He woke to a scratching sound nearby. Diego froze for a moment, orientating himself at the unfamiliar sound. Light penetrated his eyelids, teasing a headache at the edge of his mind. He cracked an eye.

The first thing he saw was a leg. A bare leg, smooth and soft. Rosalyn. His gaze travelled up, past the shorts she wore, to her hands. One held a pen, the other a folded piece of paper resting against her bent knee.

The scratching stopped as her hands paused and he saw it was the pen against the page. Further up, past the breasts snug against her tank top, and the bare shoulders, Diego’s gaze finally landed on her face.

“Morning,” she said with a smile.

Dark shadows smudged beneath her eyes, but her smile seemed genuine.

“Hi,” he said, voice raspy both from sleep and her proximity. He wanted to reach out and touch that tempting display of skin, wanted to have the right.

“You want some coffee?” she asked, and he nodded.

She levered off the bed, leaving her pen and page behind. She’d been doing the cryptic crossword from a newspaper. The kitchen was behind the head of the bed, which sat in a small dip in the floor. Steps behind him and to the right led up, and another set to his left, near the foot of the bed, went up on the other side.

The coffee cup clinked against the counter, and she poured out the liquid. Seconds later she was back and handing him the cup. He pushed himself up before he took it, groaning as his ribs protested by spearing pain through his chest.

“You want painkillers with that coffee?” she asked with a sympathetic wince.

He nodded. “Thanks.”

She reached into her bedside drawer and pulled out a small bottle, then shook two out onto his upstretched palms. Their fingers brushed as she did, making his skin sizzle at the contact.

He downed the painkillers with a gulp of the potent coffee.

“How do you feel?” she asked, still hovering.

He shrugged. “Well enough, considering.”

She wrinkled her nose. “That was a pretty brutal fight.”

“Not my worst,” he said dismissively.

She raised a brow in question, then came around the bed to sit again on the other side. She gripped the pen and crossword, but didn’t glance at them, watching him in case he answered.

“I’ve fought Spider before. I’m surprised we both survived.”

“And that was your worst fight?”

He shouldn’t tell her. He’d spent so long keeping his secrets, being alone and lonely, that he wasn’t sure he knew how to be anything else. But, still, he found himself opening his mouth and the words pouring out.

“No. It wasn’t the worst.”

The one where he’d fought Victor and won had been the worst. It hadn’t been a physical fight, not like in the cage, but it was the one that haunted him the most. It was the day he’d reclaimed himself and fled the only life he’d known for ten years, only to end up as an illegal fighter for a man almost as bad as his former boss.

Rosalyn didn’t ask him to clarify, and for that he was grateful. He couldn’t tell her who he’d been, the man he’d always be on some level. Particularly not now, while he was in her house. It would scare her. He’d scare her.

“Want to do the crossword with me?” she asked, holding it out. He knew it was a distraction. She was avoiding the elephant in the room of him being here in her domain, but it was like they were living in an alternate world. One where Diego lived a domesticated life, where a beautiful woman brought him coffee in the morning.

Diego frowned. “I’m not good at those. I didn’t even finish high school.”

“I wasn’t good at them when I first started, either. They just require a bit of practice.” She tilted it towards him and he shrugged in acquiesce. What else was he going do? He should leave, but couldn’t bring himself to make the suggestion.

She explained how cryptic crosswords worked, the way certain words represented a kind of code. Diego nodded along, mostly listening, but sometimes getting distracted by her hair gleaming in the morning light, or her nimble fingers on the pen. She shifted closer as she pointed at certain examples, until their thighs touched.

Diego didn’t move away, too lured by the soft domesticity of the scene. Even before he’d gotten tangled up in McCready’s world, it had been a long time since he’d had such a peaceful moment with a woman. His mother, maybe, before she got sick. But that never had the underlying hum of electricity hovering beneath his skin.

“So fifteen down is Degas,” he said, to distract himself. “The painter,” he clarified. “De-gas, becomes Degas.”

Rosalyn blinked, then a sweet smile spread across her face. “Exactly. Though I wouldn’t have pegged you as an art fan.”

He knew he looked more like a thug than a connoisseur, and he was one. His cheeks heated as he shrugged.

