Untamed (A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance)(62)

I open it, and Duncan is standing there, grinning at me, a toothbrush in his mouth, towel wrapped around his waist.

“It’s pretty cold out,” he says, his voice a toothpaste slur.

“That was close,” I tell him. I’m shaking a little, but it was kind of… fun, in a stupid, teenage way.

The condom!

It’s the only thing in my trash can. Fuck, what if Dad had seen it?!

“You need to take the condom,” I tell him. “I can’t have it in here. Dad would go insane if he found it somehow.”

Duncan pauses mid-movement, looks at me with a wrinkled nose.

“What, it’s all your stuff, anyway!”

He shrugs, reaches into the can and pulls it out. And then he comes to me, pulls out his toothbrush and presses his nose against my ear. He smells me, and I feel the cool tip of his nose on my lobe.

“Go on, go!” I urge, pushing him in the butt. He swaggers out of the room, but at the last moment turns and looks at me.

God, he looks so fucking hot in just a towel.

“Go,” I say, laughing. “Come on, Dad might come back.”

He disappears down the corridor, into the bathroom, and I just shake my head, still my racing heart, and slow my breathing.

Too close.

Way too fucking close.





Things settled down after that. Duncan started fighting, winning, and I was there supporting him. They started calling him ‘Creature’ because he was so relentless in the cage.

I went to college, moved into residence halls, and Duncan got his own place using his winnings.

We no longer had to hide, and I split my time between his apartment and my room.

And time passed… and we were happy.

Dad… well, I could almost ignore him.

But it had to come to an end… a train bearing down on us in the night.

The rails were rattling, the horn was blaring, and we could feel the push of air.

That night by the pool started us down a path.

…The beginning of the end.





Chapter Twenty Three





Dad is happy and that means something is very, very wrong.

Duncan and I both share a mutual look of confusion. We both know that if Dad is this bubbly about something, it means that it’s good for him.

What’s good for him is almost invariably bad for us.

The dining room is dimly lit. Dad brought out the candles, and their flames fall upward almost in an exact straight line, and I remember that he mentioned something about having the windows in the house resealed.

Dad’s wearing a suit, charcoal grey, jacket open, tie a little too skinny for his wide body. His white shirt beneath is creased along the sides of his chest; it’s too tight.

Duncan and I are dressed far more casually, and I wonder if we’ve both come underdressed for some big announcement.

“Tonight we celebrate,” Dad says, lifting his glass of red wine.

We lift our cups of water.

Dad drains half the glass in one sip, then sets it down carefully, making sure to place it in the exact center of the square, cork coaster.

He smiles at each of us in turn. Well, maybe smile is not the correct word. His lips peel thinly up over his teeth, and his eyes narrow, and creases push into the leathered skin of his face, but there’s not an ounce of warmth or even something relatable in his expression.

“Duncan!” he booms from nowhere, shocking me. I jump visibly in my chair, and I shut my eyes for a moment, feeling nothing but impatient frustration.

Duncan gives him a wry look. “Glass, what are we celebrating?” he asks.

“You two,” Dad says, shaking his head. “You both leave the nest, and never return to even visit. I have to call together a family dinner on a special occasion to see you two together.”

I roll my eyes. I wish he would just quit with the woe-is-me melodramatics.

“What’s the special occasion, Dad? I’ve got work I need to do tonight, so I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible.”

Dad bristles, but, to my surprise, he bites his tongue.

“You ever heard of Conrad Butler, Duncan?”

I look across the table, see an expression of recognition fade-in on Duncan’s features.

“Yeah,” Duncan says slowly. “Fighter up in Canada. Best in the country, from what I’ve read. Very fast, very violent. They call him ‘Manic’.”

“He’s agreed to fight you.” Dad beams at both of us.

“And?”

“And he’s the favorite!” Dad says, slapping the table with exhilaration. “Damn it, Duncan, nobody is going to bet against Manic Butler! Even you, no offense, lose on paper. He’s taller, faster, and stronger. He’s got more experience on you, and he’s on a similar win-streak to you. The physicals alone make him the favorite, but when you take in his extremely effective moves, not to mention the fact that his trainer is a God damned heavyweight ex-champion… shit, we’re going to win big.”