LUCAS
Once again, it’s late at night, and one of us is wide awake. This time, though, I’m the one staring at the ceiling while Delilah sleeps peacefully.
That isn’t the only difference. Rather than cuddling up close to me the way she’s been doing since we got here, there’s an ocean between us. Only a couple of feet in this king-size bed, but it may as well be a mile.
I don’t have to wonder why. She’s just as upset with me now as she was earlier today. I don’t know what she wants from me. I’m handling this the only way I can: scrambling to adjust to each new twist.
One thing I know for sure. No way would I be able to function as anything close to a human being with the threat of her being in danger hanging over my every move and thought.
I doubt there’s anywhere on earth I could hide her where the Brookshires wouldn’t eventually find her and exact what I’m sure to them would feel like justice. As if a single one of them has the first idea about what justice truly means. If they did, they’d slink off into a hole and cover themselves with dirt. After everything that filthy, depraved family put her through, they’d have no right to blame her. But they would.
The worst part is, in another life, I would have done the same. Without knowing her, I would have made the mistake of assuming her guilt. I might have even enjoyed hearing stories of how she was brought to task for her sins. It would have appealed to the animal in me, the primal side of my nature.
And now I’m lying here wondering how many times I passed judgment and deemed the wrong party guilty. How much self-recrimination can a man take in one night?
Fuck this. The longer I lie here, the more I blame myself. I’ve never been one of those people into self-flagellation. If I’m going to hurt, I want it to be at the hands of another. I’d much rather take my frustrations out on someone else.
It’s been a long time since I’ve done this but knowing it doesn’t keep me from climbing out of bed as quietly as I can and leaving the bedroom to make a phone call. It’s barely midnight—earlier than I would normally go to bed, but I was naïvely hoping to talk things out with Delilah before going to sleep.
There I was, assuming she’d be too upset to do more than lie there and dwell, the way she did last night. When am I going to learn it’s a waste of time to concern myself with what I think others might be going through?
I touch a finger to a specific name in my contacts, one I haven’t so much as glanced at in ages. A familiar voice meets my ear, and instantly, I’m transported back to what feels like another life.
“Lucas Diavolo,” he grunts, sounding unimpressed. “To what do I owe the honor?” There’s a lot of background noise, telling me I’m interrupting an evening on the town.
“It’s great hearing your voice, too, Eli,” I retort. “I need a fight. Tonight.”
That changes his tune in a hurry. A fight for me means money for him, even if this is rather last minute. Once he sends out the heads-up, anyone familiar with his operation will come running. I’ve never disappointed a crowd.
“Why didn’t you say so?” Now he is every inch the showman. “I can put something together within the hour.”
I have no doubt. There are plenty of men out there desperate enough for a payday like the one promised by a fight like this. They’ll jump at the opportunity to risk their lives, and that’s exactly what they’ll be doing. The fight won’t end until only one of us is breathing. I hate to ruin anybody’s hopes, but when all is said and done, I won’t be the one getting dragged out and disposed of.
* * *
Yes.This is what I needed. This energy, seething and roiling, is intense enough that it almost takes on a life of its own. That’s the energy hanging over the old warehouse Eli reserved for this event. The smell of sweat and smoke permeates the air, and I’m brought back in time.
Charlotte didn’t want to come. I had to force her into it.
“What?” I taunt her on the way to the fight, a bottle of whiskey in one hand while I use the other to drive. “You don’t think you have the stomach to watch me kill a man?” I laugh when she turns her face away and wraps her arms around herself like she needs protection.
As if that would do anything to protect her from me.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers.
“That’s where you’re wrong. I do have to do this,” I growl. She is always trying to find the good in me and make me into something I’m not.
The entire way into the venue—the basement of an empty apartment building—she hangs back, all big eyes and jumpy body language. It turns me on. Watching her shrink back and shiver at the sight of my world, here where I feel most at home. Most like myself.
Her golden head stands out among the rest in the smoke-filled space. Something about her being here—the perfectly beautiful, pure, sweet Charlotte—brings something out of me I rarely experience. A darkness I have only ever brushed against. I’m not only in it to win. I want to destroy and cause unimaginable pain and suffering. I want to tear my opponent to pieces with my bare hands while she watches. While I force her to watch.
As long as I live, I’ll never forget staring her in the eye as I drove my fist into what was left of that guy’s face again and again until I finally had to be pulled off the body, blood-soaked and unrecognizable. And still, I didn’t look away from her. And she didn’t look away from me, though I knew damn well that was all she wanted to do. She wanted to run away from me and never look back. But she didn’t. Because she knew then that there was no escaping me once I decided what was mine.
A flash of golden hair in the crowd catches my attention, and I find myself following the girl’s progress as she weaves through the bodies. The ache in my chest at the opportunity makes me want to follow her, just to see if it is, so I can demand she watches me slaughter another stranger.
It’s not her, though. It can’t be. She’s dead.
Shaking my head, I let the thoughts blow like grains of sand in the wind. I need to get out of my fucking head if I plan to walk out of here alive.