“My mum always wanted to be an artist, but couldn’t afford the training or even the supplies. Instead, she read all the books she could from the library, even from a young age. After she had me, she had less time for reading, working two jobs to keep us afloat. But even still, she’d find time to take me to free art galleries and museums every now and again. She had a great eye, loved explaining techniques and styles and colour and composition. She would have made a great painter.”

Rosalyn’s eyes were steady as he told his story. “You loved each other a lot,” she murmured. “What happened to her?”

“Cancer,” Diego replied shortly. He hated talking about that time. Not only because of his mother slowly wasting away, but because of the choices he’d made then, the ones that still choked his life now.

“I’m sorry,” Rosalyn murmured, brushing a comforting hand over his arm. Diego shook her off. He didn’t deserve her comfort, not after what he’d done.

“It happens,” he said instead, then shifted his legs off the edge of the bed. The scream of pain from his ribs was almost welcome as a distraction from Rosalyn.

“I didn’t notice your tattoo before,” she said.

He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing what was on his shoulder. A swirl from Van Gogh’s Starry Night twisted over his left shoulder blade.

“It’s my tribute to her,” he said, then eased himself into a standing position and made his way to the bathroom.

When he was done, he leaned against the jamb of the door. “I should leave,” he said.

Rosalyn twisted from where she sat on the bed to eye him. “That’s not a good idea. Doc said it might take up to forty-eight hours to know if you came through okay.”

He shrugged. “I’m fine. And you shouldn’t be forced to look after me like this.”

She set her jaw, stubbornness lining her features. “No one is being forced. I want to help—as a thank you.”

“I meant what I said, Rosalyn.” He let his fierce lust for her shine through his eyes. “If I stay here, we’ll end up fucking.” He was as crude as possible, trying to get her to see the real him. The rough and dangerous side of him with the tainted soul. He wasn’t a hero, wasn’t some goddamn white knight coming to her rescue. He made his living with his fists, and had done even worse things in his past.

She narrowed her eyes. “I disagree. I’m sure you have enough self-control to last another thirty-six hours.”

He stalked towards her, down the steps and around the bed until he was standing right beside her. He leaned down, placing his hands on either side of her, caging her in. Their mouths were a hairsbreadth apart, so close they were almost kissing.

She sucked in a breath, her eyes darkening.

“Don’t overestimate me, Rosalyn.”

“And don’t underestimate me,” she replied with a saucy tilt of her lips. She pushed against his chest, most likely knowing she couldn’t move him if he didn’t want to go. But he found himself obeying, easing away from her.

She had him by the balls already, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it except leave.

And yet, somehow he found himself sitting back on what he already considered his side of the bed.

He was in a world of trouble.

 

 

Rosalyn didn’t have anything edible for breakfast—she didn’t think dry toast would cut it with a guy like Diego—so she suggested she head down to the bakery on the corner of her block to pick up something.

Only, Diego insisted on coming with her, and ignored her doubts until it was easier to let him come and suffer in his pain.

They walked, and Rosalyn kept a slow and easy pace. Diego kept glancing around, eyes darting from one thing to the next.

“Looking for someone?” she asked.

He blinked, then caught her gaze. “No. This feels…weird.”

“Walking down the street?” she questioned.

“Yeah, but like. Walking to get breakfast with a woman I shared a bed with. Like I’m normal.”

She eyed him. “You’re not normal?” she asked, confused.

He rolled his eyes. “Never mind. Let’s just say it’s been a while since I did something like this. If ever.”

Rosalyn’s heart gave a twist at the admission. What kind of life had he lived that such an everyday thing was considered weird? She almost didn’t want to know, but on the other hand each time he revealed another layer of himself she was drawn deeper into his spell.

They made it to the bakery without Diego complaining at all, much to Rosalyn’s surprise. They got in line, and Diego patted his pocket.

“Uh, I forgot my wallet,” he grumbled. A faint red stain graced the tops of his cheeks. Again, she was struck by the knowledge that he didn’t do things like this. What was his life like outside the cage?

“No worries, I got this one.”

They fell silent until they got to the front of the line. Rosalyn ordered a bear claw, then waited as Diego perused the selection with a serious cant to his brow until he eventually decided on a bear claw, too. She ordered a coffee for each of them as well, figuring Diego deserved the treat.

Rosalyn paid, and they stepped aside to wait for their coffee. She kept breakfast in the bag even as Diego eyed them, clearly hungry. It was no wonder, given the amount of energy he must have burned in his fight the night before.

