Chapter Seventeen

I know why he didn’t worry about the small cut on his temple yesterday. He has ten cuts like it all over his body when we get back to the hotel suite. There are new bruises on top of the old ones, turning black and blue and yellow.

It’s late by the time we leave the second day, dark outside. It’s been raining while we were inside, the scent of wet city concrete rising up from the sidewalk, a little different in every city. Luca doesn’t shower this time, and he shakes his head when I reach for him.

“I’m a mess,” he mutters.

He means sweat and blood, but it’s more than that. He feels more raw than before, as if the hits he took in the ring have reached inside him. My stomach clenches as I realize that this fight won’t just hurt him physically. It’s shining light into dark places.

Maybe this is why he doesn’t want to fight anymore.

I let him keep his isolation through the lobby, where we get sideways looks from everyone, even the people behind the desk. In the elevator I stare at my reflection in the mirror—blue eyes bright with worry. Blonde hair darkened by rain left in the air.

When we enter the suite, he heads into his room and closes the door. To shower?

I set down my bag and my book more slowly, wondering what I should do. Wondering what I even want to do. The safest thing would be to leave him alone.

It’s bedtime for Delilah, so I call her and read If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.

Twice.

Then I’m left to wander back into the living area. His door is still closed.

I stare at the plain white door as if the answers are embedded in wood. What would they tell me, if walls could talk? Would they say that he’s a dangerous man, made more unstable by a day of violence? I would never consider knocking if Leader Allen were on the other side of that door. Rice feels uncomfortable for the first thirty seconds—and agony for the next twenty minutes. He could have whipped me bloody and it wouldn’t have hurt more. I feel the echo of that torment on my shins.

Then I remember the haunted look in Luca’s eyes. He has his own echoes.

His own torment.

My insides feel like they’re made of liquid, quivering inside me as I approach the door. I raise my fist, trembling with trepidation, fighting back a lifetime of conditioning.

It’s the memory of him holding me in my apartment that overcomes the pain of rice under my knees. He could have done anything to me that night. Hurt me. Used me. I couldn’t have said no. I wouldn’t have said no with Delilah’s safety on the line. And all he did was hold me.

I knock.

Seconds pass with every heavy beat of my pulse. It thuds in my eardrums, louder than the silence that answers me. Is he asleep? Still in the shower?

Or what if his injuries are worse than anyone realized?

He might have a concussion, collapsed on the hotel floor. Or worse, he could have fallen in the shower, slipped from dizziness and exhaustion. I did this to him. I broke him.

Frantic, I turn the latch and push open the door.

He’s lying on the bed, one arm slung over his eyes. There’s blood staining his body, his sheets, the same as when he walked into the room. He hasn’t showered. All he’s done is take off his shirt and shoes. He’s only wearing his sweatpants as he reclines on the bed.

He glances at me, eyes glassy. “Something wrong?”

“Oh God, you’re hurt.” I whirl and grab the first-aid kit from the mini bar, along with fresh towels and bottled water. He needs more than gauze. He probably needs a doctor, but as long as he’s still conscious, he’ll never agree to one.

He’s scowling when I run back to his room. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s something.” I set the kit on the nightstand and dig through the bandages. “Can I call someone? The front desk probably has the name of a doctor. Or maybe Colin will—”

He makes a rough sound. “I’m not fucking dying, you know.”

I flinch, holding a packet of alcohol swabs. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes close, revealing how much pain he’s in. “Fuck, I’m the one who’s sorry. Bandage me, do whatever you want as long as you stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m going to hit you.”

I turn away from him, breathing deep. I hadn’t meant to reveal that much. Maybe he didn’t mean to reveal that much either. “I’m just going to clean up your cuts,” I say, my voice even. “It’s the least I can do considering you’re fighting for me.”

There’s a rustle of fabric as he sits up. “Go ahead.”

When I face him again, I try not to meet his eyes. Instead I focus on the little squares of fabric to clean out his cuts. Fresh blood spills from the wounds, so I work efficiently to cover them with bandages. The white hotel sheets are already smeared with blood, but I want him to start healing.

There’s a particularly bad bruise on his arm. It’s bright red now, with red petals radiating out. The flower shape is one I recognize. “That one’s deep,” I say.

He narrows his eyes. “How do you know?”

