Page 22 of Ruthless Lord

Charlie

I can’t watch.

I catch one glimpse of that monster Vladimir before getting out of there. The Russian’s enormous and built like a bear. The only man nearly as big is Stefano, but I can’t bring myself to stick around and watch my husband get pummeled.

It’s all too much. I get an Uber back home and open a bottle of wine alone in the kitchen.

I’m tempted to call Emily, but it’s past midnight and that wouldn’t be fair.

I know we’re trying a friendship thing, except our relationship’s a little complicated.

Better not to make her feel like she’s obligated to come over here.

Instead, I drink a couple glasses and wait.

I stare at my phone on the kitchen counter, wondering when Albert will call with the bad news.

Sorry, Charlie, but your husband is in the ICU.

I know you like vegetables, so this shouldn’t be so bad, right?

I sigh at my own bleak joke. It’s not funny, but I’m in such a bad state right now, I can’t help it.

The worst part is I know I shouldn’t have gone there. But when Albert texted me and told me about Stefano’s opponent, I couldn’t help myself.

I had a plan. Storm into the locker room and make him see reason. I was going to tell him how he’s got a wife now, he’s got responsibilities. He’s not some low-level street thug anymore.

He can’t risk himself.

But the second I saw him standing there in his fighting shorts and no shirt, all that left my head.

I wanted to be tough. Stand up to him.

Instead, I practically begged him not to go out there.

I just keep thinking about Stefano getting his face smashed into the canvas.

I keep thinking about losing him. No more big monster in my bed.

No more games, no more teasing, no more touching and not touching.

The idea filled me with dread, and instead of telling him off, I ended up pleading with him.

Almost like I cared.

Which I absolutely do not .

Because if he gets himself killed, guess what?

Free divorce.

I down a second glass of wine, miserable and frustrated.

I keep checking the clock, but it doesn’t seem to move.

I finish a third glass and force myself upstairs, cursing my husband for being such a stubborn, selfish prick, and climb into bed.

To hell with him. If he’s in the hospital, let some other idiot girl go sit by his side and cry over his body. That won’t be me.

I’m almost convinced that I really don’t care what happens to him when the front door opens.

I practically jump out of bed, throwing the covers aside.

I hear footsteps head into the kitchen, and I hurry down.

There’s a clatter of glasses, the freezer door opens, and I find Stefano standing hunched over the sink with the cold bottle of vodka.

The tumbler in his hand is half full and the glass is pressed against his red and swollen left eye.

He looks at me. I stare back at him. There’s blood staining his shirt. His duffel is tossed on the floor near the chairs. He sips the vodka, his lip swollen, his cheek puffy.

But he’s alive.

“How’d it go?” I ask, holding myself to keep from trembling.

“I won.”

Relief floods me. I have to turn my back on him and close my eyes to swallow back the tears. I had no idea I’d feel this emotional, and I fucking hate it. When I’m steady, I turn back to find him studying me, that stupid bottle still against his eye.

“Let me get you real ice, you idiot,” I mutter, opening the freezer again. I put some in a bag and wrap it in a kitchen towel. “Here, use this.”

“Thanks.” He accepts the bundle.

“That looks terrible.” I prod at a nasty cut on his brow. He puts the ice over it.

“It’ll heal. You should see Vladimir.”

I grimace and try not to fidget. “I don’t think I want to.”

“Probably not.”

“Did you kill him?”

He shakes his head. “Tried to though.”

“Proud of yourself?”

“Only slightly.” He limps over to the kitchen table and sits down with a heavy sigh. “God, I hurt so much.”

I press my lips together, glaring. A dozen answers spring up in my head. Serves you fucking right is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back.

Stefano looks tired. His head leans back against the wall behind him and his eyes flutter closed. His movements are sluggish, and he’s favoring one side.

“Take that shirt off,” I say finally, going over to help him tug it over his head. “Let me see your ribs.”

He grunts and doesn’t argue. There’s a nasty mottled constellation of bruises forming all along his right side. I drag in a shocked breath through my teeth. “That bad, huh?” he asks, glancing down.

“You look like he kicked you.”

“Because he did.” He flinches as I prod at the wounds. “More than once.”

“Stay here. Let me get the first aid kit.”

“I’m fine. Honestly?—”

I ignore him and head upstairs. The kit’s under the bathroom sink.

It’s well stocked, probably because he has to use it all the time.

I bring it back down and get to work tending to his minor cuts, covering the one on his brow with a bandage and cleaning out his cracked and swollen knuckles.

I can tell every single inch of him is hurting, but he struggles not to show it.

“You should’ve gone to a hospital. Your ribs might be broken.”

“Probably are.”

“Seems like you could use an X-ray.”

“Broken ribs heal. Mostly, anyway.”

I run my fingers down a nasty group of scars along his left shoulder. “How’d you get these?”

“Knife. I think.” He frowns at me. “No, actually, it was a broken bottle. One of my earliest memories.”

“Seriously?”

“I was around six when it happened. Close to when my grandmother took me in.”

I sit back in shock. “Someone stabbed you with a bottle at six years old ?”

