Underground Fighters Trilogy Boxed Set Read online

  “But?”

  “But I’d feel better if someone watched him. In my no-longer-considered-a-professional opinion. There’s nothing much I can do for the ribs. I’ve bound them, and they’ll take time to heal the crack. But the head wound is a little more worrying.” He gave her a shrug and left her alone.

  She hovered in the doorway to the office, unsure what to do. Leave? Stay? Take the sexiest man she’d ever seen back to her place to just…watch him? Danger signs were planted all along that path. Not dangerous to her safety. Her instincts about him were correct, proven when he’d protected her from Spider and his thuggish friend—Diego wouldn’t hurt her.

  But that didn’t mean she was safe from him. The way he made her heart pound, her skin tingle, told her that he was very dangerous to her will power.

  Diego opened the door to the office, now wearing a shirt. He leaned heavily on the handle. His face was wan, lined with pain. He glanced over her shoulder.

  “Where’s Doc?”

  She shrugged. “I think he went to go check on Weston.”

  Diego sneered at the mention of the other man’s name. “So why are you still here?”

  She hesitated, but she knew her decision was made. “I’m going to take you home,” she told him.

  Diego froze. “I thought you said you weren’t here for a piece of the winner.” The words were a little mean, like he was lashing out.

  Rosalyn’s face heated at his assumption. “I’m not, but Doc said you’d be in danger for the next forty-eight hours because of your head injury. He wants someone to monitor you.”

  He scowled at her. “Doc’s wrong. I’ll be fine.” Though, his hand crept to his ribs as if he wasn’t so sure of that. He was already barely upright, and clearly putting on a shirt had taken a lot out of him. Rosalyn was worried for him, and despite the warning in her head, she knew this was the right thing to do.

  “You saved me tonight. Let me save you in return.”

  He glanced at her from under heavy lashes, his gaze intense as he studied her. The look penetrated her, tugging at something deep in her soul. Like she was being seen for the first time.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he murmured, voice a rough rasp. But he prowled a few steps towards her just the same.

  “Why not?” she asked, breathless. Yearning grew within her.

  He stopped a few inches from her, leaning over her. Their breaths mingled. “Because my control is already tenuous around you. It might snap at any moment. Are you ready for that?” His eyes were hot and needy as they pierced hers.

  Rosalyn swallowed thickly. “You’re not like that. You wouldn’t do anything unless I wanted it.”

  He grinned. “Oh, you’d want it. I promise you.”

  She let out a shaky breath. This was one of the turning points in her life. Momentous and life-changing. The weight of her decision pressed down on her, telling her things would never be the same again if she took this man into her home—her life.

  “Whatever happens,” she told him. “Happens. But either way, you’re still coming home with me.”

  She drove Diego’s crappy old truck back to her place. She’d caught a cab, and he hadn’t been fit to drive in her inexpert opinion. He hadn’t complained, just watched her hungrily all the way back to her place.

  By the time they arrived, Diego was drooping, his eyes slowly shutting before he opened them again with a snap. She helped him out of the car, and it was a sign how much he was truly hurting that he didn’t protest. Or maybe he wanted her close, pressed against his side.

  It wasn’t until she got him upstairs in the creaky elevator and opened the door of her apartment that she saw the true issue—only one bed, and not even a couch.

  She lived in a tiny studio apartment near the newspaper offices. She didn’t need much for herself; a bed, kitchen, desk. The TV was mounted on the wall at the foot of her bed, meaning she had no need for another seating place. She never had guests, so that wasn’t a problem.

  Until now.

  She manoeuvred Diego over to the unmade bed and eased him onto it. She leaned over to adjust some pillows behind him, then froze as his hot breath brushed over her cleavage. A bolt of heat zapped to her core and her cheeks heated. She cleared her throat and moved back, avoiding the possessive look in his eyes as he watched her.

