Page 1 of Ruthless Lord

Charlie

B ased on the way this guy's staring at me, I'm either about to get stabbed, trafficked, or invited back to his place for a more intimate experience.

Fingers crossed for stabbed .

"You clumsy fucking bitch," he snarls, his scarred upper lip curling.

Cash flutters in the air around us. Tens, twenties, fifties, all slowly scattering around the big man, floating to the floor as eager and greedy onlookers stare at the huge sum of money now lying around for one brave idiot to go after.

"I am so sorry," I say, holding up my hands, mouth hanging open.

A chorus of oh shit, oh shit plays through my head.

Loud music slams from the nearby speakers, and at least one guy laughs as he raises a drink to his lips.

Bet that asshole never spilled a few thousand in cash all over a crowded nightclub floor.

"Sorry don't fucking help me pick up all this fucking money," the man snarls. He looks over his shoulder and snaps his fingers at a couple more musclebound idiots in black t-shirts and baggy jeans. "Don't let anyone touch a single fucking bill."

"Yeah, boss, got it." The two junior thugs begin hurriedly gathering everything in thick stacks as their boss stomps closer to me.

"You got any idea whose money that is?" he snarls, reaching out for my wrist.

"Honestly, probably better than you do." I jerk away before he can snatch me, darting backward, heart racing.

His face turns red with anger. "Clumsy and fucking mouthy too."

"Don't forget smart and beautiful."

"I was thinking more fuckable ." He sneers, showing off a single gold tooth. "And very small."

Well, crap. Naturally, my dumb mouth just made this situation worse than it had to be. I hold up my hands sheepishly. "Can't we just agree accidents happen and move on? Would you accept a heartfelt apology?"

His head shakes slowly. He must be too aware of the people watching. Men and women crowd around nearby, some edging toward the two thugs picking up the cash, others staring at the big boss. He's probably embarrassed, and men like him don't do well when their pride gets wounded.

Most of them compensate with violence.

This asshole seems about average in that regard.

"Come here, bitch," he snarls and lunges.

I make a pathetic meeping noise and scurry to the side, barely getting out of his reach. He crashes into a table and sends a few empty bottles shattering on the floor.

"Shit!" I yelp, racing toward the edge of the crowd. "Move! Move!"

They don't move. Instead, I crash into a few onlookers. Someone tries to grab my waist, and I lash out blindly, panic taking over. A guy curses as my fist connects with a throat, and then I'm free again. I pinwheel forward, stumbling through a few more onlookers, and start running hard.

Big Boss is on my ass, though. He's tearing after me like an enraged bull, which isn't all that far from the truth.

This should be the part where I stop and tell him, it's okay, that's technically my money I knocked over back there , but I'm pretty sure we're way past that point.

Instead, I tear through the dark warehouse. The fighting ring to my left is the only bright beacon of light. Inside, enormous, shirtless beasts are tearing into each other, punching and kicking viciously. Blood splatters from a nose, and there's a scream of savage joy from the crowd.

"Get back here, you fucking bitch!" Big Boss roars, much too close for comfort.

I careen around a bunch of tables and angle toward the back halls, head spinning, trying to figure out how I'm going to lose him.

Won't be in the crowd—someone currying favor with the Bloody Fist will grab me eventually—but maybe through the winding back rooms and the fighter stalls.

I take my chances and sprint down a dark hallway.

Big Boss is so close I can almost smell his fetid, vodka-tinged breath on my neck.

I slam shoulder-first into a drink girl, sending more glasses scattering, and she screams at me in rage.

Poor girl's mini dress is probably ruined.

Big Boss has to dance around her, giving me precious seconds as I throw myself at a nearby hallway.

I keep going, gasping for air, cursing myself for giving up on my cardio training two years ago. There's a door marked OFF LIMITS on my left, and I grab at the knob desperately. It turns, and I stumble into a locker room filled with half-naked men.

They stare at me. I give them one brief look, smiling sheepishly. It smells like sweat and deodorant. "Don't mind me, boys, just running for my life. Oh look, here he comes now."

"Stop that fucking thief!" Big Boss screams.

The half-dressed fighters seem confused, especially one massive man, a fighter I've never seen before.

I lurch forward, trying to get away, but I stagger and trip over someone's duffel bag.

Underwear and tape rolls go flying as I lose my balance and ram right into a hulking brute, his body rippling with muscle.

