We return to his apartment, and despite the distance between him and the bar, he hasn’t calmed down. If anything, he’s even more riled up, pacing the narrow living room like a caged animal while I watch him warily from my seat on the couch.
Things about him stick out to me that shouldn’t. How impossibly tall he is, and how beautiful, even at his scariest. My spine is taut with tension as I wait for him to turn all that violent energy on me. For him to rouse that sleepy, primal part of me that all those years of prayer and community service were meant to suppress. He alone brings every dangerous impulse to the surface, and I wonder if this is how Eve felt while gazing at the apple of knowledge.
Like the one thing everyone else told her to run away from, she was compelled to chase. Reach for. Experience in full, no matter the cost. But while Eve’s transgression damned the entire human race, the only casualty of my selfishness will be me. The only one damned is me.
Being with Daze will destroy me—I know it in my soul. Just as surely as I know that I deserve everything I have coming to me for turning my back on Hale when he needed me most. But the hardest part to reconcile is how much I crave that destruction.
So, I provoke him, though admittedly, I’m not sure why he would take offense to this question. “Who are you, really?”
Perhaps not the deadbeat, carefree person he pretends to be.
“You hinted to Silas that there was a reason you stayed away from Sammy. What is it?”
He whips around, those stormy eyes flashing. After a momentary hesitation, he keeps going, storming into the kitchen. “I’m not in the mood, Frey—”
“I’m not trying to start a fight,” I clarify. “I just want to know.”
Something in my tone makes him stop short. His back is to me, his head cocked, shoulders radiating tension. “Who am I,” he begins in a low tone. All at once, he whirls on me, and I’m paralyzed, rooted to the couch cushions. “Didn’t you hear them? I’m a coward. A shitty fucking excuse for a father. A traitor—”
“You helped me,” I point out, though I’m not sure if it’s meant to counter his argument. Perhaps saving me was yet another crime added to his growing list. He lied to me. Went against Hale’s wishes. He lured me into his safe harbor even though he didn’t have to.
Why? Out of the kindness of his heart? A part of me scoffs at that. Of course not.
“Why?” I ask him outright.
He comes closer, his eyes heavy-lidded, his jaw clenched tight. After observing me for a long moment, he shrugs. “Why not?”
“But that’s not it,” I say. Feeling bold, I stand up and take a step toward him. What I witnessed in the bar was a mere fraction of the turmoil he feels inside. I used to pride myself on being available to anyone in need. Why stop now? “You wanted something from me,” I add. “Didn’t you?”
He sighs and rakes a hand through his shorn hair, revealing how uneven a trim it is. “And if I did?”
“I want to help you,” I admit. Why? I have no idea. “Tell me what’s wrong. I won’t judge you. Just talk to me.”
“Talk?” He’s even closer. Without warning, his hand shoots out, grabbing my chin. It’s such a gentle touch that I stiffen in shock. He can be so disarming when he wants to be. So unexpected from the fire and brimstone I’d always believed would follow any sin I chose to commit.
“We can start with why everyone keeps mentioning you being in prison.”
His upper lip quirks into a devious smirk, but the amusement doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Almost in prison. I have Silas and your father to thank for that.”
I blink. “Because of his campaign?”
“You know what, I don’t want to talk,” he murmurs, boring his gaze into mine. “Give me your phone.”
“W-what?”
He holds out his hand, palm side up. “Trust me.” He takes my phone and immediately shakes his head. “No passcode?”
I don’t understand the reasoning behind his scoff. “Why would I need a passcode?”
He looks away. Focusing on the screen, he suddenly tenses. After swiping at the screen, he looks up to meet my questioning stare. “I turned your location services off.”
“Why?”
“So, you can’t be easily tracked.”
“What do you mean?”
“And I’m shutting it off,” he states, powering it down before placing it inside a kitchen drawer. “To be safe.”
I anxiously blink up at him. “Okay.”
“So naïve,” he sighs, brushing my hair behind my shoulder with his fingertips. “Still want to help me?”
It’s a taunt, concealed in a dare, and I feel like we’re back in his gym, on the verge of a monumental decision.
“Yes,” I say, surprised by how honest the word comes out sounding. “I want to.”
Daze steps toward me, backing me against a wall until I’m pinned to it. He towers over me, and I have to strain my neck to look up at him. Without wasting another second, he smashes his lips on mine. His hands roam my body, leaving a warm, tingling sensation in their wake.
I lean into the kiss, fisting his shirt at his chest. A feeling of longing builds up inside me. Being with him just feels right. Despite all the many reasons I should be fearful, I feel safe in his presence. Protected.
I shouldn’t feel this way.
Daze seems to think so too. He eyes me in such a strange way. It’s like he can clearly read every thought in my head, but they just confuse him. Irritate him worse than my speaking out loud had.
“Do you really think you can handle me, Frey?” he asks in a tone that makes my stomach drop through my body and hit the floor. “Really handle me?”
