Page 10 of Ruthless Lord

Charlie

T here are things I’m supposed to do. Like riding horses. I’m a rich girl, my grandfather invested in a stable, and all that means I’m supposed to be into equestrian stuff.

But I hate it. Horses smell bad and half the time they’re one surprising sneeze away from kicking your face into a paste.

I’m supposed to go shopping. I have Daddy’s money, so why not spend it on fancy consumer goods?

But designer clothes are boring. All they do is sit in my closet until I put them on my body. Then I forget about them again.

These activities are expected of a girl like me, and I still hate them.

I’m good at pretending though. I can smile all day long, talk about magazines and saddles, compare heels and breeds with the best of them, all the while absolutely hating every second of it.

That’s why it only takes three nights before I go slinking back to the warehouse.

I can only hide behind stable doors and dressing room curtains for so long. Eventually, I need to go back to reality.

For me, it’s not even about the fights.

I could take them or leave them. Sometimes they’re exciting, but most of the time it’s just a bunch of sweaty, steroid-enhanced meatheads pummeling each other with all the finesse of a sledgehammer.

Nothing beautiful there.

What I love is the crowd and the action.

I love watching the movement of money through the gambling pits. I can almost feel the moods shift between bouts and moments later, I watch those feelings reflected in the bets people are making.

I love watching the orchestrated dance of the staff as they aggressively cater to every single need, want, and desire, regardless of how expensive and inconvenient.

It’s real living. Not the ivory tower crap I’ve suffered through, but the raw stuff.

Only problem is, about ten minutes after I perch at my favorite bar and ask for a glass of wine, a new fight begins.

And he walks out into the ring.

He’s stripped to the waist. A pair of small black shorts cover his massive legs.

Old scars cross his chest and back. I swear, each of his shoulders is twice the size of my head.

He limps as he walks, shuffling along like an old man, and I can almost hear him grunting and sighing as he climbs under the ropes and leans heavily against his corner.

Everyone starts to bet against him.

Anger and shame stir in my guts. Stefano looks beautiful waiting in that ring. I hate him for what happened to me, but I also know it isn’t his fault. I’m supposed to marry that beast. Only I don’t want anything to do with him.

At least I want a choice. That’s why I keep coming back to the memory of him and me together that night. I chose to go home with him. I chose to kiss him. To get down on my knees… to let him between my legs…

I wasn’t forced.

Like I am now.

The announcer calls the name of Stefano’s opponent. I watch more money change hands. Some young smug asshole struts across the fighting mat, staring Stefano down with a cold sneer.

For his part, Stefano looks more tired than anything else.

But when the battle begins, he comes alive.

It’s shocking how quickly he goes from looking every one of his forty-plus years to suddenly attacking with a reckless obsession.

I sit forward in my seat, fascinated by his tactics.

I’ve seen enough of these to know his opponent is actually very skilled, but Stefano doesn’t seem to care.

He takes more hits than most fighters would. Every time there’s a risky move, he dives in without hesitation. He takes shots to the body, the jaw, the limbs, everywhere and anywhere, with enough force to incapacitate most normal men.

Stefano keeps going. He wears his opponent down, hitting back with powerful strokes, until he finally is able to get the young man down on the mat.

They wrestle for a minute, but it’s clear what’ll happen.

Stefano locks him into a submission hold, a simple arm bar, and the young man screams and screams until Stefano applies enough pressure to pop the elbow from its joint.

The bell rings and the bout’s over. Stefano climbs to his feet, limping and bloodied, moving slow and ponderously again, as the young man rolls from side to side, sobbing in pain.

There’s no pity in Stefano’s stare as he shuffles out of the ring, one knuckle kneading the small of his back, wincing with each step.

I turn back to my drink and stare at the glass. What kind of man is Stefano really? I just watched something terrible and special. It was an old warrior coming alive for a few brief minutes of vicious pain. I swear, his face was bright and glowing while he broke that young fighter’s arm.

The same look he had when he was deep inside of me.

It shakes me to my core. I finish my alcohol and get up, determined to end this right now.

I can’t let this farce go on any longer.

Dad’s going to ruin me. But Grandfather clearly doesn’t want that to happen. There’s no way either of them will really risk the reputational fallout of releasing those pictures to the public, even if it’ll mostly destroy me. They’ll look bad too.

I need to call their bluff.

But first, I need Stefano’s help.

I slip down the back hall, retracing a familiar path. This is the way I ran when that crazy dickhead was chasing me. A little fear pulses into my chest and I wonder if he’s still around. Probably not though. Albert would’ve taken care of him by now.

The locker room door is unlocked. I push it open, hesitating. Since there’s nobody actively trying to kill me, I feel a little weird barging inside.

“Hello?” I clear my throat, listening for an answer. “Stefano? Are you in there?”

I hear a locker clang shut then someone’s shuffling toward me. He comes around the edge of the entrance and frowns, head tilted to the side. Blood’s rolling slowly from his nose, and, God, suddenly my breath sucks out from my chest.

He’s so attractive. Beautiful even. That ruined skin crisscrossed by a dozen puckered marks and scars only makes him that much more incredible.

Fear lances into my stomach and I’m thinking this was a bad idea now that I’m close to him again.

I can’t help but remember what he looked like down on his knees. His mouth between my legs.

I lick my lips, breath coming quick.

“Thought I’d see you here,” he says, turning away. “Come on, nobody else is around.”

