Page 17 of Ruthless Lord

Stefano

S weat drips onto the canvas as my fists strike out. My opponent, a young man called Bryson, dodges and dips, grunting as a jab barely catches his guarding forearm.

I press him. I’m not fast like I used to be.

My knees ache and my shoulders are heavy.

My damn lower back’s acting up again. Bryson steps sideways and unleashes a vicious hook that I barely manage to stagger away from.

I’m caught off balance, and the young man comes in hard, hitting me in the guts with three quick blows.

I eat them and strike back. In the process, I leave myself open.

Bryson takes the bait, catches me with a straight jab, but I’m already coming for him.

I hit back, each fist like a hammer, blasting into his nose, chin, cheek.

He stumbles, trips over his feet, and hits the canvas hard.

Blood spurts from his split lip and his right eye is already looking swollen and ugly.

I stand over him, breathing hard. Every part of me hurts. Fuck, I’ve got too many injuries and nothing ever seems to heal right these days.

“Good fight,” I say, offering the young buck a hand up.

He knocks me away and pushes himself to his feet. “Got fucking lucky,” he snarls, glaring at me.

I shrug a little. “Guess so.”

He storms off, throwing his gloves onto the floor as he disappears into the gym’s back room. I watch him leave with a sigh, rolling my aching neck and slowly unwinding the tape from my hands.

“Why’d you let him get away with that comment?” My trainer’s an old-timer called Jimmy the Toes. I asked him one time what the whole toes thing is about, and he just shook his head and said, a guy can’t have a fetish without everyone asking questions ? We never talked about it again.

“Shit-talking’s a young man’s game. He’s mad. Let him be mad. He’ll sit back there and run the fight over and over in his head, and he’ll either figure out what he did wrong or he’ll never improve. Either way, not my problem.”

“You’re getting wise in your old age.” Jimmy grins at me, chewing on the butt of an unlit cigar. The man’s a walking stereotype, I swear to fuck. “You hitting the warehouse anytime soon? I got the winnings from your last few fights burning a hole in my pocket.”

“I want to pretend like I’m staying away for a while, but you know me.” I groan as I crack my neck. It feels good but it also hurts. Story of my life.

“Hey, by the way, how’s the wife doing?”

“Don’t know.” I climb out of the ring and shuffle over to my things.

“Whaddya mean, you don’t know?” Jimmy frowns down at me, leaning against the rope. “You married her, didn’t ya?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

Jimmy shakes his head, grinning. “You’re an odd one. Always have been. By the way, your left jab’s getting slow.”

“It’s all getting slow.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t help with that other shit.” He mimes a few punches. “Gotta work on the distance, remember? Measure up and stay out of range.”

I give him a nod before heading out of there.

On the drive back to my place, I keep thinking about my wife. The wedding was three days ago, but I haven’t heard much from her since then. I’m not the kind of man who begs a woman to move in with him, and if she wants to take her sweet time, I’m not going to make a stink about it.

But she’s mine . Sooner or later, she has to come to me.

I don’t even know why I care. Maybe it’d be better this way. She stays at her house and I stay at mine. We keep on like this, pretending to be married when really we’re still strangers with some paperwork between us.

The thought’s repulsive to me, though. It’s one thing to be in an arrangement and another to be in a fucking farce.

I do what I say. That’s how I’ve always defined myself. So when I said those words up on the altar, I meant them.

‘Til death do us part.

Probably my death, if I’m realistic.

But still, so long as I’m breathing, that girl’s my wife.

I park my truck outside my house and head inside. I’m thinking about what Jimmy said, and he was right. My left jab really is getting slower. I’ll have to work on it, especially if I’m going to keep fighting those young bucks. And Lord knows I can’t help myself.

As I shuffle into the entry hall with my gym bag slung over my shoulder, I nearly fall straight on my fucking face over a pile of cardboard boxes I swear to all that’s holy I don’t remember putting there.

“The fuck?” I say softly, frowning at the words on the top. Kitchen Utensils, Plates, Bowls, Etc . I don’t recognize the handwriting.

But there are more boxes. China and decorations . Vinyl records . Toiletries, hair products, makeup . More of them down the hall, like they sprouted up in the couple hours I was gone.

“Hello?” I call out and get no reply. Nobody in the kitchen or the living room. Nobody downstairs at all. “Who’s bringing all this shit into my house?” I yell up the stairs.

“I hope you’re not talking to your wife like that.”

Charlie’s voice, coming from my bedroom.

Well, shit.

I stand at the bottom of the steps, trying to decide if this is a pleasant surprise or not. I should be dreading it. I’ve lived alone for a long time and I’m not good with change.

Except a strange excited thrill rustles through my stomach.

I climb the steps and find my wife sitting on my bed. She’s got boxes and bags all around her, some half opened, with clothes spilling out like the guts of an exotic animal. Chiffon, lace, silk, rich girl shit. I stare at my formerly utilitarian space and wonder how we’re going to fit all this.

But Charlie’s clearly got it all worked out already.

My suits are thrown in the corner, and it seems that she claimed half the closet as her own.

“I’m sure you’ll figure that out.” She waves a hand at her destruction. “Since we’re cohabitating now. What’s yours is mine and all that.”

I turn to face her. Partly, I’m seething. She shows up out of nowhere and starts ripping into my life like she owns it all. That’s classic rich girl behavior. No appreciation for anyone else’s boundaries. Why care when her endless money can solve all her problems?

But the other half of me is just confused.

“Are you moving into my room?” I ask, trying to understand what in the hell is going on right now.

