Remington is especially playful with the younger fighters. They seem to expect him to be powerful, but not so fast, and I can see it drives them insane. He feints a lot, gives them a little play, and then he finishes them off without mercy—to the delight of his crowd.
Tonight he goes through twelve fighters and ends up soaked and slightly bruised on his left side. When we head back to the rental house, he starts drilling Pete as soon as he hits the large living room that separates into long halls, each leading to a separate room. “Everything okay on the sidelines?”
“Uh, sorta.”
“Any scouts around?”
“Two. The same as usual.”
“They look at Brooke?”
“Uh . . .”
He swings around, his eyebrows furrowing. “They fucking look at Brooke?”
Pete looks at me, then at him. “They came over to talk. Brooke flipped them the finger. I told them to go. Josephine came over. I pulled Brooke aside.”
Remy looks at me, and now his brows are raised high. “You flipped them the finger?”
I bristle. “Would you rather I’d kicked them in the nuts?”
His disbelief shifts to Pete. Ever so slowly, he drags a hand through his hair in frustration, down to the back of his neck, then he shakes his head and grabs my nape as he steers me toward our hall. “We’ll discuss it in our room,” he grumbles at me.
“Good night, guys,” Pete says.
Remington stops and swings around. “No sign of Brooke’s sister?”
“None,” Pete says, and the emotion in his face almost breaks me. He and Remington engage in some silent form of man-to-man communication, and then that’s it, and we head in different directions.
As soon as Remy ferrets us into our bedroom, I’m pressed back against the door and I find his nose buried in my cleavage as he smells me again.
My * clenches as he growls, “Why’d you flip off those assholes?” He jerks his head back and gives me the full force of his blue-eyed stare. “What did they say to you?”
“They were just in our faces, and I hate to say this, but Pete’s like a loaded gun without a trigger.”
“Is he now?”
“It was actually a good thing that he could keep his cool tonight, because I couldn’t. I’m crazed just thinking Nora is out there with those men. What are you going to do?”
He shakes his head and heads for the shower. “You’re to stay out of it.”
I start after him. “Won’t you at least tell me?”
He opens the shower stall door, and levels his most somber stare to date on me. “For us, Brooke,” he sternly whispers, stroking his hand all along the curve of my abdomen. “For the three of us. I’ll have your promise you’ll stay out of it. And if you break your promise to me, so help me god . . .”
“No! So help me god, if you put yourself in danger because of her . . . because of me . . . I’m going to . . .”
“What?” He cocks an amused brow, then pats my ass with a smirk. “I like it when you punch me, and I like you angry too.”
“But I’ll be very fucking mad—like you’ve never seen me!” I glare menacingly at his chest as he starts stripping his boxing gear. “Don’t, Remy.” Reaching out before he enters the shower, I grab his jaw and force him to look at me. “Promise me.”
Amusement twinkles in his gaze as he runs the back of one finger down my temple. “What am I going to do with you, firecracker?”
“Promise me,” I urge.
“I promise you,” he tells me, “that your sister will be back with you very soon, and I’m crushing that insect this year.” He chucks my chin and goes into the shower, and I can’t explain the relief I feel. He’s never lied to me. His words aren’t so bountiful, but they carry such weight. He is winning this year, and whatever he’s negotiating, Nora will be free soon. Marginally relieved, I go pull out my oils. It takes him exactly four minutes to soap up, wash his hair, and step out with a towel around his waist while he uses another to dry his chest.
“Get over here and let me rub you down,” I tell him, and as he follows me to the bench that we usually find at the foot of most of our hotel beds, he pulls me into his arms and kisses the hollow of my ear.
“Who do you belong to?” he asks softly.
Melting.
“Some lucky guy.” I urge him down to sit, fighting the urge to kiss every inch of him just yet.
“Tell me his name,” he commands as he drops down so that I can rub his muscles. He watches me kneel before him and set all my materials nearby, and he wears a devastatingly sexy tilt to his lips that is frankly irresistible.
“Why? Do you like the way his name sounds in my voice?” I ask as I unscrew the lid of my arnica oil.