Page 26 of Filthy Little Regrets (Princes of NYC #2)

seventeen

CASSIA

Dare and Remy help Crue up. He groans in protest. Jesus. Mace really kicked his ass.

“Guess the party’s over,” Rose says with a sigh, stopping at my side and watching them cart Crue’s battered and bruised body toward the front door.

“He’s going to be in so much pain.”

“Dare has the family doctor on standby,” she says.

I glance at her. “So he knew how it would go?” Do these fights happen often? Did I marry into some sort of fight club?

“Crue can fight, but Mace...” She trails off. “You heard Crue call him Wolf?”

I nod as we start trailing after the men. “I don’t understand the nickname.”

“Mace doesn’t like it. It came from when he used to cage fight.”

Well, that explains how Mace wiped the floor with Crue, but why does Wolf bother him? “Didn’t he get to pick his name, though? ”

She grimaces. “I don’t think he had a choice.”

My chest tightens. “What are you saying?”

“It’s probably something he should tell you,” she murmurs, glancing around as we step into the hallway, checking to see if he’s nearby. “But Mace was forced into it when he was younger.”

“What does that mean? As in, his parents made him do it when he was a teenager or...?”

She shakes her head. “His dad did, when he was a kid, Cassia. Like, eight.”

My stomach drops. What sort of monster forces a child to cage fight? Throat dry, I swallow and make sure I didn’t misunderstand her. “His dad forced him to cage fight when he was eight ?” The question is barely a whisper. If it’s true, it feels wrong talking about it.

Pursing her lips, she nods. “You should ask him about it sometime, but maybe not tonight.” She smooths her hands down my arms. “Are you okay? Do you want me to stay the night?”

“He doesn’t scare me,” I tell her. Maybe you should be worried , a voice in the back of my mind whispers.

The way he shed all his humanity when he was in the zone?

Any normal person would be scared of that type of violence.

Some twisted part of me likes that he was mad at Crue for flirting with me.

“He won’t hurt me.” Without a doubt in my mind, I know that’s true.

“Oh, babe, I know,” she says, shaking her head. “I only meant if you wanted someone to talk to.” Her confidence that I’m safe validates what I’m thinking, and I love the offer of support.

“I’ve cried all the tears I want to cry today,” I tell her. “I was feeling sorry for myself, but I promise I’m okay now.” It’s the truth. I’ve struggled with worse bouts of grief .

She wraps me in her arms. The hug warms my heart. “It’s okay to cry,” she reminds me. “But whatever you do, don’t think you’re alone. We’ll always be family, and like it or not, now you have a husband.”

I squeeze her back and we break apart, heading toward the front door. “Mace is MIA.” There’s no way I’m referring to him as my husband.

“Well, when you find him, tell him I said congratulations.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Whose side are you on?”

“I was talking about the fight,” she says. “But let me know when it’s okay for me to start rooting for you two.”

Humming, I tap my chin. “That’ll be around never o’clock, about not in a million years from now.”

Chuckling, she reaches for the door, but Dare is suddenly there. She makes a noise of surprise, and he grins like the devil, sweeping her into his arms bridal style.

“This isn’t our wedding,” she chastises him.

“Shut up and let me take care of you,” he counters, glancing at me. “Bye, Cassia. Call me if you need me.”

“Will do.” I shut the door and lean against it.

The house is quiet. If I didn’t know better, I would think Mace left me here alone.

Should I give him space, or should I go find him?

What would I even say? I didn’t ask him to defend my honor.

Although I don’t know what else was said about me earlier, Dare and Remy seemed to agree that Crue deserved the ass kicking.

Ultimately, curiosity gets the better of me, and I slowly make my way through the house.

Checking the living room, the den, the pool room, and then heading upstairs, thinking maybe he decided to shower.

The bedrooms are all empty, though. The office is abandoned. There’s only one place left to check.

As lovely as the heels are, my feet hurt. I slip off the gorgeous shoes before heading back down the stairs, running my hand along the railing and feeling a little silly in the dress, but it’s not every day I get to wear Vivian Carlisle.

Silver linings.

The marble tile is cool against the bottom of my feet as I pad into the kitchen.

Mace is sitting at the island, an ice pack pressed to his temple and a bottle of beer in front of him.