I don’t think he expects an answer. Without warning, he grasps my waist and yanks me closer. Before I know it, his hands creep toward the hem of my dress, but mine? They fan out over his chest, sensing the coiling muscle twitching beneath his shirt. He makes a low sound at the sensation, and our eyes meet.
“I know what you think of me,” he says, and I shudder. Could he really gauge me so easily? “I saw it all over your face back there,” he adds. “That I’m a piece of shit. A punk. That I shouldn’t be anywhere near someone like you—” He does that thing with my hair again, grasping a chunk of the wig between his thumb and forefinger to twist around. He tugs slightly harder than normal dislodging the wig before tossing it aside to grip my natural hair. When he’s done, he doesn’t smooth the hair back into place. He lets it dangle apart from the rest. Next, his gaze goes to my cross and stays there. “Maybe I am those things… But you’re still here. Still with me. Why is that?”
The potential answer seems to matter to him, though I don’t know why. I can’t stop myself from fingering my necklace as I mull over a possible explanation and come to a grim conclusion—there isn’t one. I’m still here—even when his eyes take on a fathomless quality that makes him resemble the frightening stranger I’ve only caught glimpses of before now. The real Daze he seems determined to suppress.
For whatever reason, the very enigma of him intrigues me like nothing else. Finally, I say, “Maybe you need me to stay.” I can’t look at him, and eye the floor instead, still twisting my chain around my finger. “I’m not used to feeling needed.”
At least, not by anyone other than Hale, who I failed. The other men in my life would deny such an accusation. Colton would murmur something about both of us only needing prayer, nothing else.
Daze doesn’t argue, though. He bites his lip and deliberately flicks my cross with his thumb. It doesn’t feel like a dismissive gesture. More like his silent way of answering his own question—this is why you’re here. You’re too good. I’m too bad. You can’t resist, can you? It’s only natural that you want to save my soul.
“If we do this… We do this differently than before,” he says, referring to something far more ominous than mere conversation. “I’m not in the mood for cuddling right now, Frey.” His body pulsates with an electric quality. He means that.
But in my limited repertoire of sinful acts, I have no idea what exactly he intends. “How?”
“First, you turn around,” he boldly instructs. From his pocket, he grabs an item he must keep on him at all times—a foil packet. One that he expertly rips open with his teeth. “And bend over the couch.”
My chest tightens. He’s using that guttural, unfamiliar voice again, but it doesn’t scare me the way it should. My heart seems to beat faster as if to match the rugged cadence of it. A crazy thought comes to mind—if I were angry and Colton was around, he’d tell me to pray. Meditate. Something as vulgar as sex can’t possibly be useful in such a situation, right?
Wrong, at least where Daze is concerned. He seems to thrive on physicality rather than spiritual endeavors. Oddly enough, I can’t deny that there may be appeal in his method. When I’m with him, I can’t think about anything else. Nothing.
I watch him hook his thumb beneath the waistband of his jeans, eager to take them off.
Ignoring the logical part of my brain warning me to run, I turn around. Then I lean forward and grip the arm of the couch.
“Good girl.”
He groans amid the telltale hiss of fabric sliding against skin. The two thumps I hear next must be him stepping out of the material and closer to me. What feels like his hand nudges my legs apart before ghosting up my thigh. He removes the knife first, and my panties follow. Then, his hand returns, wrenching up my dress to brush me intimately with what feels like the broad pad of his thumb. Then the contact withdraws, and a wall of muscle presses into my lower back. Then his hands on my hips. Finally, him. He enters me without warning.
The ache between my legs returns in full force, and I still can’t get over how I’d been taught this was such an awful sin. How can it be when any pain I feel is followed immediately by pleasure—a harsh, euphoric mixture of the two? His invasion of my body isn’t the only sensation I’m reacting to.
It’s his touch. He wrenches himself into me, ensuring that there is very little of me he can’t contact from this angle. His hand grips the back of my neck, driving me down. Startled, I dig my nails into the worn-out material of the cushions and push back against him, meeting each thrust.
Before, he went slower, letting me adjust to his pace. This time it feels feral. Savage. He takes me punishingly, slamming his hips into mine, seemingly without care if he goes too rough.
At the same time, used and abused isn’t what I feel. I feel… Burning heat. Wetness pools between my thighs, and I’ve never felt so consumed. My back arches, straining the angle he has me in so I can feel more of him. In response, his hand briefly grazes my pelvis before he slips it between my legs, tracing his fingers over the sensitive flesh there. My senses are heightened. I can feel each deliberate touch in a way I never have before. Like his fingers alone drive out any shame or taboo. Groaning, he presses into me, right near where we’re joined, rotating his fingers in slow, precise circles.
“So wet,” he lets out, slamming into me harder, sending me toppling onto the couch cushions. For leverage, he firmly grasps my shoulder with his other hand, keeping me in place as he drills into me relentlessly. “You like this cock, baby?”
He sounds as unsteady as he moves—as though with every passing second, any semblance of politeness he put on is crumbling. He’s vulgar. Primal.