The bell rang. Rosalyn glanced up to see two cops stride in, laughing together. They barely even glanced around the shop. When she looked back at Diego, he’d moved, standing behind her and further around the corner. He had his head bent, as if studying the small chocolates and other treats that lined the edge of the counter, tempting people to impulse-buy.

Her brows pulled down in confusion as her eyes bounced between Diego and the cops. She didn’t say anything to him. She could be wrong, and a strange, protective instinct was curling up inside her. What could she do to protect a man with a body like a warrior? But apparently some part of her thought she could.

Their coffees were called under her name, so she grabbed them both and headed towards the door. Diego followed close behind, his face casually turned away from the cops.

They were halfway back to her apartment before she turned to him. “What was that back there?” She handed him the coffee, a slight peace offering in return for a question he probably wouldn’t answer.

“What?” he asked, then sipped the coffee. But his eyes watched her over the rim, and it was clear he knew exactly what she was talking about.

“What was with you when those cops came in?”

He shrugged. “I don’t like cops.”

“Why not?” she asked.

He raised his brows incredulously. “I earn my money by fighting in an illegal fight ring, in case you’ve forgotten.”

She frowned. “Is it just that? I mean, they would have no reason to know you did that—no reason for you to hide your face.”

His jaw clenched, and for a minute she thought he’d be too stubborn to answer. They reached her apartment building, but she stopped outside, suddenly unwilling to let him in until he answered her. She hadn’t thought he was dangerous, not really. But she didn’t even know him.

And Doc had said all the fighters were running from something. Was Diego running from the cops? Did he commit some crime and they were looking for him?

Her lungs tightened as all the possibilities crowded her mind. What had she been thinking?

“They aren’t actively looking for me,” Diego said eventually. “Not that I know of, anyway. But it’s complicated. If they recognised me…well, it could fuck a lot of stuff up, everything I’ve worked for. So it’s better to stay away.”

“Did you hurt someone?” she whispered, as a couple past behind him. She leaned back against the wall, awaiting his answer. A warm breeze blew past them, stirring her hair.

His nostrils flared. “Yeah,” he said eventually. “I’ve hurt people before. Like I tried to tell you, I’m not a good guy. But I’m trying to escape that, trying to move on and become better. And if the cops found out I’m here—alive—then all that will be shot to hell and I’ll be dragged back to the life I escaped.”

Rosalyn’s heart clenched at the pain in his eyes. She knew what that was like. To spend so long in a bad situation you couldn’t find a way out. And even if you did, the heavy undertow of your past kept trying to drag you back.

“Were they bad people?” she asked. “The ones you hurt?”

Pain flared in his eyes. “Some of them. But some didn’t deserve it.”

She swallowed. “So why did you do it?”

He hesitated, twisting his coffee cup in his hands. “I had my reasons. Not good ones, maybe, but still reasons. Sometimes when you’re neck deep in a world, you have to do what you need to so you can survive.” He stared at the sidewalk, not meeting her eyes. Her heart cracked at the pain she saw there. She knew that feeling, and instant comradery with this man snapped to life within her, a connection based on shared pain. On survival.

“You won’t hurt me, though, right?” she asked him straight out. Her instincts told her he wouldn’t, and those same instincts had been honed through the experiences of her teen years. Through misery and depravation and horrors she wouldn’t wish on anyone. Those instincts had kept her alive, and she wouldn’t turn her back on them now.

Shock flared in his eyes at her question, followed closely by horror. “I would never,” he growled. “I mean, not physically. But…” his jaw clenched. “I’m bad news, Red. You deserve better than me in your life.”

That last line sealed it for her. She didn’t think a man who hurt women would say something like that. From her experience, far more than any woman should have to bear, that kind of man didn’t think he did anything wrong, and blamed anyone other than himself. A man who could see his own flaws and weaknesses? That was a man who would be more willing to protect and defend.

“I’ll decide that for myself,” she said. The logical part of her mind screamed that she was being impulsive by trusting him so quickly. It was a bad habit of hers, that impulsivity. But so far her instincts had mostly kept her out of trouble.

She turned and opened the front door to the building with a swipe of her key. Halfway up the entrance steps, she turned. “You coming?”

Diego hesitated for a long moment, as if debating with himself. Rosalyn’s chest was suspiciously tight as she waited for his answer.

He exhaled heavily and headed after her.