Because I had my own flower bruises. “Isn’t this intense for training so close to the main fight? Won’t you be weaker with these cuts and bruises?”

His laugh is unsteady. “If cuts and bruises made me weaker, I’d be dead right now. Guys like me, they make me stronger. Colin understands that.”

There’s only a little bit of tape left, and I make a note to call down to the front desk for more tomorrow morning. “Make me understand.”

He looks away, his eyes distant. As if he’s looking into the past. “Some guys, they fight for sport. They train every day and drink protein shakes. It’s like basketball, only bloodier.”

“But not for you.”

“I learned to fight because I had to. And every bruise, it only makes me stronger. That’s how I got to be where I am. That’s how I survived.”

I swallow hard, hearing what he’s saying between the lines. Someone hurt him. Someone hit him as a child. “I’m sorry.”

His voice gentles. “You understand about that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“We’re not so different, you and I.”

“The bruises didn’t make me stronger.”

He shakes his head. “Not stronger with big muscles. With this thick head that no one can bash in, even though so many motherfuckers have tried. You’re strong in ways I can only imagine. Surviving on your own, with your daughter.”

I turn my face away. “Surviving. That’s not strength.”

His rough hand turns my chin toward him again. “Surviving is the only thing that matters. And you are strong as fuck. Understand me, little bird? No matter how many times someone puts a cage around you, you never forget how to fly.”

Both Luca and I were hurt when we were young. He turned hard and coarse. I turned meek. These were our survival strategies, and they stayed with us long after our abusers had gone.

My eyes burn hot with tears. But I don’t want to cry, not now. Not when I feel the stirrings of hope after so long. I’ve always believed in Delilah, that she can have a real future, a better life. But it’s been a long time since I believed in me.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Don’t thank me,” he says roughly. “I don’t want your gratitude.”

And he doesn’t want my bandages. “Get used to it.”

His laugh fills the room. “And you aren’t strong. You know how many people talk to me like that? You’re a goddamn army of one.”

My cheeks flush under his praise. And under his intense gaze.

Only now do I realize how close we are. We had to be when I was tending his wounds. Now I’m standing a foot away from him for no reason at all. This close I can see the ring of darker green around the center of his eyes. I can see the scar that bisects his eyebrow, one that looks centuries old, from a different lifetime.

I know that being with Luca won’t be anything like what happened in Harmony Hills.

Is Candy right about that? I want to believe her.

I want to find out for myself.

“Luca,” I whisper.

His lids seem lower now, half-mast across his green eyes. He’s breathing harder, more than when I put rubbing alcohol against his open wounds. “Little bird.”

And I know that he went crazy when you disappeared.

There’s temptation between us. And sin. But there’s something deeper too. It might be trust.

“You told me not to stop fighting you.”

His lips turn up. The air seems to shimmer with challenge. “You gonna punch me? Gonna make me bleed after you patched me up so nice?”

“What if I don’t want to fight anymore?”

Everything seems to still as I hold my breath. Even the earth pauses on its axis, waiting for his reaction. Fearing it. Anticipating it. His voice burns like lava. “You need something from me, little bird?”

“Show me what it would be like. If I hadn’t been scared of you in my apartment. If the elevator yesterday had just gone on and on, never stopping.”

“I’m hard as a goddamn lead pipe, but I’m not going to fuck you.”

I suck in a breath. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not going to be another man you’re afraid of. I figure you’ve got enough of those. And I can’t stand to see you look at me like you regret it after.”

My lips press together, because I don’t know if I’ll regret it. If I’ll be afraid of him, after it’s done. I despised Leader Allen every single time. What could be different?

Luca’s green gaze runs over my body, more blatantly, more leisurely than before. He lingers on the curves, and I feel his regard like a physical caress. His voice is thick. “I won’t fuck you, but I will make you come.”

The words shift something inside me, a boulder that blocked every physical sensation. It protected me, once. Now it feels like another cage. “What do you mean?”

“Pull down your jeans.”

My hands feel clumsy as I fumble with the button and the zipper. I manage to push my jeans halfway down my hips, leaving only my panties to cover myself. I feel more naked than I ever did in Leader Allen’s prayer sessions. Luca sees more than my body. He sees my desire.

“What next?” I whisper.

“Let me take care of you.”