I nod, unable to form words. My face flames at the word choice, but for some reason… I don’t take offense to it. The feeling washing through my belly in response feels just as dangerous as the pressure inflicted by his still-teasing fingers. I tilt my head, offering my ear to him, and he nudges the earlobe with his mouth.
“I need you to tell me what it feels like when I fuck you like this. Run that pretty mouth. No one from your precious church can hear you here. It’s just me.”
I bite my bottom lip to stifle my moans, but they slip out, betraying me.
“Don’t be shy,” he grunts, leaning his body over mine. Something sharp nips at my earlobe. His teeth? “I want to hear you, Frey. I need to.”
There is no explanation to soften the request. My brain plays with it, parsing out a meaning he probably didn’t intend. He needs me and no one else. Just this feeling. Just my body. Just me. With that thought in my head, he enters me more deeply, grinding his pelvis against mine.
And shock startles me into obeying him. “Amazing,” I rasp out. Another moan follows. Then a gasp as he slams into me again. I’m no longer holding back, and the broken, breathless sounds seem to incite something within him. “It feels amazing.”
His hand fists through my hair, guiding me to turn my head until I’m staring endlessly into his eyes.
“Yeah?” he asks, grasping more of my hair, pulling tight. In the same breath, he runs his mouth over my shoulder, grating out a command as he goes. “Tell me what you want. Don’t pretty it up, either. You give me that honesty you love so much.”
There are so many things I could say. Dilemmas that should matter far more than being in this room with him. Should…
“Come on, Frey.” He moves again, and my eyelids flutter. At the same time, a sudden tension on my throat makes me glance down. The chain of my necklace is stretched taut, but it takes me a second to realize why—he has my cross trapped between his teeth.
“D-Don’t break it,” I manage to croak. Then I realize that he’s nipping the charm gently, to the point that I could easily pull it free if I wanted. It’s such a breathtaking sight—like he has my very soul pinched between his teeth, his to destroy at a moment’s notice. He pulls tighter, the chain biting at my skin.
“You wouldn’t be the same without it, would you?” he asks, choosing to nuzzle my throat instead. “Sweet little, Frey.” Suddenly, he slams into me harder. Again, and again. “Tell me what you fucking want. Loud and clear for the whole damn world to hear.”
He thrusts again, and a searing heat tears through my body, robbing me of anything but this. Him.
“You,” I hear someone gasp—but that can’t possibly be me. Another woman must be responsible, sounding seconds from coming undone. “I just want you,” she croaks.
And Daze seems to mistake her for me. “Such a good fucking girl,” he praises into my skin. He tugs on my hair, drawing my head to the side, which exposes my neck to him. “That’s right. Me. So. Take. It. Frey.” Brushing his lips along my throat and then shoulder, he sinks into me. “Every fucking inch of me.”
He rocks within me, again and again, stimulating parts of me I never even knew existed. I arch my back and match each stroke, creating the perfect rhythm. He makes it so easy to follow him. Chase that insurmountable feeling. That ultimate…
“Do you want to come?” he taunts, once again reading my thoughts. At first, I struggle to grasp what he means. Come? Oh. The name for that senseless oblivion that awaits the end of these sinful moments with him. “You’re close,” Daze adds, his voice taunting as if he knows a secret I don’t.
Close. I’m trembling, and so is he. Pulsing. Our bodies are thick with sweat. Breathing is shallow.
“Can you feel it?”
“Yes,” I manage to choke out.
“Then beg me.” Thrust. “For.” Thrust. “It.”
I have no choice but to try. “Please—”
“You can do better than that.” His laughter resembles a growl, resonating through my skin in unsettling vibrations. “Beg me.”
Another searing thrust robs me of the ability to speak. Gasping, I claw at the fabric beneath me and struggle for clarity.
“Daze—”
“Fucking beg,” he commands, eying the dangling chain from my neck before grasping my cross in the palm of his hand and pulling tight.
A terrible thought comes to me, and I’m too breathless to stifle it the way I should. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
Again, and again.
“Please!” I desperately moan, wanting nothing more. “Please.”
He slams into me harder, firmly gripping my ass cheek with one hand and curving his fingers around my throat with the other. “Try again.”
“Please, Daze,” I rush out helplessly. “I need this. Please. Please.”
“Thatta girl,” he groans with amusement. “You feel it now?”
And I do. Like a wave crashing over me, drowning out all sense. All reason.
“I’m—I’m there,” I breathe softly as he shifts slightly, planting his palms on the sofa near each side of my head.
“That’s it, baby,” he urges, quickening his pace. “That’s my good little slut. Come all over my cock.”
I whimper through a feeling of pure bliss. “Oh, God, yes!”
“Clench your pussy around me, baby. Just like that,” he praises, dropping to his elbow, holding me close. “You feel so fucking good. Ah, fuck. Fuck, Frey! Fuck!”
His release sounds more violent than mine. He howls and falls forward, crushing me beneath him.
