Untamed (A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance)(55)

“But?”

“Everyone else…”

“So?”

“I don’t know.”

“Show them what you’re made of.”

“They intimidate me.”

He spaces the words out, almost savagely. “Shine brighter.”

A bell dings, he throws open the door and goes toward the cage.

I watch him for a moment before taking off my coat, and walking out as well. I do as he says, walk my best walk. I realize, belatedly, that as many eyes are on me as they are on Duncan.

I go to Dad’s side. He regards me with little more than a grunt, but I stand there, and when Duncan looks at me from inside the cage, I meet his eyes.

We share a look, and nobody in the room misses it.

We’re a team.

In this big old fucking boy’s club, I’m the one he looks at.

He beckons me to the cage, and so I go toward it. He falls into a squat, checks the wraps and tape on his hands and wrists. Then he pushes his fingers through the cage.

I take them quickly, give them a quick squeeze. I don’t care who is watching now.

“I prefer you out here,” he whispers.

“Why?”

“Because losing in front of you is unthinkable.”

He jumps up quickly, and I step back, falling in line with Dad again.

We watch, everybody, the whole crowd in anticipatory silence. The ref starts the fight.

Duncan and his third opponent begin their dance.





Chapter Eighteen





Legs like tree trunks, short, low center of gravity. He’s a kicker, but not a high-kicker. He’ll go for torso-kicks and thigh-kicks. He’ll try to tire me out then take me down. On the mat, in between those legs… that’s a position I must not find myself in.

I look toward Dee. She’s absolutely shining. She brightens up the whole room. She fills me with a crazy motivation. I don’t even want to take a hit with her watching. And when you’re a fighter, you’re expected to take hits.

The referee tonight is nothing but a safety release. He’s short, too, but big, strong, and he’s there to make sure the fight doesn’t end in a death.

I have no intention of taking a life in the cage, but I can’t say the same for the man I’m about to trade blows with. He looks at me out of wild, undisciplined eyes. My guess? He out-violences people in the cage.

It’s the wrong way to fight. You can never rely on anger. So he won’t submit me tonight.

Definitely not with Dee watching.

It’s odd to me, this feeling of not wanting to lose in front of someone. Before, it used to just be my own self-respect, but all that buys you is immunity against cowardice, and for some men, not even then.

But with Dee looking on, her dark, endless eyes on me, suddenly there’s more to fight for. Now it’s no longer appeasing whatever selfish instinct I have to uphold a personal sense of greatness or achievement or some bullshit like that.

Now… now I feel like I’m fighting for her.

And I’m not ashamed to admit… I don’t want her to see me lose.

She doesn’t know it, but she gives me a reserve of strength, determination. It’ll make me work harder, faster, better. Without realizing it, she makes me a better fighter.

The ref starts the fight, and I extend my fists. My stocky, square opponent – ‘Beefcake’ in my head – doesn’t tap my fists.

I grin at him, wink as we back up. He seems to take offense at that, and it riles him up.

Good, got to get him off-balance to make this easier.

The ref slices the air between us, and we dance, circle each other, size each other up. He’s a righty, strong base, can push off hard and take you down mid-mass.

I glance to my left, see Dee’s face, see her chewing on her lower lip. She looks nervous.

Beefcake tries to use that moment, lunges for me, goes straight for the take-down. I spin out of his way, a fast pivot on the heel of my right foot, and he goes sailing past me.

I catch him mid-move, wrap up his neck into my arm, twirl him into me like we’re doing some kind of fucking modern dance, use it as leverage as I pull my weight around, jump off the mat, and latch onto his back.

I knee him in the thigh, send him off-balance, then kick him in the back of the calf. He drops to one knee with a grunt, and I launch myself higher up onto him still, sit on his shoulders for the briefest of moments before I coil my legs around his neck and straighten out my body, jerking backward.

Both our backs slap the mat hard, wet, sweaty, sticky, and he’s gripping at his neck. I twist him with my legs, bring his neck into the pit of my knee, and grab hold of my own foot, and pull.

He tries to punch above him, and I catch his arm, twist it, use it to leverage him against any movement.

It’s only a matter of time now.