Diego drove to the one place he knew he could use the restless, raging energy battering around inside: Golan’s Gym. It was late by the time he got there, after eleven. Diego had to hope it was open, and Golan either wasn’t there or would let him in to train even though it wasn’t the allotted time for McCready’s fighters.

The lights on Diego’s truck illuminated the backdoor as he pulled up, cracked enough for him to know the place was still open. Diego’s heat rate jumped in anticipation of his workout.

All he had to do was work Rosalyn out of his system. She had no right to be in his system. And once that was done, the days he’d spent with her like a heavenly oasis would soon become only a pleasant memory.

He slammed the door of his truck with more force than was warranted and stormed into the gym. He’d expected it to be empty, given the late hour. But a hulking figure lifted weights in the far corner. Diego stopped long enough to nod at Alexei, then tore off his t-shirt and slammed his fist into the punching bag.

It landed with a satisfying thump. His ribs pulled sharply in protest, but he ignored them. He needed this exercise. Needed to work up a sweat of a different kind to the one he’d been getting in Rosalyn’s bed.

He strapped his hands with quick efficiency, champing at the bit the whole time, but knowing it wasn’t worth risking broken fingers. That would mean he couldn’t fight in Saturday’s match, and he had to get in that cage, broken ribs or no. He needed the money, now more than ever.

He stretched perfunctorily and then gave the bag a few experimental punches. It’d hold.

Then, he laid into it.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about Rosalyn. She was still on his skin, visions of her seared into his eyes. He punched harder, trying to exorcise her from his mind. She’d turned on him at the drop of a hat, hadn’t even begun to listen to his explanation for what happened that night.

His blood thumped with anger. Hadn’t what they’d shared meant anything to her?

No, of course not.

But, then, he hadn’t meant it to, had he? He’d warned her repeatedly that he was a bad bet, that she shouldn’t get close. Of course she chose to listen.

He was more angry at himself than at her. He’d been so stupid to stay with her. To share her bed, confide in her, laugh with her. Fall for her.

He punched the bag again with a savage fist. It stopped short, hitting some immoveable object.

Diego peered around the bag, chest heaving with exertion. Sweat slicked his skin from the workout, but it still hadn’t been enough. He wasn’t even remotely clear of her.

Alexei stood behind the bag, holding it steady. He gazed at Diego impassively, maybe waiting for him to make the first move. Had there been a trace of emotion in Alexei’s expression—censure, or curiosity, Diego wouldn’t have spoken to him. But the man was like a blank slate.

“Wanna train?” Diego asked, indicating the boxing ring with a tilt of his head.

Alexei’s brows raised in question and he glanced down at Diego’s ribs and back again. Diego clenched his jaw. Technically, Alexei could use the opportunity in the ring to damage Diego so badly he couldn’t fight on Saturday. There was a reason they never trained together like that, since there was no gentlemanliness in what they did.

But Diego needed this, so he took this risk. “Go easy on the ribs and face. Hard on everything else.”

Alexei agreed with a reluctantly impressed expression and released the punching bag. They headed over to the ring and climbed beneath the ropes, then bounced on their feet as they readied themselves.

Alexei threw the first punch, but it wasn’t designed to really hurt or maim. Diego relaxed, focusing on the fight. Alexei pushed him hard, but it was never brutal. And he gave Alexei back as good as he gave.

After about twenty minutes of solid fighting, they called a time out by mutual agreement, both sucking in air like it was their last breath. Diego reached over the edge of the ring and grabbed his water, gulping down the cool liquid.

For a moment, as he sat against the ropes, he and Alexei just looked at each other. Then Alexei shifted.

“Woman trouble?” he asked in his thick accent.

Diego scoffed. “Isn’t it always?” He tilted his water bottle back and drank deep.

Alexei cracked a smile. “Always. And your redhead woman looked like a fiery one.”

Diego blinked, never having heard the Russian speak so many words at once. “She’s not my woman. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.”

Alexei shrugged. He didn’t say anything more, but Diego knew what he was thinking. Diego was thinking the same thing. He wouldn’t be so worked up if he didn’t think of Rosalyn as his woman.

“It never would have worked anyway,” he muttered, though he sounded defensive even to his own ears.

Alexei continued to stare at him, this time with a slight edge of disbelief. Yeah, he knew it was an excuse.

“I never should have started up with her in the first place. I knew she was trouble.”

