by Kit Rocha
She did, and it wasn't even scary anymore.
Cruz
Within hours of watching the light fade from Russell Miller's eyes, Cruz had a woman sucking his dick.
Not just a woman, a prostitute. And she wasn't just sucking. She was going down on him with the sort of enthusiasm money couldn't buy, her tongue slick and hot, her moans so low and real they vibrated in his bones. He had both hands buried in her masses of curly hair, but not to guide her movements.
Someone had to keep it out of Ace's way.
Leather slapped against the woman's back, the sound as hypnotic as the noise that always followed, a throaty groan rising up from deep inside her. The flogging was turning her on.
It was turning them all on.
No heroes here, he thought darkly, letting his gaze drift down the woman's spine and up Ace's body. His chest was leanly muscled, but it was his ink that always caught Cruz's attention, a riot of color from his wrists to his shoulders, the patterns shifting with the flex of his arms. Dark hair swept over his brow, but did nothing to cover the intense set of his eyes as Ace landed another precise blow, and his lips curved into a pleased smile at the groaning response.
He was living, breathing sin, and Cruz was tired of resisting temptation. What was the point of scraping through a proper life here, in the barbaric, uncivilized sectors? There had to be a reward for living without the comforts he'd grown up with.
This was a start. A filthy, illicit, too-fucking-hot start.
The woman lifted her head, the firm stroke of her hand taking the place of her mouth. "Harder," she pleaded.
"No," Ace drawled, dragging the falls across her shoulders teasingly instead. He looked up and smiled. "Jeni always asks for it harder. Don't you, pretty girl?"
"Ye--" The word cut off in a throaty squeal. "Yes."
Cruz followed Ace's arm down to the hand between Jeni's thighs. He stroked her like he'd done it a thousand times, working his fingers just right, making her squirm and wiggle.
He snapped his gaze back to Ace's, and there was something there--a challenge. A question. Ace's smile had melted into a little smirk, the kind that said I know your secret and maybe just let go.
The dark hunger Cruz had spent so long choking into silence swelled, testing the bonds of his self-control, straining the cage he'd built around it. It seemed so pointless now. Trying to live up to the ideals of the men in Eden, men who'd never followed them, never really believed them. He was a weapon, built to kill on command. He'd done that tonight. He'd do it again.
It was his fucking turn to issue the commands.
He tightened his grip in Jeni's hair, savoring her sweet noise of approval. She liked it rough and hard. He'd seen her on the stage at the Broken Circle, screaming in pleasure as Ace worked her body. He knew enough to take control of this moment.
"Tell Ace what you want," he whispered, a quiet command that he half expected her to disobey.
Instead, she melted, the tense lines of her body softening into lush submission. "I want him to help me."
The words were deceptive. He almost misunderstood them, but Ace's sudden laugh held a sharp, dangerous heat as he swatted at Jeni's hip. "Be more specific, or he'll think you want me to move some furniture."
Jeni laughed too, scratching her nails up Cruz's chest as she rose to her knees on the bed. Close enough to kiss, yet she bypassed his mouth and dipped her head to lick the hollow of his throat. "I want him to help me get you off."
The bed shifted as Ace moved closer. Jeni was small for all her curves, fitting neatly under his chin. Nothing stood between his mouth and Ace's except half a foot of empty space that suddenly seethed with obscene promise.
The hunger inside him pulsed. The cage cracked.
"Do you want to help her get me off?" Cruz asked, the words screaming into the tension. He couldn't take them back, so they hung there, rough and demanding, a challenge that could change everything.
But Ace didn't answer. He rocked forward, closing the distance. Four inches.
Three.
The tension between them wouldn't fit in so small a space. It pressed against Cruz's chest, made it hard to breathe. Jeni had gone still against him--maybe she was aware of the stakes of this endless, terrifying moment.
Two inches. Ace stopped so close, Cruz could feel his breath as he spoke. "That's not what you wanted to say, brother."
