by Sunniva Dee
“My everything,” I murmur, stroking damp hair away from his forehead. “We’re all right.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “You took some doing. Then again, the good ones don’t come easy, and a guy needs a challenge.”
“I promise you more of those.”
“As long as it doesn’t involve douchebags who belong in jail.”
Somehow that makes me snicker. He shifts me to the bed and sinks over me, tickling me with small kisses while he mutters incoherent complaints about sassy princesses.
I tell him that I’m not a princess. He agrees, says I’m merely a baroness, and I tell him to shaddap again.
And that’s how we get to the dinner after the first course is served. I needed more punishment.
I’ll take my warrior’s punishment any day.
I was twelve when a stranger at a train station taught me the meaning of ugly. He forced himself on me and threatened to kill my family if I told.
I stayed silent, and the ugliness grew.
Now, that word rolls in film clips through my mind. All I’ve done since my best friend, Keyon Arias, left town is cement how ugly I am. Ugly on the inside—deep down to my core. On the outside, I am a vixen. I flash men a smile and make them moan out pleasure I control. Not them. Never them.
After five years of being away, my beautiful boy has come back to town for his father’s masquerade ball. He’s different. Hard muscle supersedes the skin and bone of his once boyish frame. One thing hasn’t changed though: the murderous look in his eyes when he slaughters his opponents. In the ring, I see the bullied boy, all grown up, dominating in ways he couldn’t in high school.
He’s the mayor’s son. The rising MMA fighter. The beautiful one.
I’m not the Paislee Cain of before, not the sweet girl he once knew, the one who chased away his bullies. I’m the town slut. The dirty girl whose shame will never fade no matter how many men I use. He’d disown what I’ve become.
Because beautiful can never love ugly.
PAISLEE
The most vibrant moments of my life flicker through my brain like film clips. If I concentrate long enough, they suck in sound until they become so real they mix in scents from my memories too. Already, I realize today will morph into a clip that’ll join the rest of them—the short version of today, what I’m watching right now.
In this moment, he doesn’t star in a snippet at the back of my brain. He’s almost tangible, himself in ways I haven’t seen him in years.
Heat glistened off him when he strutted into the cage, arms high in preempted victory and with a cocky smile on his mouth. But now, minutes into the match, he’s not smiling anymore, no, because Keyon is fighting hard.
He always did that. Fought hard, I mean. And I wasn’t afraid for him back when I knew him either. Who can be afraid for someone who looks murderous?
I don’t mind his back toward the camera while he delivers the last decisive blow to his opponent; I enjoy the sight of skin and muscles under glaring spotlights and sweat that flies off hair and lashes when he turns.
The local TV station replays Keyon’s knockout in slow motion, while I consider what’s most real; replays like these on a TV screen versus what’s in my brain—those special clips from years ago. I let the thought go and ponder instead how Keyon and what’s-his-name survive the punishment they give each other.
I’ve kept close track of Keyon in the news. This is the first televised event he’s been a part of, so until now I’ve found him on the Internet and in our flimsy newspaper, the Rigita Gazette.
From the first glimpse of his face on TV, I saw the same impatience as before. Wildfire still burns in his eyes, and dedication radiates off him like red-hot quicksilver. In my imagination, Keyon is rattling the starting gates, dying to be freed into a world where he can rule, destroy, feast on his power without inhibitions.
I’ve read about his sport. Fighters can go pro at eighteen, and with Keyon’s talent and his twenty-one years, it must only be a matter of time.
It’s been five years since our high school principal threatened to expel him. I recognize his feral expression, the one he wore so consistently during the last months before his family packed up and moved.
I wish we’d stayed in touch after he left. His film clips remain with me though, and since I found a small photo of him in the Gazette a year ago, I’ve become a veritable stalker. I really, truly have, and I admit that it’s freaky.
But here he is now, on TV, all grown up. He looks so intense. So unafraid. I recall the fear infesting his eyes before everything changed, right when I was learning to tame my own fear. Would things have been different if he were fearless from the start?
They say he took a beating in his last fight. Nothing broken, just some bruised ribs. I scan his back for signs, but the camera focus zooms to his shoulders and head.