She seems surprised. “Obviously. We’re married , remember?”

“I have a spare room. I figured you’d want that.”

Her nose wrinkles. “And use the hall bathroom? No thanks. You’ve got a good setup here. Nice size room. King mattress. I feel like this is going to be more comfortable.”

“You do realize I’ll be in that bed every night.” I take a step toward her. My blood’s pulsing in my chest. I notice her studying my face with a slight frown.

“Have you been fighting?”

“Boxing. Don’t change the subject.”

“There’s blood on your ear.” She waves a hand at my face.

I don’t bother wiping it off. “You’re deflecting.”

“A fighter and a psychologist. I really did marry an incredible man.”

“What’s going on here, Charlie? Don’t fucking bullshit me.”

One perfect eyebrow arches. Fuck, she’s so pretty. Especially when she’s looking at me like she wants to rip off my balls and feed them to a woodchipper. “Don’t curse at me. I’m your wife, not your mafia buddy.”

“I don’t have buddies ,” I grumble, frustrated. “Cursing is my love language.”

“Learn a new one. There are apps for that now.”

I stalk toward her, sick of the games. “This is my bed. This is my space. You could have asked.” I get close enough to reach out and grab her by the hair, and I’m tempted to do it.

If she can demand respect and make me stop cursing, then I sure as hell can spank her into submission and teach her a lesson too.

But she leaps up and moves out of range before I can make a move.

“About that.” She holds up her hands defensively. There’s a wicked smile on her lips. It’s goddamn gorgeous, and I keep thinking about sliding my dick in that lovely mouth. Only I’m pretty sure that look doesn’t bode well for me. I smell a fucking trap. “I’ve been thinking about my rule.”

I stop in my tracks. We haven’t talked about that since the wedding. Honestly, a part of me forgot all about it, or maybe I hoped that she’d let it go.

Clearly that’s not happening.

“What did you come up with, wife ?” I use the word like a cudgel. She doesn’t seem to let it bother her, though.

“It’s simple, actually. You’re going to hate it.”

“Tell me.”

Her smile gets bigger, like she’s in control here.

I think about striding across the room, flattening the space between us, and taking her as my own.

Those pretty, dark red lips. Her thick brown hair wrapped around my fist. Those pants and moans, all the darkness of her hate and her need, all of it breaking on my tongue and my fingers.

Her taste can flood me. I can take her. It wouldn’t even be hard.

But I leash myself. I have to hold back. There’s a line that I won’t cross with her, even if I’m so fucking tempted every time we’re alone together.

She’s sin, and I’ve ruined myself enough as it is.

I won’t blacken my soul even more by giving in to my worst impulses.

But fuck, I want her.

It’s horrible, the aching need in my guts.

In my fucking slacks.

The thought of her writhing and moaning as my cock pounds into her from behind is enough to make my dick stiffen with electric want.

She holds up a finger. One perfectly manicured nail.

“My rule is simple. You can never touch me unless I explicitly ask you to.”

I step back, letting the words hang between us. Her smile tightens and her eyes wrinkle with amusement at my reaction.

The implication hits me like a thunderclap, and I realize I played myself right into her hands.

All of a sudden, she’s holding the power.

I can break my word. Destroy everything I hold dear about myself. I swore I’d follow the rule she gave me, and I define myself as a man of honor. Not a good man. A fucking monster, if I’m honest. But a man that does what he says he’ll do, no matter how hard it might be.

Or I can accept that now she’s in control.

Fucking hell.

“Are you sure about that, wife?” I ask, my voice low and charged with emotion. “Think hard about it.”

“I’ve been thinking for three days.” She’s showing teeth.

She knows damn well the victory she just stole from me.

“And that’s my rule. You can never, ever touch me without me explicitly asking.

” She steps forward, coming closer. I’m forced to move back with a soft snarl.

“That’s why I can sleep in your bed. That’s why I can move into your room.

That’s why I can shower in your bathroom without ever worrying you’ll break down the door and come ravish my wet, soapy, naked body.

” She’s grinning savagely, fully aware of what she’s doing to me, still coming forward.

I’m forced away and away until my back hits the dresser.

A dozen little wounds and aches flare up, and I struggle to keep the pain from my face.

“Think that’s doable, husband ? Or are you just a big liar? ”

I set my jaw. I stare at my clever, beautiful little wife. And I hate her, just a little bit, but also worship the fucking ground she walks on.

“You’ll break before I do,” I whisper, a dark promise.

Her eyes flash, and I swear she likes the challenge. “We’ll see about that.” She reaches out a hand. For a second, I think about letting her touch my cheek, catching her wrist, lightly biting a finger before dragging her against me and devouring her mouth with mine.

But I’d need an invitation first.

I pull away and slip back toward the door.

She laughs at my retreat, and fucking hell, I wish I never made this deal with her to begin with.

Though the spanking was very good.

“Good luck with unpacking all of this. I’ll be in my office.”

“No worries. I won’t need your help.”

“Wasn’t offering.”

“My personal assistant should be here soon.”

“Your personal—” I take a sharp breath and slowly blow it out. Of course she has a personal assistant. Goddamn rich girl. “I’ll see you tonight, love.”

Her smirk falters, ever so slightly, and I’m grinning to myself as I walk away.

She won that battle. No doubt in my mind. This rule of hers is going to be hell, and she’s going to use it like a sledgehammer against me.

But I’m going to win the war when she’s down on her knees pleading for me to fuck her ruthlessly.

Just a matter of time.