No, it wasn't, and he hated Ace for seeing through him, for knowing. All these damn weeks, leading him down the path of temptation, step after step. Ace didn't seem like the type to have a strategy and a mission, but Cruz still felt like he'd stumbled into a trap.
Two damn inches.
Cruz had climbed fifteen-story buildings without a safety rope. He'd jumped out of helicopters. Hell, he'd started a riot once, a full-scale fucking riot that had torn apart what was left of the city of Las Vegas. He could conquer two inches of empty air.
He freed one hand from the silk of Jeni's hair. Ace's was shorter, he couldn't get a grip. That didn't fucking matter. He curled a hand around the back of the other man's neck and wrenched him across the empty space.
Their mouths collided, and it wasn't anything as pretty as a kiss. Teeth dug into his lower lip. He growled and pressed harder, taking control, kissing Ace the way he'd never let himself kiss Rachel. Rough, violent, starving, biting and needing and not worrying about what was gentle or right.
The cage inside him shattered, flooding him with endless hunger, and he jerked back, his chest heaving.
Jeni shuddered and bit his earlobe so hard it hurt. Her words were even harsher, hoarse and low. "You're so fucking hot together."
Together. Just like Rachel had said, and he wouldn't be the bastard who pretended Jeni's pretty red hair was blonde and straight, that her husky pleas belonged to another woman.
Ace was still watching him. Still waiting.
That's not what you wanted to say, brother.
He fisted his hand in Jeni's hair--her red, curly, not-at-all-blonde hair--and guided her back down. His gaze never left Ace's, not when she moaned her approval, and not when she slid those talented, hungry lips around his aching cock.
That's not what you wanted to say, brother.
No, it wasn't. "Help her," Cruz rasped, putting a harsh command behind the words. Giving in to the darkness. "Help her suck my dick."
Ace's smile was pure, smug victory. "I thought you'd never ask."
Chapter Twenty-Three
His night in the cage started off slow--some brand-new, wet-behind-the-ears punk who had no idea who Brendan Donnelly was. He almost felt sorry for the guy, but nowhere near sorry enough not to whoop his ass.
One lucky hit left Bren spitting blood, so he ended it quick. Welcome to the club, kid, he saluted silently as Jasper and Mad dragged the kid out of the cage.
He didn't know who Brendan Donnelly was anymore, either.
A charitable man would have given up the cage to other fighters, but Bren was in the mood to brawl, damn it. Five days of brooding and drinking and working himself to death hadn't taken the edge off the ache in his chest, so it was high time he tried fighting it out.
He chanced a glance at the cluster of couches where Lex and the other women had congregated. Six was among them, dressed to kill in a short leather skirt, tank top, and boots. She'd pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail, and the harsh lights overhead glinted off the dark strands.
Looking at her was torture, and he welcomed it. It beat the hell out of the pain of not looking at her.
She had an arm around Noelle's shoulders, but she was watching the cage. Her eyes met his, and she didn't look away, didn't blink. He stared right back until the cage door clanged again, and he turned to face his new opponent.
Riff stood there, his shaggy hair pulled back into a short tail, his shirt discarded to reveal a lean body laced with scars. "Bren."
"Riff." Maybe he figured he'd have to fight sometime. Maybe he just didn't like Bren's face. Either way, it didn't matter.<
br />
Another silent moment. Then Riff rushed him, fierce desperation lending him speed, and his first swing came in low and fast. Bren blocked it, but didn't strike back. Instead, he jogged back and waited.
Riff groaned and circled. "Fuck, are you going to play with me? I'm not in your league, Donnelly."
"Then why are you in my face?" He was in the mood to do some damage, not pop a guy's fight night cherry.
"Absolution." Riff took another swing, and Bren barely had to dodge. "Make it good and humiliating. She deserves to watch it."
Six. "You're assuming I want to hit you. I don't."
"Then I guess I'll kick your ass." Riff slammed into him again, jabbing for his jaw.
Bren let the blow land. It snapped his head back, and he embraced the pain. He embraced the pain of the fist that dug into his side, and the follow-up blow that sent him stumbling into the side of the cage.