“The best ones usually are,” Alexei muttered with a smile.

Diego huffed out a laugh. “You’re not wrong, my friend. But that’s why I have to keep away. I’ll screw up her life if I stay.”

He stopped talking, and a comfortable silence fell over the ring. His mind was clearer now, after the fight. Diego pondered the truth of his statement. He’d never been good enough for her. His past had already tainted her in some small way when she’d discovered what he’d done. Rosalyn would have to live with the knowledge that she’d let a killer into her bed, into her body.

And besides, he was leaving. As soon as he’d earned enough money from his fights—a few weeks at most—he’d be gone. It’s not like he could take her with him to South America, force her to live a life constantly on the run and looking behind her.

But he couldn’t stay, either. He didn’t know whether the cops wanted him for Victor’s murder, but he had to assume they did. If Rosalyn knew he was responsible, then they surely did, too.

And he couldn’t fight forever. His latest injuries were proof of that. Next time Spider and Weston wanted to get clever, Diego probably wouldn’t make it out of the cage alive.

And yet, despite all this, he couldn’t simply forget the feel of Rosalyn’s soft hands on him. It had been so seductive to be treated like a man, not as a body used for rich people’s entertainment. He’d forgotten what it was like to feel normal. To make love to a woman as if she saw who he was and liked him anyway.

An illusion, of course. But a tempting road to madness.

He stood, suddenly weary and wanting to be alone with his thoughts.

“Thanks for the fight, man. I’ll see you Saturday?”

Alexei levered to his feet and nodded. Diego jumped down from the ring, thinking that was all he’d get. But Alexei called out before he made it to the door.

“You should fight for your woman,” he said.

As if it was that simple.

Diego waved goodbye and made it to his truck. But maybe it was that simple. Maybe all he needed was to go to Rosalyn and explain his side of the story.

Hope filled him for a minute before reality came crashing back down. Even if she did listen to him, understand him, forgive him, what then? They didn’t have a future. Not when he had to leave. He could stay, but it would only be a matter of time before his past caught up to him and put her in danger. He’d never accept that.

He turned the key in the ignition and sighed.

The best thing to do was forget about her. Forget the taste of her, the feel of her. Forget that he’d ever met her.

“Fuck,” he whispered softly to himself in the darkened cab of the car. He still craved her. He wanted her body, her laughter, her intelligence.

Wanted her. And he didn’t think he could stop.

 

 

Within an hour of Diego leaving, Rosalyn had worked herself into a frustrated lather. How dare he come into her life, make her feel things, and lie to her the whole time? Well, he hadn’t exactly lied, but he hadn’t told her some important truths, either.

Her laptop beckoned her, but she tried to ignore its siren’s song. Further research would only serve to break her heart more. It would be better if she stopped thinking about it. Thinking about him.

She should have known. She had a habit of jumping into things too quickly. Of seeing a challenge and chasing after it with no thought to the consequences. It’s how she’d gotten in trouble at the fight, too. She’d wanted information and gone after it, without thought to how Spider and Weston might react.

It had been stupid, and this was no different. Taking a dangerous man like Diego into her home? Into her bed? He’d even warned her, and she hadn’t listened.

But by the same token, he’d taken advantage of that. He hadn’t stopped it, hadn’t confided in her, when he’d no doubt known he should. Instead, he’d used her to get what he wanted, and then left.

Okay, she wasn’t being entirely fair. She wouldn’t divulge her deepest, darkest secrets to someone she’d only known a few days, either. Maybe he’d been working up to it? Then again, maybe he hadn’t been. There was no way to know. Not unless she asked him, which she wasn’t prepared to do. Yet.

She needed a distraction. Work, and all those articles she’d been ignoring, would be perfect.

She wrote a few blog posts she’d been meaning to—just five hundred words each—and sent them off to the clients who had hired her.

The big article, the one on the fights, loomed large at the edge of her mind, but she put it off as long as possible in favour of stewing about Diego.

Eventually, though, she finished all her other tasks and didn’t have any more excuses. Well, it served him right if she did write the article now, right? He’d made her get attached, when he knew all along what he was. It wasn’t fair.

Rosalyn gathered her notes and typed all her complicated feelings for Diego into an article. It was about the fights, yes. But it was more about the men who chose to be in them, and the society-folk that chose to watch them. The human angle, Anthony had said. She gave Diego a pseudonym, of course, and added some of the stories he’d told her of his life before to add weight to his choices now.