He limps back inside. I glance over my shoulder before following him.

The locker room is relatively spare. Everything’s neat and clean, but worn down. Stefano’s sitting on a wooden bench, hunched over a bag, rooting around for something. He comes up with a roll of medical wrap and begins to wind it around his left fist.

“Are you okay?” I ask, keeping distance between us. Right now, he looks like he couldn’t beat a baby in a boxing match, but I get the sense that’d change really fast if he wanted to get violent.

“Broke a knuckle.” He grimaces and touches his side. “Maybe a rib too. And my nose.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Not the first time.”

I roll my eyes and walk over to his bag. He looks on curiously as I dig around until I find some gauze. I use that to wipe his face off, roll it into a tight pill, and shove it lightly up his nose.

He lets me do it without comment.

“Are you always like this? Acting like nothing fazes you?”

“Probably.”

I shake my head. “You know how much shit we’re in?”

“A little of it.”

“I’m drowning in shit, thanks to you.”

He touches my wrist as I pull away. “Pretty sure you made your own choices.”

I glare at him. “Let me go.”

He releases and I step back, wiping my hands on my jeans. I don’t know what it is about this guy, but he knocks me off balance. I feel dizzy and unsure of myself. Nobody else in the world makes me feel so small and insecure.

It pisses me off.

“I’m guessing you spoke with your grandfather,” he says, continuing to wrap his knuckles.

“We’re not doing it.” I cross my arms over my chest and take a defiant stance, legs slightly spread. “Just a matter of discussing how we get out of it.”

“That’s all?”

“There’s no way we’re getting married. I know we had a night together and you saved my life, but that’s crazy.

You’re a literal stranger.” I warm up to my little speech.

“We have no clue if we’re compatible. If our families want to come to some sort of arrangement, they can find other people to get hitched.

I’m not going to be blackmailed into it. ”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Good, so you don’t want to do this either.” Relief hits me. I’m surprised by how worried I was.

He raises his eyebrows at me and shakes his head. “I didn’t say I don’t want to.”

And there it is. That was short-lived. My stomach lurches like a stone got dropped down my throat. My mouth opens and I stare at him before getting myself together. “They have something against you too.”

“Not exactly.” He finishes wrapping his hand and flexes it slightly, grimacing in pain.

“Then why in the world would you want to get married to me? We’re total opposites. You’re everything I don’t want.”

“That so?”

“Yes, that’s so. You’re a pit fighter and a criminal. Sure, we had good sex?—”

“Great sex.”

“Mediocre sex at best, but that doesn’t mean we could spend our lives together.” Panic threatens to overwhelm me as I start to spiral and envision what it might be like as this guy’s wife. “We’ve got nothing in common. No goals, no values, nothing.”

“Except for fantastic sex.”

“Decent, maybe.” I glare at him, frustration filling me as he takes a shirt out and pulls it on. I almost wish he’d take that back off again. “Why would you want anything to do with me? You don’t know me at all. I could be terrible.”

“You could be,” he agrees as he packs the rest of his stuff.

“But I’ve been missing something for a while now.

These fights are my way of trying to find it again.

I feel like myself when I’m in that ring, whatever that says about me.

And I also felt it the night we spent together.

” He stands with a groan, knees creaking.

I don’t think I’ve heard him say this much all at once, except for when he was talking filthy to me in bed.

He stares at me, expression dark and face beautiful.

“I was ordered to make you my bride. I figured it might be worth trying out.”

“I don’t know what kind of midlife crisis you’re going through right now, but I don’t want anything to do with it.”

He stops and looks at me, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Midlife crisis?” he murmurs, lips pressed flat. “How old do you think I am?”

“Forties at least.”

“Well, shit.” He lets out a long sigh. “And feeling every fucking year of it. But that’s not what this is.”

“Sure as hell seems like it. This is your chance to bag the young rich girl, right? But I am not going to roll over and let you have me, Stefano. I’ve worked too hard to just give up and become some mafia guy’s wife.

” I’m breathing hard, struggling against my anger.

All of this is so damn unfair I could scream.

Now here he is, acting like he actually wants this nonsense, but I’m not going to make it easy for him. No way in hell.

His expression darkens as he slings his bag over his shoulder.

“Whether you like it or not, this is happening. You want that blackmail to go away? You’ll walk down the aisle, say the vows, wear my ring, and let me shove my fucking tongue in your mouth while all your pretty little friends clap and cheer. ”

“Screw you, asshole.” I seethe, hands curled into fists. “God, you don’t know a thing about me, you total bastard.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Charlotte. It’s pretty clear you’re some spoiled rich girl who doesn’t know how to follow orders.” He takes a step closer and my heart skips a beat. “But when you’re my wife, you’ll learn.”

My eyes go wide with shock. He stares at me hard. That first night together, I never got the sense he was in any way dangerous to me. Violent and terrifying, sure, but not the kind of man who would hurt me. He made it clear I could go whenever I wanted.

This is different. Stefano’s glare seems to promise something dark and vicious. Like he doesn’t give a damn what I want anymore. There’s no more getting on his knees and begging for my taste.

No, there’s only obedience.

“If you won’t get me out of it, I’ll figure this out myself.” I shoulder past him, although it’s like slamming my arm into a brick wall. It hurts and I have to bite my lip to keep from yelping at the pain.

“Good luck, princess,” he calls after me. “I look forward to seeing you in all white.”