  “Nice place,” he muttered. She glanced over to see him taking in the small space. She shifted on her feet, awkward at having him in her domain, and began tidying up. She picked up clothes off the floor and dumped them in the laundry hamper in the bathroom.

  “Thanks.” After a minute of silence, she couldn’t take it anymore. “You should rest.”

  She returned to the room. His gaze followed her.

  “Will you join me?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut at the images that assaulted her at his words. Them in bed together. Naked. Pressed against each other in a hot, needy, slide of bodies.

  This was a terrible idea. All she knew about this man is that he participated in illegal fights for money, and he had a bit of a protective streak. Now, he was in her house, tempting her. She shouldn’t want him, but she couldn’t stop herself.

  “No,” she said, voice high and strangled. “I’ll watch over you. Make sure you don’t…you know…lapse into a coma or whatever.” She switched off the light to punctuate her point, casting them in shadows. It took a second for her eyes to adjust. The only light source was from the cool white streetlight slipping through the gaps in her curtains.

  He let out a long breath, and some of the heat in his eyes died at the reminder. “Thank you. I know I seem ungrateful. But thank you.”

  She gave him a smile. “You’re welcome. Rest. I’ll look after you.”

  As if he couldn’t resist the pull of healing sleep any longer, his eyes fluttered shut. Something warm, something suspiciously like affection, filled her chest. He’d trusted her, this hard, unyielding man. He’d trusted her to keep him safe.

  Now, his face relaxed, he didn’t look so intimidating. His perpetual scowl had softened, making him look younger and more approachable.

  Rosalyn sighed softly to herself and stepped away, knowing it was an illusion. She couldn’t allow herself to fall this man. A man with too many secrets, too much darkness. She’d had enough of that in her life, and she’d finally clawed her way out of it. She couldn’t go back.

  Not ever.

  But still, she watched him, making sure he was still breathing softly. She pulled out her laptop and began typing up her mental notes from the evening. She’d had real insight into the fights tonight, into the special world they’d created for themselves, more so than her first attempt. But she still had so many questions.

  How did these fights start? Who ran them? Why? And why did the men participate?

  Luckily, she now had direct access to a man who could answer all those questions. It was perfect, and she couldn’t deny to herself that some part of her had realised this when she’d agreed to take Diego in. It would certainly make her article a lot better to have first-hand access to a man deep within the world she was investigating.

  She made a long list of all the questions she wanted to ask, but knew instinctively he wouldn’t want to answer them willingly if she told him why she wanted to know. She wouldn’t mention her job for now. Instead, she’d ease him into it, get him used to the idea of being profiled in something like that, even anonymously.

  When her notes were typed up, she drafted an article, writing possible lines here and there, angles to follow, structures. After a while, her mind drifting from tiredness, it occurred to her she’d spent the last thirty minutes writing about Diego and speculating about all his secrets.

  Annoyed with herself, Rosalyn slammed her laptop closed and got up from the desk. She wandered the apartment silently for a while, not knowing what to do with herself now that a man slept peacefully in her bed.

  Or, more accurately, she knew exactly what she wanted to do, but knew she shouldn�
��t, and some internal part of her was debating between what was right and what she yearned to do.

  She wanted to lie next to Diego and listen to the steady beat of his heart as he slept. To feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek rather than watching from across the room.

  But that was the dangerous way. The way that led her to getting her hopes up and giving her heart away to a man who wasn’t good for it.

  Eventually, though, the lure proved too strong. She eased herself onto the other side of the mattress and lay back in the darkness.

  She listened to his breathing, and felt an odd sense of peace. Of connection.

  And for a moment, she let herself pretend.

  Chapter 7

  He woke to a scratching sound nearby. Diego froze for a moment, orientating himself at the unfamiliar sound. Light penetrated his eyelids, teasing a headache at the edge of his mind. He cracked an eye.

  The first thing he saw was a leg. A bare leg, smooth and soft. Rosalyn. His gaze travelled up, past the shorts she wore, to her hands. One held a pen, the other a folded piece of paper resting against her bent knee.