* * *
We get dressed in the same clothing we’d been wearing. Him in his coarse jeans and me in my hooker getup, wig included. I wish I could be as collected as he is. Sex seems to do more for him than prayer ever did for me, but I’m not so soothed. My hands are shaking. I can’t stop looking over my shoulder just to make sure he actually is okay. One glance, and I realize that he isn’t. Not really. Just beneath the surface lurks that rage. That unstable anger. He’s just better at hiding it now, and with a sigh, he leads the way to the door.
By the time we leave the apartment building, it’s dark out, and I’m hesitant to ask where exactly we’re headed.
I doubt this “fight” will occur in a mundane location like his gym, given the grim hype placed on it by Chris and Silas. Sure enough, Daze leads me to his bike and silently adjusts the helmet on my head.
Not even ten minutes later, he’s pulling into an alleyway surprisingly close to Chris’ bar, near yet another seemingly rundown building. Far too soon, we wind up before a battered metal door. Rather than open it, Daze knocks once. At the same time, he grips my wrist so hard I wince. That drowning man comparison floats to the forefront of my mind again—he holds me like he’s seconds from going under.
Maybe it’s stupid to do so, but I can’t stop myself from dislodging his grip in order to grasp his hand, curling my fingers over his. He grips them tight but doesn’t look my way once. Instead, he squares his chin and audibly grits his teeth. “Here goes,” he hisses as the door opens and someone ushers us in with a gruff greeting.
“So, you decided to show up.”
“In the flesh,” Daze replies. His shoulders hunch as he steps inside, still tugging me after him.
It’s cramped in here. Only the light from outside is enough to illuminate a narrow hallway with a door branching off at one end. Faint commotion emanates from it as the entrance we came through is slammed shut, plunging everything into darkness.
“Silas already had everything set up,” the figure who let us in explains as Daze leads me forward, keeping his hand in mine. “I guess he figured you wouldn’t chicken out. I bet that bastard made a pretty penny. I had it two to one that you’d bail. No one shows up to a public hanging for no fucking reason—”
“Hello to you too, Boris,” Daze cuts in. He must open the other door because fresh light floods in, illuminating him and the imposing figure beside him. A tall guy with long dark hair and a face that resembles one of the beaten punching mats at Daze’s gym. “It was nice catching up,” Daze tells him. “But if you don’t mind, I have a date.”
He tugs me behind him, and I clench my teeth against a complaint. He’s actually hurting me now, holding too tight. Way too tight.
Oh yes, he’s drowning... But how can I possibly keep him from going under? Especially when I have no idea what exactly he’s gotten us into.
“Hey! Watch out, baby.”
“Huh?” I blink, registering our surroundings for the first time. I’d been so caught up in my head that I didn’t notice the dank hallway switching to a massive room with a concrete floor and a chain-link cage fighting ring in the center.
And people.
So many damn people.
They crowd around rows of metal folding chairs, wearing various versions of dark leather and jeans. Drinking beer and chattering, they barely seem to notice me or the man dragging me along the outskirts of the space.
A tense vibe instantly sets my nerves on edge. Pulsing music seems to resonate down to the foundation of the building, rattling the faded posters taped to the walls. My nostrils wrinkle at the stench of booze in the air. That and sweat. It’s like the smell at his gym times a million.
“What is this place?” I have to shout to be heard above the chaos.
Daze grunts without answering as he sidesteps a kissing couple, tugging me along.
“Hey! Daze?”
The voice comes from up ahead, and Daze stops short, so suddenly I nearly run into him. My hand flies out, grasping his arm as I stumble to regain my balance. Before I can, he shifts, pulling me forward, and his arm encircles my waist, hovering way too low.
I’m a bone once again—his alone.
“Hey, Darla,” he says as my mind reels. Not for the first time, his change in tone throws me off. It’s deep. Cautious. Hostile?
Maybe. But in a very different way than he’s confronted Silas. Looking at the slender woman standing before us, I have no idea why.
As horny as Daze pretends to be, he should be drooling.
Not inching away, dragging me with him like a security blanket. My eyes latch onto her hair first—long, blond curls that most definitely aren’t a wig. I catch myself self-consciously tugging on the synthetic strands ghosting my shoulders. As I do, the woman eyes my fingers, and her lips quirk.
“Daze,” she chirps, drawing his name between a pair of plump, pink lips. “I’m surprised you showed up. Though, I see you have a new friend tonight.” I choke at the insinuation, but Daze’s arm pins me even tighter.
“Yeah,” he says. He doesn’t look at me, but I can practically hear him telepathically urging me to “play along.”
“Oh.” The woman’s eyes cut in my direction while I focus on her itty-bitty pink tank top and matching miniskirt. A pang of jealousy shoots through me—she has legs for days, coming up to Daze’s chin in height. “Shame. I hope you’ll still visit me later, though. We used to have such fun, you and I.”
My jaw clenches tight. Daze draws me closer.