He spun and caught Riff's wrist, using the momentum to twist it up behind the man's back in a brutal hold. "Tell me what you did."
"Nothing," Riff spat. "I walked away."
Walked away--and left Six alone to deal with Wilson Trent's increasingly sadistic torture. Bren remembered damning Riff and the others for that, telling her they should have done something, anything.
He didn't feel so fucking high and mighty now.
He let Riff go. "You can't have your absolution. Either she understands and forgives you, or she doesn't, but it's up to her. You can't do shit about it, not now."
Riff wiped blood from his lip and circled Bren. "Then let's just punch each other until it stops hurting."
It hadn't been working out so well for Bren, but he shrugged anyway. "I've got nothing else to do."
They came together in another clash of fists, and Riff was right. He wasn't in Bren's league. He wasn't a bad fighter, but his style was reminiscent of Six's, fraught with dirty tricks. It probably worked well against someone who'd been trained, who expected combat to have rules.
Bren knew better. He'd been fighting dirty since before landing in the sectors, and he unleashed that on Riff. A distracting punch to the gut, a feinted jab, and a hard right to the jaw sent him tumbling to the concrete.
Instead of retreating to the other side of the cage, Bren held out a hand to help him up.
Riff took it and limped out of the cage. When he was gone, Dallas caught the side of the door and lifted a brow at Bren. "You done yet?"
He had his own guilt to work off, and two easy fights would never do it. "Not yet."
"All right."
Dallas stepped aside, and one of the Armstrong brothers filled the door. This one had a reputation for being brutal in the cage and out. His sneering face and cheap tattoos contributed to his aura of menace, though his sheer size was enough to intimidate most fighters.
He and his brothers had always been unpleasant, but they'd gotten downright ugly and mean since Lex had stopped letting them near her. It would be a good fight, a tough one.
Exactly what he needed.
The silence on the couches was painful.
The O'Kane women weren't made for quiet, especially not when two men were pounding each other against the sides of the cage in an orgy of flexing muscles and rage. But the one thing stronger than their enthusiasm was their sense of solidarity.
As long as she was sitting there, none of them would point out that Bren was losing his shit.
In the end, she gave them freedom by vaulting out of her seat and away from the tangle of sympathetic glances. The whispers started as soon as she melted into the crowd, and she supposed she should just be glad Lex was standing with Dallas. Lex's definition of solidarity didn't involve holding back.
Bren was holding back. The hulking, mohawked brute in the cage slammed another fist into his gut, and Bren took it. He took the next hit too, even though it crashed him into the cage, and Six didn't think he was taking any pleasure in the beating.
He was seeking oblivion, but she was the only one who could give him what he needed.
The problem was making him believe. She'd been working on the words for days, trying to string the ones she knew together in some order that might convince him. But neither of them was good with the words that mattered, and Christ, she of all people knew how hard it was to trust the words you wanted to hear, because wanting to believe was the scariest fucking thing of all.
She couldn't tell him. She had to show him.
If he didn't get himself killed first.
The crowd parted where people noticed her tattoos, but most of the spectators were riveted, completely engrossed in the fight. Bren had had enough, apparently, and the balance of power tilted between two beats of her heart. He went from up against the side of the cage to slamming hit after hit home on his opponent, driving him across the concrete, punishing him for every punch he'd landed.
By the time Six made it to Lex's side, Bren had laid the bastard out cold.
He gestured blindly, an encouraging flick of his hand, but Lex stopped Dallas before he even moved. "No, it's enough. Tell him."
Jasper and Mad were already dragging the cage open to retrieve Bren's fallen opponent. "Wait," Six said, catching Lex's arm. "Let me go in there."
Lex snorted. "Have you lost your mind?"
Maybe. Or maybe she knew the one thing she could give him that would cut through his pain, would show him the sort of trust he'd have to believe. Loving Brendan Donnelly was never going to be passive, but neither was she.
She tightened her fingers and forced Lex to look at her. "Trust me."
