by Madison Faye
I spent adolescence in France, and then college in the States, at Columbia.
…Only the best for dad’s princess.
Now I’m twenty-two, and recent graduate. But, what does someone like me do with a communications degree from an ivy league school? What does it matter? My trust fund is worth more than anything I’d make in my lifetime with my degree. Not to mention that no one is going to hire the daughter of Jorge Del Campo, famously closed-off and ruthlessly dangerous leader of one of the bloodiest and richest cartels in Mexico. That’d be like Bin Laden’s daughter trying to get a job at Starbucks.
Good fucking luck.
So, I’m back here, as of two weeks ago. But here isn’t the home I grew up in. After my mother, my father moved out to the desert. He built this fortress, next to this weird creepy old fort he bought. The whole province is paid off by him—politicians, policemen, all of it. Out here, he’s a king, and I’m the princess locked in a tower.
“Oh, hang on,” Elena clucks her tongue as her eyes sweep over me. “Is that what you’re wearing tonight?”
Elena is young, and gorgeous, and super cool and hip. I mean she lives most of the time between New York and Madrid, dates gorgeous, rich men, and seems like a freaking movie star to me. She’s taken me out to exclusive cocktail bars back in the city, I can talk pretty openly with her, and she’s even taken to giving me her already read trashy romance novels.
But at the same time, sometimes she still has this old-school formality to her. Like now, with my clothes.
I frown. “Is there a dress code for bareknuckle fights I’m not aware of?”
My aunt rolls her eyes. “Yes, and it involves a lot less cleavage than that.”
“Huh?”
“Catalina, it’s a venue full of drunk, angry men. Put the girls away.” She frowns. “Of course, your father would cut the tongue out of anyone who even said anything to you so, never mind.” She waves her hand. “Wear what you want.”
I sigh. “He would, too.”
She smiles. “My brother just wants to protect you. Boys suck, mija.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t know if boys suck or not because I’ve barely ever even had a conversation with one before my father or my bodyguards made them piss themselves. Let alone date one.”
Elena sighs and gives me a sympathetic look.
“So,” I mumble. “They suck, huh?”
She grins. “Only if you tell them where and how hard to.”
I turn pink sand so does Elena.
“Dios mio!” she gasps, laughing and bringing a hand to her mouth. “I never said that.”
I giggle.
“Look, your dad and I’s father, he was far, far stricter than your farther is to you. Believe me.”
I frown. “Bullshit.”
“Watch your mouth,” she mutters with a frown before she shrugs. “I couldn’t date until…” she frowns. “Well, I didn’t date until he died, actually.”
“When you were eighteen.”
“Yes.”
“I’m twenty-freaking-two.”
She frowns. “Look, I know there hasn’t been many—”
“None,” I mutter. “There have been zero boys.”
She sighs. “Your father… he’ll find the right—”
“Who, another drug kingpin’s son?”
She smiles thinly. “Well, at least you’d have something in common to talk about.”
I grin.
The truth is, there is a man on my brain. My mind drifts to last night, and I blush. No, not a man.
…A beast.
A demon. The single most beautiful devil I’ve ever laid eyes on. A monster of a man, towering a foot over the other guys in the ring. A man built of pure muscles and ink and sweat and blood.
He should terrify me. He should have haunted my dreams last night. But he didn’t haunt them, he commanded them.
I blush wildly as it all comes rushing back.
In my dreams, he came for me. He tore my clothes off, and just took me, like a man from one of Elena’s old romance novels. I woke up panting, shivering, and wet. So, so sinfully wet. But not as sinful as the thoughts I had while touching myself after, of him.
The monster.
Even now, my thoughts swirl back to watching him down in the ring last night—the way his huge body moved like lightning, or like a dancer. The way those insane muscles rippled and clenched savagely, the tattoo ink rolling sensually. I remember his fierce but absolutely gorgeous face—the chiseled jaw, the haunting dark eyes, the mop of dark hair.