She tied it in to speculation about the other men that fought, their reasons for being there. Made Diego into an example of the kind of men trapped in the world of the underground fighters.

Somehow, much of her anger at Diego disappeared as she wrote. She was still wary of him, yes, after what she’d found. But he was a desperate man in a bad situation and her article helped her see how caged he was in the world he was trying to leave.

By the time she was done, it was actually an excellent article. Plenty of human drama and sacrifice. She of course talked in depth about the brutality of the fights to show how brave the fighters were for stepping into the ring, and all the illegal elements to show the sacrifices they were making.

It was the kind of article that would bring out the best outrage in people. They’d be horrified to know what was happening in their city—what the citizens in their part of the world were forced to do to survive. How they risked death every time they fought. Maybe, if these fights got shut down, she’d even save lives. In fact, she was sure she would.

She did a quick edit, trying to be impersonal, and then sent it off to Anthony, conscious of her deadline.

As soon as she pressed the button to send it off into cyberspace, guilt swiped at her from all sides. She’d forgotten what Diego had said about how an article would make the men lose their livelihoods. And maybe that was true, but surely they’d get proper help once their situation was known? She was saving them from life-threatening danger and misery. Though, if they lost their only way of making a living, it didn’t put them in a great situation. But why was that the only way? Surely they could work construction, or some other physical labour that paid under the table? Surely there was something better than fighting?

She shouldn’t feel guilty. She’d only written the truth, but some part of her felt like she should consult with Diego. Even if he’d…

She sighed. Her anger had excised with the writing of the article. It had been a cathartic few hours, getting all her feelings onto the page. Yes, Diego hadn’t told her the truth, but who would? And he’d told her again and again that he’d been in an impossible situation. He’d been protecting an innocent, hadn’t he said? His ex-girlfriend? At least, she thought so.

Rosalyn’s head swam with tiny pieces of information and an inability to see the whole picture.

She made a sound of annoyance at her inability to make up her mind. She knew one thing, though. She should wait on that article, sleep on it. She was too worked up to know whether she was being objective.

Since it was too late to recall the email, she sent a quick follow up asking Anthony to ignore it and not read her article until she’d had a chance to revise. It wasn’t the first time she’d had a change of heart, and she had no reason to think he’d ignore her now.

She’d sleep on it. And in the morning, when she was feeling more rational, she’d rewrite the article, and she’d research Diego’s history properly like a good journalist. Maybe even Carrie would help her.

Decision made, Rosalyn finally fell into bed in the early hours of the morning. Despite her exhaustion, she lay awake for a long time, already missing Diego’s steady breathing beside her as she slept. What had she become? She drifted into a restless sleep and dreamed of Diego.

She’d barely slept when she was woken by a pounding on the door. She checked the time. After eight, so she’d been asleep all of three hours. Great.

“Go away!” she yelled. But either whoever it was intentionally ignored her, or they couldn’t hear her over the noise they were making.

Rosalyn rolled out of bed and stomped to the entrance. She threw open the door, ready to berate whichever asshole was responsible for her early wakeup call, only to find a haggard Diego standing there.

He managed to look both terrible and delectable at the same time. His hair stuck up at odd angle, and dark shadows smudged beneath his eyes, his face wan. But his t-shirt was a shade too tight, clinging to his hard muscles with loving precision. And his eyes burned with a fierce, possessive hunger that took her breath and sent tugs down to her core.

She remembered her anger just in time before she fell into his arms in relief. It had barely been twelve hours and she already ached with missing him.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded in her most imperious tone.

Diego’s eyes roamed over her face, drinking her in. “I don’t know,” he told her, seeming perplexed. “I couldn’t stay away.”

Her heart melted. But she had to stay strong. “Diego…” she began.

“I know,” he told her. “I know. But here’s the thing. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. And I don’t want to give you up—not yet. Not until I have to. So I’m here to explain.” He waited, eyeing her. His jaw had a stubborn set as if he was prepared to keep arguing until he got his way.

Rosalyn sighed. She’d intended to see him anyway, eventually. They may as well have this conversation now.

She stepped aside, allowing him to pass. Even as he brushed against her on his way into the apartment, she sizzled from the contact. Who was she? This needy, sexual woman? What had he turned her into?

“I need coffee,” she told him. “Want one?”