The referee screams something, and as Keyon twists to the camera, realization slams into me; I’ve known he was out there, but now my body internalizes it all at once. It is him, without a shred of doubt—I’m face to face with Keyon Arias on the screen, and his chest heaves, not with exertion like in so many of my film clips, but with undefeated energy.
I’m mesmerized by his eyes as he stills. They’re honeyed, not olive-colored. Just like years ago, they fluctuate depending on his mood. I always had a hard time deciding which shade spoke of calm waters.
Those cat eyes stare at the camera, unseeing and full of purpose, and his jaw tics when he clenches his teeth.
Oh I know that expression. I recall him ready to grab classmates by the neck and bash them into the asphalt on the way home from school.
If I interpret him correctly, he’s fighting the urge to deck his contender as the man staggers to his feet. This is new to me. Once Keyon Arias claimed the throne as the terror of our school, he made no attempt to stop until his victim was too exhausted to move.
I used to throw myself over Keyon’s back. He couldn’t beat people with the tentacles of a girl he’d never hurt around his neck.
“Paislee?” Old-Man lifts bushy brows from the doorway to the break room. “You’re watching TV?” He can’t believe what he sees in the middle of my shift. The mirrors are waiting, and if they’re to become gritty artisan-perfect, meeting our trademark standard, every step needs to be carefully monitored and completed within two hours. You don’t take breaks in those two hours.
The mirror waiting for me out there, the one that’s been waiting for ten minutes, might already be yellowing into that sickening color that can’t be considered art.
“Sorry, Old-Man. I’m… I don’t know what happened. I’ll go there now.”
“I put Mack on it,” he rumbles, voice deep for such a skinny man. I always felt deep voices should live in chunkier men.
I wonder how Keyon’s voice sounds now. At the time he moved, it had just changed from his young-boy pitch.
Old-Man’s eyebrows are more expressive than his eyes. Now they sink so far down, his irises morph into muddy half-moons beneath them.
“Can’t lose a mirror, ya know.” He nods, sniffing. Old-Man would never rebuke me. He angles a glance at the referee who’s grabbing Keyon’s arm to prevent him from lunging at his competitor.
“Boxing?” he asks finally.
“MMA—Mixed Martial Arts,” I say. The rickety table next to the couch is too weak to hold the old-fashioned monster of a TV for much longer. “I’ll buy us a better TV stand.”
Old-Man bobs his head. Sniffs again out of habit. He’s been around the mirror fumes for decades, and even when his nose is dry, he’ll sniff. I feel my smile draw up on one side at how much I love this man.
“He’s a hectic one, huh?” he says about Keyon. The words he uses are few and genuine. Only when he’s drunk does he chatter.
“He is.”
“Likes to fight.” Old-Man sucks air in through his teeth. Eases his hands into his overall pockets and rocks on the heels of his feet. “You know him?”
It’s my turn to nod. “T
hat’s Keyon Arias. He used to live here. Keyon was our high school bully,” I reply, and despite myself, my smile blows into a grin.
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It’s rewarding to sit down like this and really think about everyone I’m grateful for, each person who have contributed to the making of my books.
I’m one of those crazy writers who can’t leave my novel alone until it’s off to the formatter. “There’s no such thing as a finished manuscript,” someone once said, and I couldn’t agree more. I’m never one hundred percent content—the longer I keep it on my computer, the more I flick on it.
Yes, I’m my own toughest critic, but thanks to an astonishing group of CPs who are also my author besties, this novel finally became acceptable for release.
D Nichole King, you’re always with me. Through every book baby, you’re there with your unwavering logic, suggestions, and enthusiasm from the start. I don’t want to do this without you. You’re awesome!
Lynn Vroman, your steady hand on edits and the professional, right-on comments on descriptions and language use are my lifeline. You also make me smile big with your kind words. You’re amazing!
Cheryl McIntyre, you too have been with me since my first book. Thank you for your unwavering enthusiasm for my writing, and for your honest and always-timely feedback. I adore you!
