Wrong (A Bad Boy Romance)(91)

That’s not me. I won’t do it. I won’t be that. I’d rather live on the street. “I don’t like him.”

“Oh, you’ll learn to like him.” He picks up the paper again. “Your mother learned to like me.”

Did she? I’ve always wondered. Mom had seemed fairly content, but there was no way to tell. She never crossed Pop, never did anything he didn’t approve of. And if she came to breakfast with a purple eye once in a while—carefully disguised with make-up, of course—well, no one ever said anything about it. That was just the way things were.

I decide it’s not worth my time or my energy to argue with him anymore. I stand. “Maybe. May I go?”

He’s already starting to disengage, figuring he’s dispensed all the necessary chastisement. “Yes.” He flicks the paper and gives me another level look. “Don’t plan to go anywhere tomorrow. I need you in the office.”

“Fine.”

I swivel and head for my bedroom. I’m too angry even to cry.

I’ve known since I was about eight that I’m supposed to marry Carmine Romano. There’s never been any question about it. It’s like Medieval England or something. But there’s something dark in Carmine, and he showed me that tonight. Again. He’s never actually raised a hand to me, though he’s come close. I’ve been careful not to give him an excuse.

There’s darkness in Cain, too, but somehow, when I’m with Cain, I feel safe, even though he’s seething with danger. With Carmine, even though he’s safe in the eyes of my family, I feel desperate, like I’ve got my leg in a trap and I’m going to have to chew it off to get away. Cain won’t hurt me—I’m certain of that, but I don’t know why. Carmine? Carmine would backhand me across a room if he felt like I deserved it.

I’m surprised to feel my eyes going hot. I’m crying—not a lot, but my eyes are definitely leaking. I backhand the tears away and sniffle, disgusted with myself. There’s a way out. There has to be. I can’t keep living like this.

Again, that thought drifts across my mind. Cain. Cain could be the answer. He could be the one who gets me out of this hellhole.

Bad idea, Jess. Just let it go.

But I can’t. I just can’t.





CHAPTER THREE



Cain



There are days I wonder why I fight. Days I wonder what gets me into the ring, makes me almost crave the adrenaline, the smell of the sweat and the blood. The pain. Days I think it would be so much easier if I gave it all up and became an accountant or something. Something easy.

This is not one of those days.

Why? Because today I’m supposed to win. And it’s not going to be a cakewalk. If Spada’s scouts misjudged the last opponent as stronger than he was, they misjudged this one in the opposite direction. He’s not nearly as far beneath me as they seem to think he is.

That’s okay. I need to work for it once in a while, if for no other reason than to take my mind off the fucking cesspit that my life has become. To forget that I don’t only want to win, but I have to. Because if I don’t…

Well, Spada’s made that pretty fucking clear. And right now I’m not thinking. I’m just hitting. Punching. Dodging and weaving. I want to move in and pull my opponent down into a grapple. I always feel like I have more control that way. The boxing, the hitting—it’s not my favorite part of my time in the ring. No. I like the primal tangle in the grapple. Using every inch of my body with every inch of my strength to pin another man down, manipulate him, overpower him. Then we can get to the hitting.

He makes a very slightly wrong move and I’m on it like a cat on a mouse. That’s my job—to watch until they do something wrong, and then make them pay for it. A moment later, I’ve got him on the mat where I want him, and I’m punching him in the face, at the same time weaving my own body out of his reach so he can’t retaliate. After a while, he manages to get tangled back up with me again, and for a few long seconds neither of us can move. The ref moves in then, ordering us apart.

I hop to my feet and move back, as instructed. As I head for my corner, I glance over the crowd. I didn’t see Jessica anywhere when the match started. She’d better be here. I wasn’t kidding about hunting her tight little ass down if she isn’t.

I don’t see her at first, but then I do. She’s not in her usual spot; she’s farther back from the ring. She sits with her hands folded together between her knees, her back straight, expression neutral. I wonder if she’s afraid for me. I give her a quick wink, but I’m not sure she sees me.