I swallow quickly and turn to Elena.
“Is that…” I blush again. “The man from last night—the…the beast.” I rake my teeth over my bottom lip. “Is he fighting tonight? The beast, I mean.”
Elena arches a brow, and she shivers.
“Ay, the monster?” her eyes search mine, and I quickly look away, trying to play it nonchalantly.
He’s a monster, yes. I mean I saw what he did to those men last night. But any red-blooded woman on earth would look at him and feel desire.
“Hush Hush,” Elena whispers.
I frown. “That’s his name?”
“It’s what they call him. He doesn’t talk.”
I frown. “Like he can’t talk, or he doesn’t?”
Elena shrugs. “I have no idea, Catalina.”
“Is he like the others who fight?”
My father doesn’t punish people with forcing them to fight, contrary to popular rumor. The men in his ring are the worst kind of criminals—cold-blooded murderers, rapists, men who hurt children. They deserve no pity. And for a second, the idea of my monster being one of them, like them, makes my stomach churn.
“Oh, no,” Elena shakes her head. “No, Hush Hush is different, or so I hear. He owes your father money or did him wrong. I don’t know.” She shrugs. “He’s a bit of a mystery.”
She eyes me, and she starts to shake her head as she arches a brow.
“Oh no no no, mija,” she laughs. “I see that look in your eyes.”
I blush deeply, hoping to God my thoughts weren’t that obvious on my face.
“Keep it to your dreams, girl,” Elena grins before her face hardens. “Make no mistake, mija. Your father’s dog is a beast, not a man.” She wags a finger. “Remember that. Now come on, let’s go to this silly spectacle.”
We step out of my bedchamber, and two big men in black suits with automatic rifles fall into step behind us.
Elena rolls her eyes and turns to glare at them. “If we’re going to be kidnapped or hurt in here, you’ve already failed your jobs, no?”
The men say nothing, and she hisses and waves a hand.
“Ay, forget it,” she snaps, turning back to me. “Come on. “Let’s go see this blood sport and get it over with so we can have dinner.”
I can already hear the crowds cheering as we step into the huge, walled courtyard of my father’s fortress desert home. We move towards the old fort beside it, where the fighting pit is. Helicopters land on helipads on the other side of the fort, and there are fancy black armored cars pulling up as well.
Tonight must be a big fight.
We’re joined by more guards who escort us inside and up to the big glassed-in box seats high above the ring. The lights go dim as we take seats, and the crowd goes wild.
“Atención!” The announcer booms over the loudspeaker. “Señors et señoritas!”
He goes on to hype up the fight, and to remind everyone that betting is about to close. He thanks the “esteemed guests of Señor Del Campo,” and when he mentions “the beast” fighting tonight, my pulse quickens sinfully.
“Diez hombres!”
My private little heated smile fades in a second, and I whip my head around to stare at Elena.
“Did they just say he’s fighting ten men?”
Elena makes a face, nodding. I turn back, chewing on my lip and frowning as a door opens and a horde of evil looking guys with baseball bats charge into the ring.
/> “And now, presenting!” the announcer booms as the lights begin to flash dramatically. “El perro! El diablo! The one and only, Beast!”
And then, I hear it. It starts down in the cheap seats, as a murmuring chant.
“Hush.”
“Hush.”
“Hush. Hush. Hush. Hush. Hush!”
I turn to Elena again. “They’re really having one guy fight ten armed guys?”
She makes a sour face and turns to raise a hand at the bartender across the room. “Tequila,” she mutters thinly before turning to me. “You want one?”
I shake my head and look back at the ring. I want to look away, but I can’t. The idea of him fighting all of them…
I pale, biting my lip.
They’re going to kill him. No one can fight ten armed attackers by themselves, that’s impossible.
The crowd keeps chanting his name, and suddenly, the door opposite the one the ten guys came through swings open. The crowds go wild, and suddenly, from out of the shadows, there he is.
My beast.