“Sorry,” he grunts, and something flashes across his gaze. An apology? A warning? I’m not given a chance to decipher it before he lowers his head, pressing his mouth to mine. Warmth seeps from his lips as he nudges mine apart with a single flick of his tongue.
Colton would never be so bold. I think that’s why I lean into him without thinking it through. Not because I want this. Enjoy this...
Or, perhaps I do, and I’m simply trying to convince myself otherwise.
As if he aims to prove me wrong, he leans in. Applies more pressure. Then he steps into me, gripping my chin with one hand, tilting my head to the side. Held captive in such a way, I can only relent to the onslaught.
He doesn’t peck my lips to prove a point—he kisses me feverishly. The way men do in movies—the bad movies I wasn’t allowed to watch that had nothing to do with God or the holy tenants my father preaches. Daze is without restraint, without piety. Without morals.
His tongue slips in, perilously deep, but I don’t stiffen like I should. I don’t bite down. I don’t push him out.
I close my eyes and arch my back into him. Fire creeps along my body, recalling his touch. His roaming hands and panting breath. His…
Unexpectedly, he pulls away and shoots Darla a strained version of his charming grin. “I’ve got plans tonight. See ya around.”
He practically shoves me forward toward a corner of the room. Craning my head back, I watch him, trying to decide what that really meant. An act? I should want it to be that simple. I should…
“I owe ya,” he mutters as if reading my mind. Is that confirmation that it meant nothing?
“Okay,” I stammer, collecting my breath.
“This way.” He keeps me close as we weave through the rowdy crowd. Soon enough, we make our way into what appears to be a locker room. Daze shoots a taunting stare at a man smoking something in the corner. “Beat it,” he orders.
The other man complies, scurrying out into the hall.
Daze slams the door behind him and rests his palms against the solid, metal frame. He draws in a short breath, his shoulders tensing.
“Are you alright?” I dare to ask, standing helplessly in the center of the room.
“Peachy,” he answers smugly before turning to face me. “You want a tour?” He steps further into the room, glancing around. “Lockers,” he points out, gesturing to them with a subtle wave of his hand. “More lockers. Some showers. Oh, and a bench.”
I raise an eyebrow, unsure as to where this is going. “And taking time to fight someone gets me closer to answers about Hale…how?”
His expression transforms instantly as his mouth loses its playful tilt. “Because the fight isn’t what’s important. Who’s watching? That is. It’s hard to draw them out these days, the real bastards calling the shots. Seeing me potentially get my ass beaten? That might do it. You just need to pay attention. Look for anyone who shouldn’t be here. You’ll know when you see them.”
“That’s cryptic.” More so than he usually is. My head swims. Once again, he’s speaking in riddles, but I also sense this is one of the most direct things he’s said to me. Pay attention. I find myself practicing that command on him first. Despite his apparent bravado, he’s still tense with restless energy. Whatever he expects to happen, it isn’t good. He’s worried. I can’t stop myself from reaching out, brushing my fingers along his arm.
“Are you okay?”
“No.” He sighs, closing the space between us. “Fuck,” he breathes, barely any sound to his voice. I lean into his touch as he cups my face with his hand. “How can I want to bury myself inside you again so soon?”
My lips part, although I remain silent.
He studies me for a while, lightly stroking the contours of my face with the pad of his thumb. “Now she’s quiet,” he observes, smirking. “I remember when I could hardly get you to shut the fuck up.”
“I didn’t know you were a liar then,” I quip, only to instantly regret it. “I didn’t mean that—”
“You did,” he counters, but his eyes gleam in a way that makes my chest tighten. A matching smile shapes his lips, and I’m dizzy at the sight. “That’s what I like about you, Frey. You’re honest as shit. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”
“But you aren’t being honest,” I say, feeling bold enough. “Who am I looking for exactly? You keep dancing around the topic. Is that all I can expect from you? Mind games and lies?”
He doesn’t take offense. If anything, he seems amused by the banter. Like he’s not used to fighting with words—just his fists.
“That’s not all you can expect,” he says.
Before I realize it, we’re closer. My eyes bore into his, and he openly stares back, his head cocked in concentration. All hints of his smirk immediately fade until his mouth is pressed in a firm, straight line. Maintaining eye contact, he inches even closer.
“What you’re about to witness isn’t going to be pretty,” he warns, tracing my lips with his thumb, although I’m too busy trying to silence my thoughts to truly hear him. “Are you still with me, Frey?” he asks, tapping my temple. “Get out of that head, will you?”
He makes it sound so easy, though… Around him, it is. I can step outside of myself, if only for a second, and let him fill the empty space grief has left behind. I’m not oblivious to how pathetic that sounds. I think it’s why I crave the distraction he provides even more. Enough that I’m here, on the verge of something he seems wary of. Beside him, though, I’m not afraid.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m here.”
“Good,” he sighs, his jaw clenched tight. “Because I need to make sure you understand why we’re here.”
“Why are we here?”