My chest clenches. Mace does a good job hiding from most of the world, and even though I recognized a darkness within him, it isn’t what I expected.

The shadows in his gaze make sense now, though.

Is forcing kids to cage fight some type of sick hobby billionaires have? How many times did he have to do it?

Mace’s shoulders bunch in anticipation of questions.

Rose was right. Tonight isn’t the night.

I link my hands behind my back, rounding the island and meeting his gaze like I have so many times before.

His pupils are no longer dilated. Guarded as they are, the rich dark blue irises are a welcome sight.

His hair is a little messy, like he’s run his fingers through it, and a bit of blood has dried at the edge of his mouth.

Crue got him good a few times. There’s a bruise blooming on his jaw, probably one under the ice pack, and maybe a few on his torso.

Overall, though, he’s not in bad shape, at least not physically.

Mentally, I’m not sure how he’s doing. All I know is there’s some type of battle going on inside of him.

I imagine the comedown from a fight like that is rough, not exactly like an anxiety attack, but maybe close enough.

He helped me through my anxiety attack. It would be rude of me not to reciprocate.

It’s what anyone would do , I tell myself.

It isn’t because I feel bad for him. It’s definitely not because I’m wondering how to cut his dad to a million pieces.

There’s a special place in the hottest part of hell for people who hurt children.

I’m aware of him observing me as I pull open a drawer, grab a cloth, and turn on the tap, holding the rag under the running water.

My neck prickles, realizing the assassin has me in his scope, but I trust that the orders aren’t meant for me.

I’m not Mace’s enemy. I’m...his wife.

My brow furrows. I let the cloth soak through until the water turns warm, then ring it out.

Taking a steadying breath, I walk toward him.

His eyes track me and his muscles stiffen with each step I take, preparing to fend off an attack if needed.

It’s only instinct . My hours spent scrolling therapist videos on social media have me aching to dissect his reactions.

Slowly, to show I’m not a threat, I push the stool beside him out of the way and stand next to him, leaning against the island.

He turns slightly so it’s easier for him to watch me, but his jaw remains clenched.

He doesn’t want to talk? Fine. He doesn’t have to talk. The last thing I want when I’m having a panic attack is for someone to force me to explain what I’m feeling.

I pointedly look at his mouth and hold up the rag.

Although a line cuts across his forehead, he shifts to fully face me, scrutinizing me with those shadowed irises.

How can no one else see these scars? They’re so vividly on display every day, but the way the media—and hell, the whole nation—talks about Mace is as if he’s perfect. The rich boy who’s never had to suffer.

Maybe I can see the pain that lives deep in his bones because I have agony of my own.

Our hurt may be different, but while so many sing in harmony, a happy, lovely tune, we sing with dissonance.

We don’t see the world through rose-colored glasses.

I know how cruelly the world can rip your heart out of your chest, and Mace knows how much rich men can get away with without an arrest.

Injustice is never something I thought we’d share.

Silence fills the space between us. My heartbeat’s pitter-patter screams in my ears. There’s nothing I hate more than quiet, so while I gently hold his chin in one hand, I fill it with nonsense.

“One time in seventh grade, this girl cornered me in the bathroom.” I delicately press the damp cloth to the edge of his mouth, flicking my eyes to meet his and gauge his reaction.

He doesn’t recoil. I take that as a good sign.

“Apparently, I bumped into her while we were getting off the bus. She didn’t like that.

I think I almost peed my pants when I realized she was there to kick my ass, but a teacher came in before anything could happen.

” I clean the blood, being careful not to reopen the small wound.

“I was too scared to go to the bathroom after that. So I never did. I ended up with a bladder infection, and that’s when dad transferred me to the private school.

” I remember how furious he was when he found out I went four months without using the bathroom for eight hours a day.

“I don’t think he realized that the bullying would get worse. I learned to fight back, though.”

Does Mace know he contributed to the isolation at that school? He was never overly cruel, but even back then, the world was at his beck and call. Him seeing me as competition put a target on my back. The girls didn’t like that I received a different sort of attention from Mace.

With the blood clean, I fold the rag over and wipe his forehead, unsure of how to bring back the Mace I’m used to .

He ordered me food when I was having an anxiety attack.

Maybe he’s hungry.