I blush, feeling a thrilling tingle tease through my body, through my core to send heat between my thighs. His face is blank, but gorgeous. He’s shirtless, all muscles and tattoo ink. And he’s freaking huge.
He steps into the ring, eyeing the guys across from him and then turning to scan the crowd. I stare right at him, barely breathing, my hands clenched tight. But then instantly, like he knows somehow, his eyes dart up to the box until he’s staring right at me. I gasp sharply, but he just holds my gaze.
And he grins.
I shiver, and my heart flips. Heat pools between my thighs, and a raw desire burns inside of me.
…Something is very, very wrong with me.
The bell rings, my beast pulls his eyes away from me, and then, it’s on. The beast—Hush Hush—turns once more, and again, his eyes find mine. He holds them, raw fire blazing in those captivating dark pools even from way up here. The men start to advance on him, but he doesn’t turn away. He doesn’t blink, up until the very last second.
And then, silent as always, he turns towards his foes, and the crowd roars.
Chapter Three
Hush
My vision swims. My head weighs a million pounds. Blood trickles into my eyes, half blinding me.
…Okay, ten might be pushing it.
Seven already lay dead or crippled at my feet. The other three are hurt, but so am I. Five of the ten had blades, and a few have found their mark on my body. The pain in my side burns hot, and I know that’s a bad one—right between the ribs. The bat to the head didn’t help, making me foggy, and slow.
Don’t look. Don’t look at her.
But I do. I lift my eyes to that glassed-in VIP box up above the stands, and my gaze burns into her again. Strength roars through me, and I turn back with a growl to the other three.
Fuck this waiting game.
I charge first, barreling right towards them like a fucking train engine. The first one screams, and when I grab his knife hand and twist sharply, he screams worse. He won’t use that wrist again.
I slam an elbow into his face, and the lights go out. I turn, growling as the bat slams into my shoulder. It swings again, and this time it fucking splinters over my back, and God fucking damnit that hurts. The darkness closes in, and I know I’ve got seconds left.
Kill or be killed. It’s the only way I’m walking out of here tonight.
A week ago, even, I’d have admitted that this was the end of a long, broken road—that this was the last ride. But with her up there?
No.
This will not be the end. Because I haven’t claimed her yet.
My desert rose.
Snarling, I turn, grab one, pick him up in the air, and throw him at the second. They tumble in a heap, and I’m all over then. I roar like a lion as I slam into them, grabbing them both up by the necks. My muscles tense, my jaw clenches, and with a sickening crunch, I slam both men together. The lights snuff out, and the crowd lunges to their feet as I toss the two men’s bodies down at my feet.
Death smiles on me.
…Fuck you, death.
I manage to open my eyes once more as the darkness closes in. I look up, and I see her. I see my angel, and I know it’s the end.
Darkness surrounds me. But, I’m alive, somehow.
I blink and open my eyes, only to close them again. I’m aware of lights, and beeping sounds, and hands holding me down while people murmur somberly in Spanish. I’m on a table, and blood covers me. The hands holding me down aren’t malicious, I can tell. But I grunt and try to sit up anyways. The hands push me down, and I’m so fucking weak, I can only fall back to the table. Something sticks into my neck, and I fade out.
Maybe I’m finally dead for real.
Time passes, but I have no idea how much of it. My dreams are feverish, and violent. I dream of the night I basically died, back at that clubhouse, back in my old life. Back then, I ran with a crew called the Lost Devils—this rag-tag group of fucking outcasts and outlaws. My dreams tear me back into that clubhouse, the night of the party where we were betrayed—the night we were slaughtered like pigs.
I twitch and clench, feeling the rip and puncture of every bullet that cut through me that night. I was drunk, and high, but I still felt all five bullets that tore into me. I felt my life drip-dripping out of me, lying on the floor surrounded by my dead friends. I felt the blackness close in on me as they zipped up the body-bag—my pulse so nonexistent apparently that the on-site coroner thought I was gone.