He's shirtless, showing off his defined abs and chiseled chest, and I grab at the only thing I can to catch myself before I fall.

The edge of his towel.

His eyebrows raise as I rip it off his waist. I land hard on my knees in front of him, and for one horrible moment, I'm staring at the guy's enormous dick. I've never been this close to something so huge before, and I'm gaping, embarrassment flooding me, as the big fighter's smirk gets even bigger.

"This was unexpected," he says softly. "You okay?"

"I'm so sorry!" I fling the towel at him and scramble to my feet. Oh my god, the man is absolutely, knee-shakingly beautiful , and he's not in a hurry to cover up again. He's grinning big now, and I keep looking from his bare dick to his eyes and back down again.

But I don't have time to admire. I'm busy running for my life.

I sprint toward the far door, dodging around cursing muscular men, leaping over gear bags and benches. Big Boss is close, though, so close I can feel his fingers reaching for my hair?—

"Fuck!" he screams, and there's a sickening crash.

I reach the far door and risk a look back. Big Boss is on the ground, shoving himself back to his feet, while that massive new fighter stands nearby looking innocent. He wraps his towel around his waist again and gives me a little shrug.

Did he just save my life?

"Gonna slit you cunt to throat, bitch," Big Boss roars as he throws himself back to his feet.

Nope. Just delayed the inevitable.

I wrench open the door and run.

The back section of this warehouse is a twisting maze of dead ends and private booths.

I take steps up, weaving around waitresses, hurrying toward the box at the very end.

If I'm right and a little bit lucky, there's a man in there who knows me and who can explain that this is all just a misunderstanding, that actually I'm not a thief, although I might be a little clumsy.

Big Boss will laugh, and we'll shake hands and go our separate ways, my body very much not slit from cunt to throat.

Only I have to make it first.

Big Boss is coming up fast. For a man that size, he's shockingly quick.

My legs are pumping, air dragging ragged into my throat, thighs beginning to burn from running all out.

I really need to start jogging again, and if I survive this, I swear I'll run at least three miles every single day and get super fit, but please, God, just let me escape.

Big Boss's rasping wheeze is getting closer and closer, but up ahead I see the door with a big golden ONE in fancy script right in the middle, my salvation, my savior?—

I grab the knob and yank.

Sweet, sweet salvation at last?—

Locked.

Fuck .

I yank and twist and pound.

Still locked. And no answer.

"Got you now," Big Boss snarls, slowing down. He's sweating and breathing hard. A little trickle of blood runs down his cheek from a cut he must've gotten in the fall.

"Please, hold on a second, just listen." I turn to him, hands upraised. My smile's gone. This isn't fun anymore. Desperation claws at my guts.

"Too late for begging, bitch." He flicks a knife from his pocket.

The blade is long and looks well-used. I really regret hoping for a stabbing all of a sudden because it seems like I'm about to get my wish.

"They're gonna mop your corpse from this fucking carpet for the rest of the week.

It's gonna cost me, but you'll be worth it.

" He advances, grinning wickedly, eyes wild with rage.

"You don't understand!" My back presses against the door. Fucking Albert! Tonight of all nights he decides not to watch the fights! "I'm Charlie Westbrook. My family owns this place!"

He hesitates. But only for a second. He shakes his head. "Lying bitch. The Bloody Fist owns these fight rings. Never heard of the Westbrooks."

I could cry. This guy's important enough to handle the betting cash but not important enough to know who he works for.

"You have to believe me. Look, I know who uses this box! Albert Morton! He manages the fights and comes in here all the time?—"

“Enough,” Big Boss snaps. He lunges forward and grabs me by the front of my sweatshirt.

I’m in street clothes, just simple stuff to help me blend in.

No creme blouses and designer shoes tonight.

Which is a pity, because that might’ve helped sell my entirely true story.

“Look me in the eye while I fuck you with this knife. And feel free to cry.” His breath smells like cheap vodka and old meat.

“Gets my dick hard when a pretty girl’s crying and saying please . ”

“Oh, shit,” I whisper, just about ready to piss myself with terror and regretting every dumb rebellious decision I’ve ever made to this point as Big Boss rears the knife back, ready to plunge it right into my heart.

Except he doesn’t. Because someone grabs his wrist from behind.

“The fuck?” he says, shoving me against the door. The back of my head hits hard enough to send stars into my vision. “Who the fuck?—”