He hesitated, then nodded. He followed her into the kitchen and watched her as she prepared the coffee-maker and began the drip.

“How’s your ribs? And head?” she asked.

His brow tugged down in confusion, then his expression cleared. “Fine. I did a work out last night.”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise but she didn’t comment. When the coffee was ready, she poured them both cups and then walked back into the main room. She hesitated when she remembered she didn’t have anywhere to sit—other than the bed that held so many memories between them. But there was no choice. She settled back against the cushions and eyed him challengingly to see what he’d do. After a minute of hesitation, he hefted her office chair and brought it down the steps so he could sit at her bedside.

Then he fell silent.

“So, talk,” she suggested. “It’s what you came here for.”

He sighed. “I don’t know where to start.” He was silent for a long moment, apparently gathering his thoughts. Then, his gaze snapped up to hers. “You know how I got into the situation with Victor. My mum and everything.”

She nodded, but didn’t speak.

“So that night, the night it…happened. I went to distract him so Radha and her boyfriend could get away, I found Victor upstairs in his mansion. He was trying to load up bags with the cash he kept there. The place was totally up in flames, but his first thought was his money.”

“He sounds like a winner.”

Diego rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Anyway, I was turning to leave, figured I’d let him make his choices and burn to death. It would have solved everyone’s problems and it was already unbearably hot in there. I had to get out before I choked.”

“So then what happened?” Rosalyn asked softly, then sipped her coffee. He shifted in agitation.

“His kid came in. Not a kid, really, but early twenties. Raoul. He looked a bit like me, my height and weight. He was Victor’s by some stripper he’d known back in the day. He spent ninety percent of his time with his mother, and rarely stopped by for a visit. Why would he? Victor had made his disinterest clear, though the kid still tried. A lot of the gang didn’t even know Raoul was his kid, not unless they’d been there for a long time.”

“Like you?”

He nodded. “I don’t think any of us knew he was there that day. Maybe he’d just arrived when all the madness started. Who knows. Anyway, Raoul tried to get Victor to leave the money behind. But Victor wasn’t having it. He was completely unhinged by that point. He pulled a gun on his own son.”

Rosalyn gasped. Her stomach roiled in nausea at the thought of what might come next.

“Again, I considered leaving them there. But Raoul was only a kid. He didn’t deserve that. He’d been born into the life, he hadn’t chosen it.”

The sadness in his eyes told Rosalyn he saw a bit of himself in that kid.

“So what did you do?” she asked. She gave in to the pull within her, tugging her in Diego’s direction. She set her coffee aside and leaned forward to clasp his hand between hers.

He squeezed back, the grip verging on painful. “I pulled a gun on Victor. I tried to talk him down. Threaten him. Something. But he wouldn’t listen to me. He grabbed Raoul and tried to use him as a shield to get me to leave. And the smoke was building up in the room, obscuring my vision, making a haze in my mind. Everything was happening so quickly. We were going to die, I had no doubt.” He hesitated. “So I ordered Victor to lower the weapon. Instead, he snapped Raoul’s neck, just bam with no warning. And then he laughed. And he turned the gun on me. I had to shoot. I was fucking lucky his shot went wide or three of us would have been dead that day. But the laugh was what’s stuck with me all these years. The man was more evil than I ever knew.”

Rosalyn swallowed, tears burning her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“So am I,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I guess what I came here to say is yes, I killed a man, but I don’t regret that. But when I say I have blood on my hands? I’m talking about Raoul.”

“Oh Diego,” Rosalyn said on a gasp. “You can’t blame yourself for that.”

He shook his head, rejecting her words. “I could’ve saved him. I could’ve taken Victor out at any time. But I never expected…his own son.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said again. And when he turned away Rosalyn came off the bed and straddled him on the chair. She put her hands on either side of his head and turned his face towards her. Reluctant eyes met hers.

“It’s not your fault,” she repeated, firmer this time.

“I’ve done so many bad things,” he told her, his expression one of quiet devastation. “But that’s the worst of all of them.”

She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. He took a shuddering breath and pulled her close, so tightly she could barely breathe. But she didn’t complain. She simply offered him what comfort she could with her body.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It was the last stop in a long line of bad deeds, Rosalyn.”

“That’s not you anymore,” she whispered against his neck. “You’re a better man, now.”

He made a sound. “Not nearly. Not nearly good enough.”

But he still didn’t let her go.