I dream of waking up in a morgue, on a table, in a fucking body bag, and scaring the ever-loving-fuck out of the examiner. I dream of pressing the wad of blood-soaked Benjamins into his hands, barely able to speak the words to tell him to sew me up.
The darkness closes back in, and I fade away. And then, I awake from the dead, one more time.
It’s dim in the room, but I can sense light through my closed eyes. I keep them closed as I breathe, trying to assess the damage. My hand slides over my ribs, feeling the thick bandage there where the knife cut into me. I feel the other bandage on my shoulder from God even knows which hit. I’ve got some new scars and stitches. But I’m alive.
Ten on one, armed against unarmed. And yet here I am, alive.
Not bad, I mutter to myself. I start to sit up, and I hiss as the pain lances through me.
“Wait, no,” a soft voice whispers.
I go still. I start to turn, but it’s too fast, and I wince. My vision swims, and I sink back onto the table.
“Wait, you need to rest,” the voice says softly again.
I shake my head, grunting as I go to sit up again. But this time, I realize my other hand is shackled to the table, and I growl.
“Please, wait.”
I frown. The voice—it’s soft. It’s sweet. It’s kind. I go still again, turning towards it, and slowly, my eyes open.
And I look up into the face of an angel.
She blushes.
“I—you’re okay,” she says gently.
I nod, just staring at her—her, my desert rose. My angel. The girl from the fights I’ve seen twice now, and who I can’t get out of my head for a single instant. What the fuck is she doing here?
I ignore the pain as I glance around the room. I’ve been here before, though never in quite this bad shape. It’s the recovery room attached to a small clinic that Jorge uses to patch up his fighters if need be—not out of compassion, but so that they can fight another day.
I stiffen, and my eyes narrow as I turn back to her.
“I—” she blushes and looks down. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
She swallows and looks around the dark clinic room.
“I—I’m not supposed to be here.”
No shit.
“But I had to make sure you were okay,” she says once again as she drags her eyes back to mine.
“Why?”
The word startles even me, and I realize I’m not even su
re when the last time I uttered a word out loud was. Probably a year or more. So my word comes out cracked—a croaked growl of a word, like my vocal chords are remembering how to function.
She blinks in surprise.
“I—I didn’t know you could talk.”
I just hold her gaze. Fuck is she beautiful.
“Why?” I grunt again.
She smiles shyly. “Why did I check on you?”
I nod.
“Because,” she blushes. “I don’t know what you did, but no man deserves what I just watched out there. I mean, ten on one?”
I shrug.
“And I hear you live in a cage? A jail cell?”
She’s speaking to me in fluent American-English, but there’s also just the faintest lilt of an accent—this gorgeous layer of texture that makes her more alluring than she already is. Her tan, bronzed skin, dark silky hair, full, pouty red lips, and those fucking eyes.
Jesus.
I nod again at her.
“Well, no one deserves that,” she frowns. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
I nod again silently. Part of me wonders how the fuck she’s so oblivious that she’s standing so close to me, like right over me. It’s like watching someone at the zoo press their face to the tiger’s cage.
She chews on her lip. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
“Nope.”
She grins, and it’s the first bit of sunshine I’ve seen in literally years. She leans over me, and my eyes drop to her chest.
Fucking hell.
She not even wearing anything that revealing or extra sexy, but her blouse is open maybe one button too much. It’s the most female skin I’ve seen in years, and it takes all of a quarter of a second for my cock to grow rock fucking hard, thickening and throbbing in my jeans.
I sit up, but I grunt, remembering that I’m chained to the table as the handcuff bites into my wrist. I growl, and pain lances through my temple.
“Shit,” she hisses. “Hang on, you’ve got a gash up here, and I think you just pulled a stitch.”
I can feel the sticky ooze of blood, and I watch as she leans over me, dabbing at it. Fuck, she smells like jasmine and vanilla, and I want to inhale her.
