If I’m not careful, I could let down my guard around this gorgeous girl and go after everything I don’t deserve. My mile-high walls are the only thing that stands between me and the crushing grief of the past. But the desire to hold her, to run my fingers through those long blonde strands, to stare into those eyes and weed out her deep dark secrets, is so tempting I have to bite the inside of my cheek to snap out of it.
I blink away thoughts of the girl and force myself to remember I don’t give a shit about her or her problems. I don’t care about anything, really. The only time I feel at all is when I fight. In the cage I receive the pain and suffering I deserve if the other man can get a hand on me. Like a ritualistic cleansing, I let out my anger and frustration and self-loathing on my opponent using my fists and feet. Yet no matter how much I fight, how much I unload on my victim, I’m never, ever clean.
“My office is back here.” The girl’s soft and timid voice defies her bold actions and disconcerting eye contact.
“Come find me when you’re done. I’ll show you your locker and you can meet the other fighters.” Gabriel smiles, slapping my back before heading toward one of the cages.
My eyes follow Gabriel as he leaves. By the time I swing my attention back to the girl, she’s opening a door on the far side of the room. Grumbling to myself and with no other option, I trail behind, pausing in the doorway.
The girl, Britt, is moving around the small space, clearly at ease with her surroundings. She opens a laptop and sits at a desk wedged in one corner. “You can sit.” Britt points to a second chair.
Good. For a second I thought I was going to be forced to get up on the treatment table. I’m not in the mood to be a guinea pig today.
That’s a lie. I don’t really care what the trainers or specialists do to me as long as they make me a better fighter. It’s the girl that bothers me, not the thought of being under a microscope. This is the only woman I’ve ever met who isn’t instantly and irrevocably afraid of me, and the only one who has me tempted into thinking I could have more. More than a filthy, dirty fuck to release tension. More than someone to use for a few hours of pleasure.
Britt’s obviously already damaged. As much as I’d love to peel back those layers, I don’t want to give her a chance to dig out my own psychological scars, the nightmares hidden beneath a baggy hoodie and a cold stare. If I do, Britt may never recover from what she finds.
“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, tapping on her computer. “I only found out you were coming last night, so I don’t have much information and haven’t reviewed your medical file.”
She’s so quiet, I strain to hear her. When I don’t respond, she cocks her head and her eyes flick up to mine. Shit. I duck down so she can’t get a good look at my face.
Fucking coward. She’s going to find out at some point, idiot. Why delay the inevitable? She’ll see the same thing everyone else sees when they look in my eyes… nothing, a monster, a killer.
For the first time in ten years, the thought disturbs me.
Britt
The new fighter is… odd, to say the least. Half the time, when I ask him a question, I’m not certain if he’s answered. Not trusting my poor hearing, I’ve taken to staring at his lips to try and decipher his words. But it’s not my subpar hearing keeping me from catching his responses. It’s my fascination with his lips, the flashes of pink tongue as he speaks, the gray eyes peeking under the hood of his thin sweatshirt.
Like I do to everyone else, when I directed him to sit, I made sure to put him on my good side. Despite my actions, I still can’t hear him because the man is just that quiet. Even my usual trick of keeping my voice low so people will come closer, helping me to hear them better, isn’t working.
And he keeps trying to hide his face. Which is strange, because he is absolutely gorgeous. So gorgeous, in fact, that I can’t stop staring. Yeah, he looks like a typical fighter, slightly crooked nose, beat-up ears, scar in the eyebrow, all the usual signs. Despite his flaws, and the fact his hood keeps sliding down over his brow, it’s obvious he’s stunning.
“Tell me your fighting history.” I roll my chair back from the desk and spin to face Killer. I can’t believe I have to call him Killer. It’s ridiculous, but whatever. “Where did you start?”
The big man ducks his head again, his voice low and steady, but still difficult for me hear. I scoot my chair closer and his head jerks up at the scraping sound. When Killer finally, for the first time since arriving, fixes his gaze directly on me, my brain stutters and stalls. My god, he’s not simply stunning—he’s both an angel and a devil at the same time—near hypnotizing to observe. Clear, silver eyes, unlike any I’ve ever seen, focus on my shocked face.
For a moment, we both simply sit there, staring at each other. It should be painfully uncomfortable, yet it’s not. Killer breaks eye contact first, probably because I’m too spellbound by those quicksilver eyes to move.
“Ummmm, I’m sorry. I don’t hear well. So… I thought. I mean, I needed to get closer to hear you.” Beads of sweat dot my hairline, threatening to run down my temples.