The words are like water, filling some parched-earth part of me.

His skin is tanned and scarred against the smooth paleness of my tummy. His hand looks large fanned over my panties. “How do you feel?”

Scared. Shameful. “Warm.”

He laughs softly. “I’m burning for you.”

I can feel it, the flames of temptation licking over my skin. He hooks a hand at my hip, turning me around. With the jeans across my thighs, I start to fall. He catches me, guiding me into his lap. I gasp at the sensation of him, hot and hard, cradling me.

He pushes his fingers beneath the waistband of my panties, and I freeze.

His breath caresses my neck. “Relax.”

“I can’t.” My voice is strangled.

His hand dips lower, down between my legs. To the source of temptation, the center of sin. This is where Leader Allen punished me. I’m shaking, about to throw up. It’s too much, too fast…

“What’s your name, little bird?”

My breath comes in pants. “What?”

“Your name.”

My eyes flutter closed. “Beth.”

“And who am I?”

He’s grounding me, pulling me back into the present. Away from my past. “Luca.”

“I’m the one with my hand down your panties. I’m the one touching your hard little clit.”

My hips move against his hand on the word clit. “Yes.”

“Do you like it when I pinch you here?” He demonstrates be pushing his thumb and forefinger around a bundle of raw nerves. His forearm flexes against my belly seconds before pure electricity arcs through my body.

“Oh no,” I whisper, fighting the waves, the wetness.

“Or do you like it soft?” His touch gentles to a mere whisper, the hint of sensation that somehow feels more powerful, more intense than actual pain.

An uneven moan escapes me. “Please. Please.”

“I know what you like,” he murmurs against my neck, nipping the tender skin. “You like it steady, don’t you? Nice and even, like the tide against the shore. Let’s find out.”

He presses the heel of his hand to me, pushing in a long-remembered rhythm, flicking his rough fingers at the slick skin at my core. I jerk against him, shocked anew at the pure energy that courses between us, the new language he’s teaching me.

Trust me, his touch says.

Yes yes yes, my body answers.

Beneath my lap I can feel him hardening, pulsing in time with his hand. It means I’ve tempted him. Shame is carved too deeply in my soul. “I’m sorry,” I gasp. “I’m sorry.”

“My name, little bird.”

“Luca.”

“Again.”

“Oh, oh. Luca!”

His fingers work me with merciless intent, drawing shudders from my body, whimpers from my throat. He pushes me closer to the edge, so tight I’m going to burst. In a flash of clarity I know why Eve took a bite. I can feel the waxy skin of the fruit against my tongue, almost taste the aching sweetness of its flesh. It doesn’t feel like want or desire. It’s starvation as Luca shoves a ripe apple between my teeth.

“Don’t stop,” he says, his voice thick. “My name. Don’t fucking stop.”

“Luca,” I whisper, almost sobbing. “Luca. Luca.”

“Yeah.” The word sounds like syrup, slow and sweet.

My whole body tenses against him, straining at the hardness, wishing for it. The fabric is in the way—my panties, his sweatpants. They might as well be steel bars. I can’t reach him, my inner muscles clenching around nothing.

He pushes my hair aside, kissing the side of my neck, nibbling. Then his teeth grasp hold of my skin. He bites me, and the shock of it, the delicious pain of it, makes me scream his name.

His fingers flick me, deep down, and I convulse in his embrace, pleasure washing over me in rapid, frothing waves, stealing the oxygen from my lungs, drowning out every ounce of shame. For blissful moments I’m aware of nothing except the gentle rocking motion. It’s him. He’s soothing me, stroking my belly, moving me carefully even while his erection throbs against my back.

I drowse like that, slumped on top of him, boneless. My head lolls on his shoulder. “Luca,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.

“That’s fucking right.” The tension in his voice runs over my skin, as rough as his calloused fingers.

My hips settle against him, squirming. “We can—”

“No.”

“But you need—”

“This close to a fight, I need to focus.”

Sitting up, I turn to face him. His face is drawn in harsh lines of stress. His eyes are a glittering emerald green. “Then why did you do that?”

“Because you wanted me to. Because you asked. Do you think there’s anything I wouldn’t do for you? Making you come is a goddamn privilege. And if you still want me once the fight is over, it will be my privilege to fuck you, too.”