“You need to keep your eyes open,” he instructs. “Don’t get lost in the fight like everyone else. You’re not here for that. You’ve gotta dig deeper.”
I blink up at him, confused. “I don’t understand,” I mutter.
“Be aware of your surroundings, Frey. Remember, it’s not about the fight itself,” he clarifies, lifting my chin to get a better look in my eyes, demanding my complete and utter attention. “It’s about who’s watching. Do you understand?”
I nod.
“Good.” He releases a small, shallow breath. “You know… In the glory days, a man’s old lady would give him a kiss for luck,” he taunts, his smirk on display. “I don’t think they teach that in your church, though—”
I think I step into him partly to prove him wrong. Partly out of sheer curiosity. Regardless of the reason, my lips are suddenly on his. From the stillness of his body, it’s evident he’s just as surprised as I am.
Though my moment of bravery lasts all of five seconds. He’s right. I didn’t learn that in church. I learned this method of worship only from him. It’s spontaneous loyalty. Reckless devotion. It’s feeling so vulnerable you can’t stand it, and all you can do is try to detract from it.
But he won’t let me escape so easily. His eyes darken, lips still pursed.
“I—I’m sorry,” I unthinkingly blurt out. “I—”
He moves before I can react, hooking his arm around my waist to bring me against his masculine frame, silencing me with his mouth. Clumsily, my arms find their way around his neck as he lifts me effortlessly from the floor. My heart pumps hard—persistently racing.
I can only hold on for the ride as Daze walks us across the room, pinning my backside to the cold frame of the lockers with a crash. Our kiss deepens. It’s sloppy, almost a game of wits. Who will back down first? Caught up in a heated moment, neither of us can seem to surrender. Confusion strikes me—however, I push it away.
Nothing else matters.
Not even modesty. To deepen my leverage, I wrap my thighs around his hips, and he slips his fingers beneath my dress, cupping my ass with his hands. My belly dips. Has he already won this round? To my credit, I don’t withdraw. He does.
“Don’t leave, Frey,” he breathes against my mouth, tracing the seam of my lips with the tip of his tongue. “Not until it’s over. I need your word on that. Okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper. It sounds more like a question than a statement.
Unexpectedly, the door crashes open, and someone barrels inside amid a raucous commotion.
“Fuck off,” Daze calls out angrily.
“Time is up,” the man states. “Chucky’s already in the wings.” With that, he hastily shuts the door behind him.
Daze sighs, turning his focus back to me. “Keep your promise.” He kisses my lips once more, then drops me to my feet. “Let’s go.”
He takes my hand, and we exit the locker room. Shoulders squared, Daze weaves us through the crowd. He shifts his gaze to someone behind me—a man standing behind what appears to be a DJ booth, blasting pulsing rock. “I’m here,” Daze shouts.
“About damn time!”
Daze laughs in that low, unsettling way as he lets me go and nudges me closer to the console. He wrenches off his shirt and tosses it toward me. I barely manage to catch it, only to find that he’s halfway down a nearby aisle by the time my mouth opens for a retort. One look at him, and I bite my tongue. His hands flex in and out of fists at his sides, his head down.
I remember what he said to me in the bar. How he said it—remind me of what matters.
“Have it your way,” the man in the booth mutters, despite Daze already being out of earshot. He shoots me an odd look and then raises a microphone to his mouth.
“You fuckers ready for the fight of the goddamn century?”
Fight. That word lingers in my skull as the crowd roars at the top of their lungs. There must be at least fifty people crowded in this small space. They all jostle for the best seats closest to the ring, reminding me of eager parishioners late to one of Father’s sermons.
I doubt they hope to find spiritual enlightenment, however.
They are here purely to spectate whatever will occur in the ring at the center of the space. I’m alarmed to see that Daze’s already there, climbing through a chain-link door on the side of the cage. He ditched his jeans and shoes somewhere along the way. Wearing only black boxer briefs, his body glistens beneath the artificial lighting, a beautiful canvas for his numerous tattoos.
“I know you like the buildup, Ladies, and Gents,” the man in the booth says to assorted jeers. “But who am I to refuse a legend? Let’s get this party started. Who’s ready to ruuuuumble?”
More cheers. It’s so loud in here I can’t hear myself think. My senses can only register bits and pieces of the chaos. Shadow. Light. Noise. Desperate for an anchor, my gaze settles on one of the few stationary people in this damn room—a familiar figure in a corner opposite mine. Silas?
He’s fixated on the center of the ring where Daze stands alone, at the mercy of the shouting crowd.
“I said—can we hear it for a fucking legend?” the emcee demands. More shouts ring out, and I try to see Daze as if for the first time. He looks older again. Maybe too old, and my lips tingle, remembering the feel of his. At the same time, he looks...
Lost. But not in the way Hale had during those final terrible days. Not in the way I look now. With his eyes narrowed and mouth flat, Daze resembles someone untouchable. The shadowy, enigmatic type of man I’d usually avoid.
Someone dangerous.
A man with nothing left to lose.
