Page 25 of Killaney Blood

"And second…" he glances around the apartment again. "If you're living here, you need money. Clearly."

"There's nothing wrong with living here and using the skills I've got to make a living."

"No, but here? In Boston? Where your reputation precedes you, good and bad. You can't want this. So what's your end game?"

The question catches me off guard. It hits too close to my carefully guarded plans. Romania, a fresh start, a life far from men like him. I feel exposed, like he can see right through me.

"That's none of your business," I snap. "So either get to the point of you rudely showing up here, or get out."

He steps closer, using his height to loom over me. I don't back down, even though my heart starts hammering in my chest.

"I lost two hundred grand tonight because my fighter had to forfeit. Bleeding too much. Couldn't continue."

I shrug, determined not to show any reaction. "Sucks for you."

He smiles and reaches out, his fingers brushing against my cheek. The touch sends an unwelcome spark across my skin. I swat it away.

"I don't like to lose," he growls.

"Well, it sounds like you did."

He laughs. "You could've been a fighter with that spirit. If you ever want to be, I'll sponsor you."

"No thanks. Not interested."

His eyes darken, and something in his gaze shifts. "I can't share you," he says suddenly.

The words hang in the air between us.

"Excuse me?" I say, hating how my voice catches.

"You were busy tonight. Fixing someone else. I can't have that. I won't have that."

Anger rises up, hot and familiar. This is what I know. Men thinking they own me, men making decisions about me.

"I work for Frank's gym. Not for you," I say defiantly.

"Not anymore," he says. "You'll work for me now. Exclusively. On-call. Every fight. My fighters only."

I laugh. "Like hell I will. I'm not getting involved with some bullshit mobster drama. You're more trouble than you're worth. Pass."

"I talked to Frank. I know what he pays you. I'll double it."

"Nope. Bye." I gesture toward the door.

He studies me. I glance at his lips. Damn it. I feel heat coiling in my stomach, and I hate myself for it.

"Four times, then," he says, voice dropping lower. "I'll deal with Frank. You'll only work for me."

I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off again, but I pause.

The math is simple. Four times what I make now? That's two years of savings in six months. I could leave sooner. Maybe push through a year total and be done forever. Out of Boston. Away from the memories. Away from men like Declan.

I sigh, my resolve cracking.

"Four times?"

He nods. "Four times."