Lover Revealed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #4)(27)

He was the first male she’d ever seen naked and the nudes from Art History just weren’t the same as the real thing. He was beautifully made. Fascinating.

She let her head fall back and stared at the ceiling. How unattractive was it that she’d invaded his privacy? And how unattractive that her body stirred just remembering?

God, how much longer now before she could get out of here?

She absently fingered the fine fabric of her gown and tilted her head so she could look at the fall of pale blue chiffon. The lovely creation by Narciso Rodriguez should have been utterly comfortable, but her corset, which she wore always as was proper, was really starting to bug the hell out of her. The thing was, though, she wanted to look nice for Butch, even though he wouldn’t care and not because he was ill. He just wasn’t attracted to her anymore. Didn’t want her around, either.

Still, she would continue to dress well when fresh clothes were brought in.

Pity that what she wore here had to go into the incinerator. What a shame to burn all those dresses.





Chapter Nine




That pale-haired f*cker was back, Van Dean thought as he glanced through heavy chicken-wire fencing.

Third week in a row the guy’d come to Caldwell’s fight underground. Against the cheering crowd around the fight cage he stood out like a neon sign, although Van wasn’t clear exactly why.

As a knee made contact with his side, he refocused on what he was doing. Drawing back his bare fist, he snapped his arm out and connected with his opponent’s face. Blood exploded from the guy’s nose, a starburst of red that landed on the mat right before the man’s body did.

Van planted his feet and stared down at his opponent, drops of his sweat landing on the guy’s abs. There was no referee to stop Van from throwing more head punches. No rules to keep him from kicking this side of beef in the kidneys until the bastard needed dialysis for the rest of his life. And if there was even one twitch from that human throw rug, Van was going to let loose.

Bringing death with his bare hands was what the special part of him wanted to do, what the special part of him craved to do. Van had always been different, not just from his opponents but from everyone else he’d ever met: the seat of his soul was that of not merely a fighter but a warrior of the Roman kind. He wished he lived back in the times when you eviscerated your opponent when he fell before you…then you found his home and raped his wife and slaughtered his children. And after you looted his shit, you burned whatever was left down to the ground.

But he lived in the here and now. And there was another complication of late. The body holding in this special part was starting to age on him. His shoulder was killing him and so were his knees, though he made sure no one knew it, in or out of the fight cage.

Extending his arm to the side, he heard a pop and hid a wince. Meanwhile, the crowd of fifty roared and rattled the ten-foot-high chain-link fence. God, the fans loved him. Called him by his name. Wanted to see more of him.

They were largely irrelevant to his special part, though.

In the midst of the peanut gallery, he met the stare of the pale-haired man. Damn, those were some freaky eyes. Flat. No glow of life in them. And the guy wasn’t cheering either.

Whatever.

Van nudged his opponent with his bare foot. The guy groaned but didn’t open his eyes. Game over.

The fifty or so men around the cage went apeshit with approval.

Van sprang up to the lip of the fence and swung his two-hundred-pound body over the top. As he landed, the crowd roared louder but backed out of his path. When one of them had gotten in his way last week, flyboy had ended up spitting out a tooth.

The fighting “arena,” such as it was, was in an abandoned underground parking garage, and the owner of the concrete wasteland brokered the matches. The whole thing was shady by def, with Van and his opponents nothing more than the human equivalent of fighting cocks. The pay was good, however, and so far there hadn’t been any busts—although that was always an issue. Between the blood and the betting, the CPD badges wouldn’t have been into the scene at all, so it was a private-membership-club kind of thing, and if you squealed you got tossed. Literally. The owner had a six-pack of thugs who kept shit in line.

Van went over to the money man, got his five hundred bucks and his jacket, then headed for his truck. His Hanes undershirt was bloodstained, but he didn’t care. What he was worried about was his aching joints. And that left shoulder.

Fuck. Every week it seemed like it was taking more and more out of him to serve his special part and put the guys on the ground. Then again, he was getting up there. Thirty-nine was denture time in the fight world.

“Why did you stop?”

As he came up to his truck, Van looked into his driver’s side windshield. He was not surprised that the pale-haired man had come after him. “I don’t answer to fans, buddy.”

“I’m not a fan.”

Their eyes stayed locked together on the flat surface of the glass. “Then why you been coming to my fights so much?”

“Because I have a proposition for you.”

“I don’t want a manager.”

“I’m not one of those either.”

Van looked over his shoulder. The guy was big and carried himself like a fighter, all jacked shoulders and loose arms. Iron-pan hands on this one, the kind that could crank into a fist as big as a bowling ball.