He takes a long drink of vodka. “My parents were assholes. Both of them were addicts. Junkie fucks, honestly. Mom turned tricks down near the stadiums and Dad robbed houses. He was mostly locked up, but when he was home, there was always trouble. One night, this tweaker shitfucker showed up looking for my old man, claiming he needed money or something. Mom was passed out in the bedroom and I was afraid he might hurt her. I was always a big kid and I was just learning how to fight, even back then. So I told the tweaker to fuck off. He didn’t like that kind of talk from a little kid.

We got into a spirited debate.” Stefano takes another drink and casually mimes stabbing. “It didn’t end well.”

I try to imagine getting violently attacked at six years old and talking about it like it’s some old funny story. But it doesn’t make sense. That kind of childhood is totally foreign to me.

“That’s horrible,” I say quietly. “I can’t believe you went through that.”

“Wasn’t the worst of it. Moving in with my grandmother was the best thing that ever happened. Even if she was a piece of garbage too.”

“You have that picture of her.”

“Sentimental bullshit.” He touches a circular burn on his chest. “Grandma didn’t like it when I got in trouble.”

“She did that to you?”

“Just the once. I knocked her over, you know, on account of her burning me, and I think she realized I was too big to physically abuse. But Grandma was creative. She found other ways to fuck with me.” He finishes his glass and refills it. “It’s all in the past. None of it matters anymore.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Not really. She’s dead. My parents are dead. I’ve got all these scars. They hurt, but so what?”

“I don’t know, maybe your whole obsession with fighting has something to do with your brutal childhood?”

He smiles at me. “No shit.”

I touch the bruise on his ribs lightly. “You’re a real bastard sometimes, you know that?”

“I know.” His eyes close again. “Can’t help myself.”

“With what? Being a dick?”

“Fighting.” He goes quiet as I pack up the first aid kit.

I watch him drink more vodka, wondering if I’m happy he’s home and in one piece, or if I’m afraid of the way I’m starting to feel when he’s around.

All of the above and more probably. “It’s the only place it all goes away.

The aches and pains. The frustration. Fighting fills the void.

It’s pure. I go in with one goal. Nothing else matters but me and him. It’s pure.”

“It’s the reason you’ve got all those aches and pains.”

“Fair point.”

“You can stop, you know. Maybe you can find a hobby. I hear fishing is popular.”

“Never did like boats. And I doubt there’s much to catch in South Philly.” He peeks at me, the glass of whiskey hovering at his lips. “You know the only other time I ever felt so clear? Other than in the fighting ring?”

“I bet I won’t like the answer.”

“It was with you. That night we first met. And again at the wedding. Funny, isn’t it? The only other time I feel right is with the one woman who won’t let me touch her.”

My stomach knots as my heart thrums. I’m trying to decide if I believe him, but Stefano’s never lied before. That’s the core of him. He means what he says, no matter how hard it might be to hear.

And now he’s saying being with me does something to him he’s never felt before.

I move closer, leaning forward. I put one hand on his thigh, leaning some of my weight on it. He looks at me, face completely calm, as he places the glass tumbler down on the table.

“What if I had taken you up on your offer? Back in the locker room?”

“I have a feeling my ribs wouldn’t be broken.”

“What would we be doing right now?”

“Recovering.” He seems so sincere. I’m addicted to that clarity. I wonder what it’s like, opening your mouth without any hesitation or worries. “Getting ready to fuck again until our parts are all raw and falling off.”

“Not really appealing.”

“True, but nothing ever is.” He puts his hand on top of mine. His fingers are rough and callused, his palm warm and big. Then he quickly pulls it back. “Shit. I shouldn’t have?—”

I lean forward and kiss him.

Our lips mash together. He seems surprised for one brief moment, and I can tell he wants to touch me, but I don’t give him permission.

Instead, I lace my fingers into his hair at the back of his head and pull him tighter.

His tongue snakes into my mouth, the taste of blood and honey mixing on my palate, a thrill of bliss and pleasure jolting into my core.

He controls himself. I barely keep myself from shattering.

The kiss is deep and hungry, but not like anything I’ve felt before.

It’s not the kind of kiss that leads to more.

It’s a kiss for its own sake. A kiss because I want to taste him, because I want to feel him.

A kiss because he’s hurting, and he’s beautiful, and I want to.

A kiss filled with relief because there was a part of me that was afraid he might not come home.

It’s an easy kiss and a perfect kiss. I tumble into his mouth and lips. His tongue expertly caresses mine. I whimper and press myself tighter, and I’m going to lose my mind.

Until I realize what I’m doing and pull back with a start.

He stares at me, eyes ringed with lust. Passion burns in his expression. He’s restraining himself with visible effort, his incredible muscles tense as he grips the edge of the chair.

He broke his promise. It was a tiny mistake, just a little normal gesture, but it crossed the line. He touched me and I touched him back.

Not because I want to fuck him.

Even though I really, really do.

But mostly because I want to be close to him. I want him to know that I like this. He and I alone pretending like we really are husband and wife.

It was the kind of kiss I absolutely should never have with him.

“I shouldn’t,” I say, jumping to my feet. “I mean, I didn’t mean?—”

“You don’t have to run away.”

I stare at him and, god, I wish that were true. “I’m going to sleep. Come up when you’re ready.” I gather up the first aid kit and hurry to the stairs, hating myself for letting emotions cloud my judgment.

I’m still his enemy, and I can’t let anything make me forget it.