Killer

I cut her off again. “I don’t want excuses, Mom. You don’t get to decide for me. Whether you mean well or not, I’m not doing those speeches or attending any events. Ever.”

Spinning on my heel, I march toward the front door. As I leave the room, I hear my dad trying to calm my mother down. “Let her be, Rose.”

Thankful for his intervention, I slam the front door and hurry outside, the oppressive humidity of Atlanta in June smacking into me like a wet blanket to the face. Tears burn at the backs of my eyes and I have to calm down before driving home. Before I can sort myself out, the door opens behind me. I tense up, waiting for the angry scolding to continue.

“Britt, do you need me to take you home, sweetheart?”

“Daddy?” I peek over my shoulder, finding my father holding his keys. He stares at me with an odd expression on his handsome but tired face. Not pity, it’s more than that. Respect?

“No, I’m okay. Thank you, Daddy.”

My dad steps forward and engulfs me in a hug, wrapping his strong arms around my small frame. It’s been so long since I experienced loving human contact of any kind. My parents aren’t the touchy-feely types and my last, my only boyfriend, was back when I was an undergrad, and because he knew about “the incident” he treated me like an untouchable porcelain doll.

My dad kisses the top of my head. “Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime.”

Killer

Jackson Wolfe might just be the biggest prick I ever met. And I’ve met a lot of fucking pricks.

“Come on, Killer,” he taunts from across the cage. “Who cares what Gabriel says? Let loose so we can find out what you’re made of.”

A small crowd of trainers and fighters has gathered outside the octagon. We’re supposed to be practicing speed and agility, light hits only. This idiot apparently feels the need to prove his alpha status amongst the other men by egging me on in front of everyone.

It infuriates him when I don’t answer. In fact, I refuse to speak a single word to the jackass. I reviewed his FLA fights. He’s sloppy and too cocky for his own good. He wins because his reach is long and luck is on his side… so far.

I continue training as instructed, swinging at half-strength, dodging his blows when they manage to get anywhere close to me, which isn’t often.

“What’s wrong with you, man? You’re creepy as fuck.” Wolfe grins, his face looking more like a caricature of the Joker than anything remotely attractive. His mouth is too big, his eyes too small, and his attitude might even be worse than mine. Silent and brooding beats cocky motherfucker any day.

I survived six months in prison by ignoring the barbs and taunts thrown my way. In my first week I learned what happens if you let emotions take over when another inmate gets under your skin. Nine days in the infirmary taught me a lesson and shut me up damn quick.

Maybe Wolfe needs that experience.

He comes at me again with every intention of landing a hard jab to my ribs. Using only a fraction of the power I normally put behind my punches, I easily deflect his fist, pivot on my back foot, fake a right jab, and hit him with a perfect left cross to the jaw, following up with a flying knee strike to the chest. The moron goes down like a house of cards.

“Fuck! You motherfucker!” Wolfe lets loose a string of curse words as he rolls around on the ground, gasping and whining like a baby. “Fucking asshole! We’re only sparring.”

I duck my head to hide my smirk, struggling to keep my face neutral and uninterested as he loudly blames me for giving him exactly what he asked for. The cage door opens and a trainer rushes in to help the poor diva patch up his boo-boos. I use the distraction to slip out unseen. With a backdrop of Wolfe’s cursing and complaining, I pull off my gloves and slip on my hoodie.

No way did I hit the asshole hard enough for him to put on such a display. Once my hood is up over my head, I allow myself a smile at my victory, which slides right off my face when I realize Wolfe’s endgame. Britt hurries across the gym in a tiny blonde streak and hops into the cage, kneeling at Wolfe’s side.

That sly motherfucker.

He might not have been expecting my hits to be that hard, but he sure is milking it for everything he can—such as garnering plenty of personal attention from the pretty blonde therapist. Anger and possessiveness surge, boiling my blood until it’s pumping hot lava through my veins.

One of the trainers helps Wolfe to his feet. It was a simple punch kick combo, for fuck’s sake! He’s acting like I collapsed one of his lungs! Wolfe and Britt cross to her office and the door shuts behind them. Watching him touching her nearly drives me to grab his hair and punch him in his stupid face. That’s when I discover my fingernails are digging into my palms hard enough to draw blood and my jaw is so tight the muscles are beginning to ache.

Fuck! I don’t give a shit what Wolfe does with Britt. It’s none of my business. Pissed off for letting it get to me, I throw all of my stuff into my bag and head for the door. I’m angry at Wolfe and his scheming bullshit. I’m angry at Britt for falling for his act. But most of all, I’m furious with myself because I handed Britt to Wolfe on a silver fucking platter.

I shouldn’t care, but goddamn it, I do.

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Gabriel stares at me from behind his desk, his dark eyes steady. It makes me nervous, how he can look right at me and not turn away or freak out like everyone else. The man has to see the monster inside. He’s not stupid or naive.

“You’re almost ready for your first fight, Killer. Are you going to be able to handle this?” I scowl, and my face must answer his question. Gabriel laughs. “I know you can handle the fighting, meu filho. It’s everything else that goes with it I worry about with you.”