Caged (Mastered, #4)(83)

When Deacon had Courey in a rear naked choke, he freed him before the man could tap out. Tapping out would be too easy. Deacon wanted to make the cocky motherf*cker suffer.

So before Courey caught his breath from the near choke out, Deacon rolled him to his back and started a ground and pound until Terrel broke them up.

That signaled the end of the second round. Courey hadn’t landed a single kick or hit in those three minutes.

Riggins entered the ring to tend Courey’s wounds. Hard not to smile about that.

Again, Deacon didn’t sit down during the break. He paced as he remembered Molly’s disappointment, the shock and the hurt on her face when she’d learned what he’d kept from her. Then the anger when he refused to explain.

With that one scathing look, she’d had him retreating far faster than any blows any fighter had leveled on him.

She couldn’t walk away for good. He wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t imagine never seeing that beautifully expressive face again. Never touching her body as they moved together in pleasure. Never hearing her laugh. Not being a part of something bigger and better than he ever thought he’d have.

He couldn’t fathom his life without her. He’d lost too much already. No f*cking way would he lose her. He was a fighter. He would fight for her. He would win. Because that—not Needham—would be the most important fight of his life.

That train of thought sent him back into the red zone. He started to yell, “Can we finish this!” and only Riggins moving in front of him kept the words from spewing out.

“Let me look at you,” Riggins said.

“I’m fine.”

“Then it shouldn’t be an issue for me to take a look.”

“Then why don’t you check my balls?” he snarled. “Tell these guys who thought I’d lost them that they’re still intact.”

“Jesus.” He dropped his voice. “You f*cked Courey up. I oughta call this fight right now.”

“But you won’t,” Deacon said.

Riggins studied him dispassionately. “No. I won’t. But I suggest if you wanna go another three minutes, stop reopening his cuts or Terrel will call it.”

“Maybe Courey oughta keep his face away from my fists.” Deacon looked across the ring as soon as Courey stood up.

The last round Deacon switched to Muay Thai–style kicks. Once he got bored with that—because lookee there, the “Crusher” was on the run—he used a jujitsu takedown.

On that move, Courey scored a reversal and they were back on their feet. Then he rushed Deacon until they were up against the side of the cage.

Uh-uh. Wasn’t his problem Courey was too f*cking tired to offer much challenge. So while Courey clung to him, Deacon landed blows to his upper body with both his hands and his knees.

When they stumbled backward, Deacon did the man a favor and decided to end it by pummeling him in the face with a flurry of fists.

Courey hit the mat like a drunken rag doll.

Finish him. So he can’t get up on his own. He’d do the same goddamn thing to you.

Before he could put the final hurt on Courey, Terrel stepped in front of him. “He’s done, man. Let it go.”

Deacon bypassed Riggins on the way out. He didn’t look at Maddox or anyone else. He just picked up his equipment bag and left the training room.

Of course there was no such thing as privacy at Black Arts—not even in the f*cking stairwell. He ran into Beck as he cut down the stairs.

“Whoa. Deacon. What the hell.” Beck glanced at Deacon’s hands, still in gloves and dotted with blood. “What happened?”

“Don’t wanna talk about it.”

Beck blocked him in. “Tough shit. With the way you’re sprinting outta here like the hounds of hell are nipping at your heels, I need to know what’s going on.”

“Had enough of Courey’s big mouth. We went three rounds of full contact.”

A pause, then Beck stated, “Courey lost.”

“Yep.” Deacon sidestepped him.

Beck countered and moved in front of him. “The whole Black Arts crew up there watching?”

“Yep.”

“Where you going?”

I don’t f*cking know. “I’ve got an appointment.”

“Bullshit. You’re running from everyone.”

He flashed Shihan a nasty smile. “Except Courey. He can barely f*cking walk, let alone run.”

“Jesus, Deacon.” Beck didn’t back off. “So you shut up the f*ckers who’ve doubted you. I don’t see that’s made you happy.”


“Ya think?”

“Why aren’t you up there rubbing their faces in it?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I don’t care. You need to talk about it.”

“Move.”

Beck said, “Make me,” knowing Deacon wouldn’t take action against his Shihan.

“Why the f*ck do you care?”

“Cut the macho bullshit. Yeah, yeah, I got the memo. You prefer to keep to yourself. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but in the last year, you’ve become less like an island—at least in the dojo. There are far worse things than having people who care about you, trust me. So suck it up, cream puff, and pour your black heart out, because you know I’m not going anywhere until I either see tears or your gooey marshmallow center.”