To equal fanfare, the other fighter comes from nowhere and lunges into the ring. He’s muscular as well, nearly as tall as Daze.
“Let’s get this shit started!” The emcee shouts, and the two square off in a circling motion that seems rehearsed. They watch each other rabidly, like wild animals hunting for a weakness in a potential prey item.
Maybe this is a normal occurrence and not a sign of something more sinister to come. After all, I wouldn’t know the difference. My knowledge of fighting comes from the few choreographed television fights I watched with Hale back when I shadowed him like a lost puppy. Those brawls had been pretty, painstakingly structured. Almost like a dance.
That comparison shatters when Daze’s opponent lunges and slams a punch into his ribcage. This is no charade designed solely for entertainment.
This is messy.
I lean forward, my eyes bug wide. I think I must cry out because Daze’s eyes cut in my direction. In the same motion, he betrays a predatory grace that allows him to pivot on his heel to avoid another punch. Mid-motion, he slams his own fist into the other man’s shoulder. Flesh connects with flesh with a sickening thud—again, reinforcing the brutality of this event.
It’s not faked. Neither man holds anything back.
Daze’s opponent lunges, trapping him against the chain-link fence as the crowd roars its approval. Dear Lord. I’m sick to my stomach, unable to tear my gaze away. I feel like I’m in ancient Rome during biblical times—in the coliseum, a witness to unfathomable violence. A vicious spectacle.
An arena awash in blood. Red drops fly from Daze’s mouth as he catches a blow to the face, and I wince in sympathy. As he sways on his feet, I fear that he might have lasting damage, like a concussion.
And it bothers me. It frightens me.
Before I can fully think the thought through, I cry out consciously this time. “Daze!”
Head cocked, he stiffens, dodging another punch, and I cry in relief. Then he twists at the waist, and holds his own with a retaliatory strike.
Yes! I pray it’s over, but the crowd around me roars. This was just an appetizer, it seems. Suddenly, the mood seems to shift, and I come to a grim realization—what little civility existed before now quickly descends into chaos.
The two men lock eyes, and it’s like they leave the world for their own dimension. One where they can’t hear the shouting or see the spectators cheering wildly on their feet as they start trading blows in a whirlwind flurry.
They’re beyond the whims of mortal men. They’re demons in a battle fit only for the depths of Hell.
And amid that breathtaking carnage, it quickly becomes apparent that Daze is the one throwing the most punches that land. As if feeding off the successive hits, he pummels his opponent ferociously, backing him against the opposite side of the cage, pinning him near a corner pole.
Around me, the crowd swells, and distinct shouts punctuate the deafening cheers. “Finish it! Finish it! Yeah! Beat the shit out of that fucker!” Eventually, it grows into a chant.
Finish. Finish. Finish…
It’s a demand Daze seems to feed off, punching faster. Harder. The sounds become more violent. Crunching noises mingle with the pounding impacts. He rocks back and forth with every new attack. Almost instantly, sweat slicks his body, flattening his newly-shorn hair close to his scalp. He looks more animal than human.
A monster.
As I watch, his words echo in my skull. It’s gonna get really rough, and the second I look like I’m gonna pussy out—I mean it. I need you to remind me what matters. In his lingo, I don’t think he meant “pussy out” by losing this fight.
“Daze!” I slink forward, weaving through people clamoring for a better view. My height plays to my advantage for once, and I manage to inch closer to the ring. Close enough to almost taste the sweat and hear the violent grunts interspersed with every thudding blow. “Daze!” My voice sounds raw, but I barely make a dent in the raucous din.
He can’t hear me.
Blind to reason, he becomes ruthless. His opponent curls, any moment from forfeiting. Without thinking, I call out. Scream. “Hey! Daze! Daze—”
He stiffens, and his opponent lands a desperate glance off his chin, making him stagger back. Instantly, he turns, his eyes finding mine, and I suck in a breath. His eyes narrow, ruthless, and cold. I’m frozen, too stunned to speak. All I can do is force my lips into a silent reminder. Sammy.
He recoils, shaking his head as if clearing it. A glimpse of the man who comforted me the other day returns. I see him. Then his opponent regains his balance, and he doesn’t even attempt to block the punch aimed at his chest. Another blow, and he goes down hard on his knee.
My heart pounds viciously against my ribcage.
My ears begin ringing.
This should be enough, right? He’s down, unmoving. The fight should be over. It should be enough. It should…
The man towering over him delivers a kick to his stomach, and I’m defeated by the hungry roars that rise in response. Daze groans, his mouth contorted in agony. Rather than savor his victory, the other fighter doesn’t let up, punching him again. Again.
“Daze!” I surge forward, jostling for a closer position to the ring and I’m almost instantly shoved back. When he scans the nearby spectators, he can’t see me—but he looks. I can see the confusion on his face. The anger warring with building rage.
That should be enough. He did his job. The fight should be over.