  The scratching stopped as her hands paused and he saw it was the pen against the page. Further up, past the breasts snug against her tank top, and the bare shoulders, Diego’s gaze finally landed on her face.

  “Morning,” she said with a smile.

  Dark shadows smudged beneath her eyes, but her smile seemed genuine.

  “Hi,” he said, voice raspy both from sleep and her proximity. He wanted to reach out and touch that tempting display of skin, wanted to have the right.

  “You want some coffee?” she asked, and he nodded.

  She levered off the bed, leaving her pen and page behind. She’d been doing the cryptic crossword from a newspaper. The kitchen was behind the head of the bed, which sat in a small dip in the floor. Steps behind him and to the right led up, and another set to his left, near the foot of the bed, went up on the other side.

  The coffee cup clinked against the counter, and she poured out the liquid. Seconds later she was back and handing him the cup. He pushed himself up before he took it, groaning as his ribs protested by spearing pain through his chest.

  “You want painkillers with that coffee?” she asked with a sympathetic wince.

  He nodded. “Thanks.”

  She reached into her bedside drawer and pulled out a small bottle, then shook two out onto his upstretched palms. Their fingers brushed as she did, making his skin sizzle at the contact.

  He downed the painkillers with a gulp of the potent coffee.

  “How do you feel?” she asked, still hovering.

  He shrugged. “Well enough, considering.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “That was a pretty brutal fight.”

  “Not my worst,” he said dismissively.

  She raised a brow in question, then came around the bed to sit again on the other side. She gripped the pen and crossword, but didn’t glance at them, watching him in case he answered.

  “I’ve fought Spider before. I’m surprised we both survived.”

  “And that was your worst fight?”

  He shouldn’t tell her. He’d spent so long keeping his secrets, being alone and lonely, that he wasn’t sure he knew how to be anything else. But, still, he found himself opening his mouth and the words pouring out.

  “No. It wasn’t the worst.”

  The one where he’d fought Victor and won had been the worst. It hadn’t been a physical fight, not like in the cage, but it was the one that haunted him the most. It was the day he’d reclaimed himself and fled the only life he’d known for ten years, only to end up as an illegal fighter for a man almost as bad as his former boss.

  Rosalyn didn’t ask him to clarify, and for that he was grateful. He couldn’t tell her who he’d been, the man he’d always be on some level. Particularly not now, while he was in her house. It would scare her. He’d scare her.

  “Want to do the crossword with me?” she asked, holding it out. He knew it was a distraction. She was avoiding the elephant in the room of him being here in her domain, but it was like they were living in an alternate world. One where Diego lived a domesticated life, where a beautiful woman brought him coffee in the morning.

  Diego frowned. “I’m not good at those. I didn’t even finish high school.”

  “I wasn’t good at them when I first started, either. They just require a bit of practice.” She tilted it towards him and he shrugged in acquiesce. What else was he going do? He should leave, but couldn’t bring himself to make the suggestion.

  She explained how cryptic crosswords worked, the way certain words represented a kind of code. Diego nodded along, mostly listening, but sometimes getting distracted by her hair gleaming in the morning light, or her nimble fingers on the pen. She shifted closer as she pointed at certain examples, until their thighs touched.

  Diego didn’t move away, too lured by the soft domesticity of the scene. Even before he’d gotten tangled up in McCready’s world, it had been a long time since he’d had such a peaceful moment with a woman. His mother, maybe, before she got sick. But that never had the underlying hum of electricity hovering beneath his skin.

  “So fifteen down is Degas,” he said, to distract himself. “The painter,” he clarified. “De-gas, becomes Degas.”

  Rosalyn blinked, then a sweet smile spread across her face. “Exactly. Though I wouldn’t have pegged you as an art fan.”

  He knew he looked more like a thug than a connoisseur, and he was one. His cheeks heated as he shrugged.

