Page 119 of Embriagado

Immediately after he struck me, I followed his attack with a powerful counterpunch right to the side of his head. Imagine getting hit in the head by a 40 mph punch, with no gloves to soften the blow. Cas collapsed backward, his body hitting the canvas like a sack of potatoes, his limbs going all stiff as he passed out.

This fight, which had lasted less than five minutes, was not nearly enough to satisfy the beast inside me, but reminding myself of why I was here—to show scum like Cas I was better—I instead turned around to face the crowd, only one man in my mind. And once I spotted him, I reached down and brushed my sweaty fingers over the name El Embriagado, embroidered in gold silk on the red satin boxing shorts he’d bought me.

Yeah… that was what was inside the bag.

I’m made out of the poison you love getting drunk on, he’d said, and he was damn right because now, with the adrenaline of the win still rushing through my veins, all I wanted was to have his body pressed to mine, to sink my teeth in his flesh, and to fuck him, just like he’d promised me.

* * *

Ariyan was very clear about the rules.

After a fight ended, I was to go straight to the back room, where I’d be treated for my wounds—if I had any—and stay there until he came to meet me. He’d made it clear that under no circumstances was I to step outside and wander around this place alone, adding that he’d left me water here to drink in case I got thirsty and that there was a washroom if I had to piss. The asshole really took me for a dog.

Considering that bitch enjoyed hitting me without a proper reason on a regular basis, I wasn’t about to go outside and give him an actual excuse to punch me. I mean, if sparring with Gabe earned me a knuckle-duster to the face, I didn’t dare to imagine what else he’d do to me. And besides, wanting to get my prize for winning, I wasn’t about to piss him off. Or maybe I should? I bet our sex would be so much hotter if he were angry⁠—

The door opened and closed, and I looked up to see Ariyan had walked in, still wearing that fox mask. He strode straight to the examination bed I was sitting on, looking like some sexy model in his neat suit. Stopping in front of me, he took off the mask, leaving it on the bed, before he hooked his thumb under my chin and forced it up.

“You got stitches,” he said, examining the cut under my brow.

“It’s nothing.” I smirked.

He pursed his lips, seeming unhappy.

“It will look bad if you show up at the hotel like this.”

“Who gives a shit.”

“I do. Injuries like that might leave a scar.”

“Again. Who gives a shit⁠—”

His eyes shot to mine, rage steaming behind his golden irises, before he looked down at my hands and began checking my bandaged knuckles. While he did, I was left staring at his scar, feeling like shit over being such an idiot.

“I’m sorry. I… I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said, trying to make things better when he dropped my hands.

“Nothing to apologize for.”

He then cupped my jaw again and began studying my face, as if I were his bike or something and he was looking for dents in the shield.

“How did I do?”

“You were fine.”

He let go of my jaw, took his mask from the bed, and was about to move when I reached forward and grabbed his hips, keeping him put.

“Just fine?” I pouted.

His eyes dipped to my hand clutching his body and then up. The message was clear, and I quickly removed it.

“Sorry about that.” I chuckled, raising my hands up in mock surrender.

“The fight was too short.” He turned around and started walking toward the door. “It was over before it even began.”

I jumped off the bed and followed him.

“I saw a chance and took it.”

“The crowd was upset. You could have at least roughed him up a bit more after he was down.”