But it isn’t. When Daze staggers to his feet, his opponent comes for him again. Instinctively, Daze rams his head into the man’s chest, knocking him off balance. Together, they collapse into a heap of flying blows, but it’s different this time. There is no push and pull before Daze takes charge with ruthless efficiency.
My God, he’s terrifying. There is something beautiful in how his body glistens beneath a layer of sweat and blood. How he fights so hard, he’s shouting with the force of every blow. He’s unstoppable—a mountain of flesh that will crush anything foolish enough to block his path.
Even if that obstacle is another human.
“Holy fuck,” someone exclaims nearby. “I think we’re gonna see a bloodbath tonight, you poor fucks.”
A bloodbath. Daze is already covered head to toe in it. I have enough sense of mind to realize that it isn’t all his. It can’t be. It’s mainly coating his fingers. His hands.
Then his face as he strikes his opponent’s head, and droplets of crimson go flying.
My heartbeat surges. I feel sick. It’s as if a part of me realizes what’s happening before it actually does.
The other fighter goes limp, but Daze doesn’t stand over him in triumph of his victory. He scrambles on top of him and keeps going. Hitting. Punching.
“Enough!” The speaker repeats himself several times, but even a crowd as riled as this one seems to race to quiet in the wake of his voice. When I follow the sound, I see why.
Silas stands near the ring, his eyes blazing. “Enough. Get him the hell out of there,” he snaps.
Two men lunge into the ring through the chain-link door and grab Daze by his shoulders. It seems to take their combined strength to finally draw him off from an opponent who is no longer moving.
He can’t, a voice in my head whispers. He won’t be moving ever again. His head is too misshapen. Too bloody. His neck shouldn’t be at such an odd angle…
Amid the shouting, screaming crowd, Daze pushes away from Silas’ men and stands, trembling, on his own two feet.
The emcee doesn’t even bother to announce him the winner. Instead, the man climbs into the ring through the makeshift door and raises Daze’s fist before he pushes away and storms from the ring entirely.
Silas moves to follow him, his shouts audible even from here. “What the fuck, Daze? You agreed to every term, remember? That you’d go down silently,” he snaps. “You think you can pull a stunt like that and walk away? What the hell is wrong with you—”
“I told you I was coming for you,” Daze shoots back before staggering to my end of the ring, covered in blood. “Try and stop me, and you’ll end up the same fucking way.”
He vanishes in the direction of the locker room, but I can’t follow. I can’t move at all. Finding Hale was the worst experience of my entire life, but this comes close.
I can’t wrap my head around it all. I’ve just watched him take a man’s life so easily… Without a shred of guilt. How could he be the same man who stopped me from jumping?
How can he be so brutal in one instant, yet so caring with me in another?
What does he want from me?
It’s just too much.
Dazed, I turn on my heel, barreling for the door. It feels like an eternity of pushing past heavy, unfamiliar bodies before I finally break free near the outskirts of the room. Only now can I register the shock and fear that leave me sick in their wake. I’m going to throw up soon. I know I will.
On the verge of gagging, I spy a metal door that I hope leads outside, and I lunge for it. I need fresh air. I need to leave. I need to pray for my soul and hope to never witness something like that again.
“Wait!” Apparently, the devil won’t let me go so easily. Someone grabs my arm from behind, and I know who it is from his smell alone.
“Please,” he grates against my ear. “Frey, hear me out. That wasn’t… Just talk to me—”
“No!” I wrench away from him as hard as I can, but he’s too strong—even though his hand is so wet. “Let go of me!”
“Let her go,” a rough voice calls out. Ben? I don’t see him in front of me, and I don’t have the strength to look behind. “Let her go, Day.”
He must listen because a second later, I break away and stagger blindly into a thinning group of people nowhere as thick as near the ring. I put all my focus into pushing past them. I barely hear the voice that calls out.
“Frances? Frances?”
It isn’t Daze, but my head whips around with chilling recognition. That voice doesn’t belong here. Not in a den of vice and violence.
A glance over my shoulder reveals just blurred, unfamiliar faces, and I turn back for the door, convinced I’m hallucinating. Panicking. Then I see him. A face blurred by movement but still recognizable enough to send a chill through me. Dark hair. Darker eyes. The hallmark traits of a man who rarely leaves my father’s side, if ever—one of his most trusted acolytes. Robby.
Fear drowns out any logical reason for why he could be here. Wherever Robby is, my father isn’t far behind. Panicked, I turn back for the exit, and at this stage, I don’t waste time being polite. I push and shove my way forward until I make headway.
Somehow, I wind up outside, running down the street without looking back. I don’t have my cell phone. Then a hysterically horrifying realization comes to mind—I left it at Daze’s apartment. Without it, I don’t even know where exactly I am.
Or why an agent of my father’s would be here as well. Robert O’Neil. Though I may have imagined him—or more simply, Father had me followed all this time. Somehow the prospect isn’t as terrifying as the thought of Daze finding me. Touching me with bloodstained hands. Convincing me that what I just saw hadn’t actually happened.
I can’t.
So I just run.