Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
It’s who I am.
“I want a week,” I say softly, almost whispering, forcing her to come closer. I want to touch, but I don’t. I know the rules.
“What do you mean, a week?”
“One week with no rules. Freedom to touch you as I please.”
Her lips part. She’s breathing quickly. “That’s too much.”
“Are you afraid?”
“No, it’s just—” Her shoulders sag and she glances to the side. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“I told you, I’m a man of my word. Give me a full week, and I won’t go out there.”
She takes a deep breath. I can tell she’s considering it. A big part of her wants to let go, wants to let me have what I desperately want.
Which is her, under my fingertips, writhing and moaning. Sweating, gasping, arching, digging her heels into the mattress, taking me deep.
And I know that’s what she needs too.
“I can’t,” she whispers. “That’s just too much.”
“Then go find Albert’s box and enjoy the fight. I’ll be thinking about you.”
“Stefano—”
“You heard my deal, wife.” I turn away from her. If she’s not going to bend for me now, then I have no reason to change for her either.
Besides, Vladimir is waiting, my fists are taped, my joints are warmed up, and I’m ready. The bloodlust thrums in my heart. A steady hunger in my chest. I want to go out there and lose myself in simple violence. There’s nothing better than releasing all my worries and fears and becoming a vicious animal.
“Don’t get yourself hurt,” she calls after me. “I’m not going to take care of you!”
I smile to myself, pushing open the door. It’s like she doesn’t know me yet.
I’m always hurt. Every part of me is hurt.
That’s what I do.
Eat pain and keep going.
She’ll figure it out sooner or later.
Chapter 18
Charlie
Ican’t watch.
I catch one glimpse of that monster Vladimir before getting out of there. The Russian’s enormous and built like a bear. The only man nearly as big is Stefano, but I can’t bring myself to stick around and watch my husband get pummeled.
It’s all too much. I get an Uber back home and open a bottle of wine alone in the kitchen. I’m tempted to call Emily, but it’s past midnight and that wouldn’t be fair. I know we’re trying a friendship thing, except our relationship’s a little complicated. Better not to make her feel like she’s obligated to come over here.
Instead, I drink a couple glasses and wait. I stare at my phone on the kitchen counter, wondering when Albert will call with the bad news. Sorry, Charlie, but your husband is in the ICU. I know you like vegetables, so this shouldn’t be so bad, right? I sigh at my own bleak joke. It’s not funny, but I’m in such a bad state right now, I can’t help it.
The worst part is I know I shouldn’t have gone there. But when Albert texted me and told me about Stefano’s opponent, I couldn’t help myself.
I had a plan. Storm into the locker room and make him see reason. I was going to tell him how he’s got a wife now, he’s got responsibilities. He’s not some low-level street thug anymore.
He can’t risk himself.
But the second I saw him standing there in his fighting shorts and no shirt, all that left my head.
I wanted to be tough. Stand up to him.
Instead, I practically begged him not to go out there.
I just keep thinking about Stefano getting his face smashed into the canvas. I keep thinking about losing him. No more big monster in my bed. No more games, no more teasing, no more touching and not touching. The idea filled me with dread, and instead of telling him off, I ended up pleading with him.
Almost like I cared.
Which I absolutely do not.
Because if he gets himself killed, guess what?
Free divorce.
I down a second glass of wine, miserable and frustrated. I keep checking the clock, but it doesn’t seem to move. I finish a third glass and force myself upstairs, cursing my husband for being such a stubborn, selfish prick, and climb into bed. To hell with him. If he’s in the hospital, let some other idiot girl go sit by his side and cry over his body. That won’t be me.
I’m almost convinced that I really don’t care what happens to him when the front door opens. I practically jump out of bed, throwing the covers aside. I hear footsteps head into the kitchen, and I hurry down. There’s a clatter of glasses, the freezer door opens, and I find Stefano standing hunched over the sink with the cold bottle of vodka. The tumbler in his hand is half full and the glass is pressed against his red and swollen left eye.
He looks at me. I stare back at him. There’s blood staining his shirt. His duffel is tossed on the floor near the chairs. He sips the vodka, his lip swollen, his cheek puffy.