Alyson Santos, my newest author bestie, I’m so happy to have you in my life. It’s crazy to think that The Fighter and the Baroness was your first CP task, because not only do you have killer writing chops (blending nicely with my other CPs), but you’re also a natural in terms of CPing. Even after three authors and an editor, you were right on with the issues you found. You helped me lift this book that last step. And from the bottom of my heart, thank you for doing the last proofread for me. You rock! (Pun intended)
Dawn McIntyre, I think there’re only two books you haven’t worked with me on. Your keen eye for typos, your honest feedback to scenes you want more from (winky-face), and your joy over this book made my day. As always, you helped push the quality of my work skyward. You’re so wonderful!
Lots of love to SC Stephens and Dina Littner, two great writers I’ve got much to learn from. I appreciate your support and our chats more than you know.
Again, Kolleen Hinds, my reader who is also an MMA-fighter wife, has been of great help to me. I’m so thankful to have met you, and so excited that you loved this book too. A big thanks also goes out to her husband, Rob Hinds, former pro MMA fighter and now Bellator and UFC referee. You know all the details, and your patience with my detail-prodding is saintly!
I also need to thank April Martin, my beta reader and historic preservation expert, who have given me precious insight into the issues that can go wrong with medieval castles. You can blame April if you for instance never wanted to learn about the dirty downside to bat guano.
Renee McMillan, my other beta reader, again you’ve made me laugh out loud over your colorful outbursts while reading one of my books. Say, did I get you wrong, or did you not like Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth?
To my family, Michael, Nicolas, and Alexandra: I love you so much. Thank you for your patience with this wife and mother you have, who’s always nose-deep in her computer when she’s off Day Job. If it weren’t for your patience, writing could not be my reprieve.
Sunniva’s Angels, you beautiful group of amazing women, thank you for always being there to listen and cheer me on and for spreading the word about my books and me. To the head Angel, Maari Hammond: thank you for keeping me straight, down to scheduling our chats when I’m at my ditziest. You’re the best!
I also have a stunning group of bloggers who share my cover reveals and releases. Thank you so much for always being there for me.
Lastly, to you, the reader: thank you for picking up this book and thank you for enjoying it: you’re awesome. You’re amazing. I adore you. You’re wonderful. And you’re the best!
Sunniva was born and raised in the Land of the Midnight Sun but spent her early twenties making the world her oyster: Spain, Italy, Greece: Southern Europe. Then, Buenos Aires, Argentina. Finally, the United States kept her interest, and after half a decade in California, she now lounges in the beautiful city of Savannah. Sunniva has a Master’s degree in Spanish, which she taught until she settled in as a graduate adviser at an art college in the South.
Sunniva writes New Adult fiction with soul and purpose. Sometimes it’s with a paranormal twist—like in Shattering Halos, Stargazer, and Cat Love. Mostly, it’s contemporary, as in Pandora Wild Child, Leon’s Way, Adrenaline Crush, Walking Heartbreak, Dodging Trains, and now The Fighter and the Baroness.
Sunniva is the happiest when her characters let their emotions run off with them, shaping the stories in ways she never foresaw. She loves her bad boys and her good boys run amok, and like in real life, her goal is to keep you on your toes until the end of each story.
I’m writing this in November of 2016, and I have more projects in the works than I’ve ever had before. Another fighter book is coming up, but I’m not sure if it’s about Jaden or Zeke yet. Cugs’ book is almost finished—he’s Paislee from Dodging Train’s little brother, and for those of you who love rocker romance, I have several good ones in the making.
First, look out for Rocker Shenanigans I, featuring musicians you know from Walking Heartbreak and In the Absence of You—as well as rockers from Alyson Santos’ Night Shifts Black and Tracing Holland! Yes, this is my first co-penned experience, and it will be a Christmas release. I promise you lots of laughter and hotness. Rocker Shenanigans II, also co-penned with Alyson Santos, will be out in the spring of 2017, as will Troy’s book, about the drummer you’ve swooned over from Walking Heartbreak and In the Absence of You.
Remember that all of my books can be read separate from each other. They’re all standalones. It’s up to you how you dig in!
Copyright © 2016 by Sunniva Dee
Cover design by Clarise Tan
Interior design by John Gibson
1st edition November 29th, 2016
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission from the above author of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the various products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
