, hon. Yeah. Hush.” His hand on my wrist pulls me closer, and he kisses my forehead. Then suddenly he tangles his other hand in the hair at the nape of my neck and drags me to him. His mouth shoves hard into mine and I can taste the open cut on his lip.

Suddenly he’s biting into my mouth, his teeth all but scraping my tongue as he takes me so deep and hard our front teeth bang into each other. The pain is a sharp shock that echoes up into my face. I grab at him, fingers digging hard into his biceps. A small gasp of protest comes from him—I’m pretty sure I’ve tweaked the shoulder he was favoring earlier—but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even try to say anything. Just kisses me like he’s trying to climb inside me.

I’m nothing but my mouth on Cain’s mouth, his breath mixing with mine, the deep, bruising kisses claiming me. His hand on my hair is so tight it hurts; I can feel some strands separating from my head and still his fingers clench, the short, dull nails digging into my scalp. My own fingers are digging into his arms, feeling the strong bone beneath the firm muscle.