After a tense, endless moment, Lex gave in. "All right. Go."
Jasper and Mad dragged the unconscious man past her, leaving her with a clear view of Bren. He was standing by the opposite side of the cage with one hand raised, braced against the chain. His attention was fixed on the couches as the crowd screamed and cheered and shouted at one another over bets made and lost.
When she stepped across the threshold, silence spilled outward. The clang of the door swinging shut was too loud, but Bren didn't turn. From here she could see his bruises, the scrapes and cuts and the blood and pain. So much of it she ached in sympathy.
She didn't let any of that show in her voice. "If this is some jacked-up way of punishing yourself, Donnelly, you should have just let me beat on you."
His spine stiffened. "Is that why you're here?"
"Depends."
He turned to meet her gaze, and his face looked even worse than the rest of him. "On what, sweetness?"
She couldn't help it. One step, two, and then she had his face in her hands, her heart pounding as she wiped blood from his lip with her thumb and swore she wouldn't kill him for letting himself get injured. "I was gonna fuck you, but now I don't know if you can get the job done."
He closed his hands around her wrists, but it was the sudden flare of hope in his eyes that held her still. "Don't joke about that," he whispered thickly. "It's not funny."
"I'm not joking," she replied just as softly. "But we can't do this unless you get who I am. I could peel Russell Miller's skin off for how bad he hurt you, and if you can't wrap your head around that, I'm gonna pound it into something hard until you give up and admit you deserve to be loved. And that I'm the one who gets to do it."
He lifted one hand to her mouth, touching her lower lip with a gentleness that didn't belong in a cage like this. "Did you just say you love me?"
The words spilled out into the uneasy silence, and she knew the closest part of the crowd was straining to hear. Whatever she said next would ripple out, a message passed in whispers until every person in the warehouse knew.
She'd never been more exposed. She'd never cared less.
She slid her hands into his hair and gripped the strands, smiling because it was finally long enough for her to pull. "I love you, Brendan Donnelly," she said clearly and loudly. "And you are mine. Don't you fucking forget it ever again."
"Yes, ma'am." The words barely made it past his lips before his mouth c
rashed down on hers. She tasted the blood of his split lip and didn't care, not when her body was shaking and her blood was roaring in her ears.
Except that wasn't her blood but the crowd, screaming now in anticipation of a different kind of show, the kind encouraged as Bren's hands slid down her body to clutch at her hips. She couldn't forget the gossip she'd heard when she'd first arrived, the whispers of how women would fight to climb into the cage with him after a victory.
Too bad for them. He was hers now, and she issued her final ultimatum as she tore her mouth free. "I'll let you fuck me right here, up against the cage. I'll let you get me off as many times as you want while everyone listens to me scream. I'll give you my body and my heart. But only if you need me. Not want me or like me. Need me."
"I do--" The clank of bars and chain drowned out the rest of the words as he lifted her against the side of the cage. "I love you."
No one would have been able to hear the words over the cheering of the crowd, and that suited her just fine. The admission was hers, something she wasn't ready to share, even though she was ready for damn near anything else.
She wrapped her legs around his hips and raised both arms, weaving her fingers through the wire of the cage. "Make me feel good, Bren. Make us both feel good."
He kissed her again, and his hand eased under her shirt--a careful exploration, like he was rediscovering all the things that made her moan and rock against him. But when he reached her breast, his fingers twisted tight around her nipple with just the right amount of pressure to make her groan.
The catcalling spectators melted away. They didn't disappear--no, that edge of adrenaline was still there, the one that sizzled over her nerves and whispered that she was being reckless, so reckless--but they didn't matter. Bren did, his teeth against her lip, his fingers tugging at her other nipple until a zip of pain slammed through her and turned to pleasure.
"Say it again," she whispered, arching closer to his denim-clad erection and wishing her underwear was already gone.
"I love you." His hands dropped, one to push up her skirt and the other to jerk at his pants. His cock sprang free to rub against her, closer when he dragged her panties aside.