  “My mum always wanted to be an artist, but couldn’t afford the training or even the supplies. Instead, she read all the books she could from the library, even from a young age. After she had me, she had less time for reading, working two jobs to keep us afloat. But even still, she’d find time to take me to free art galleries and museums every now and again. She had a great eye, loved explaining techniques and styles and colour and composition. She would have made a great painter.”

  Rosalyn’s eyes were steady as he told his story. “You loved each other a lot,” she murmured. “What happened to her?”

  “Cancer,” Diego replied shortly. He hated talking about that time. Not only because of his mother slowly wasting away, but because of the choices he’d made then, the ones that still choked his life now.

  “I’m sorry,” Rosalyn murmured, brushing a comforting hand over his arm. Diego shook her off. He didn’t deserve her comfort, not after what he’d done.

  “It happens,” he said instead, then shifted his legs off the edge of the bed. The scream of pain from his ribs was almost welcome as a distraction from Rosalyn.

  “I didn’t notice your tattoo before,” she said.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing what was on his shoulder. A swirl from Van Gogh’s Starry Night twisted over his left shoulder blade.

  “It’s my tribute to her,” he said, then eased himself into a standing position and made his way to the bathroom.

  When he was done, he leaned against the jamb of the door. “I should leave,” he said.

  Rosalyn twisted from where she sat on the bed to eye him. “That’s not a good idea. Doc said it might take up to forty-eight hours to know if you came through okay.”

  He shrugged. “I’m fine. And you shouldn’t be forced to look after me like this.”

  She set her jaw, stubbornness lining her features. “No one is being forced. I want to help—as a thank you.”

  “I meant what I said, Rosalyn.” He let his fierce lust for her shine through his eyes. “If I stay here, we’ll end up fucking.” He was as crude as possible, trying to get her to see the real him. The rough and dangerous side of him with the tainted soul. He wasn’t a hero, wasn’t some goddamn white knight coming to her rescue. He made his living with his fists, and had done even worse things in his past.

  She narrowed her eyes. “I disagree. I’m sure you have enough self-control to last another thirty-six hours.”

&n
bsp; He stalked towards her, down the steps and around the bed until he was standing right beside her. He leaned down, placing his hands on either side of her, caging her in. Their mouths were a hairsbreadth apart, so close they were almost kissing.

  She sucked in a breath, her eyes darkening.

  “Don’t overestimate me, Rosalyn.”

  “And don’t underestimate me,” she replied with a saucy tilt of her lips. She pushed against his chest, most likely knowing she couldn’t move him if he didn’t want to go. But he found himself obeying, easing away from her.

  She had him by the balls already, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it except leave.

  And yet, somehow he found himself sitting back on what he already considered his side of the bed.

  He was in a world of trouble.

  Rosalyn didn’t have anything edible for breakfast—she didn’t think dry toast would cut it with a guy like Diego—so she suggested she head down to the bakery on the corner of her block to pick up something.

  Only, Diego insisted on coming with her, and ignored her doubts until it was easier to let him come and suffer in his pain.

  They walked, and Rosalyn kept a slow and easy pace. Diego kept glancing around, eyes darting from one thing to the next.

  “Looking for someone?” she asked.

  He blinked, then caught her gaze. “No. This feels…weird.”

  “Walking down the street?” she questioned.

  “Yeah, but like. Walking to get breakfast with a woman I shared a bed with. Like I’m normal.”

  She eyed him. “You’re not normal?” she asked, confused.

  He rolled his eyes. “Never mind. Let’s just say it’s been a while since I did something like this. If ever.”

  Rosalyn’s heart gave a twist at the admission. What kind of life had he lived that such an everyday thing was considered weird? She almost didn’t want to know, but on the other hand each time he revealed another layer of himself she was drawn deeper into his spell.

  They made it to the bakery without Diego complaining at all, much to Rosalyn’s surprise. They got in line, and Diego patted his pocket.