Chapter 4

CHAPTER

FOUR

MARY

I walk through the lashing rain, my body aching from sitting behind that desk for so long and looking up at customers. It's mind-numbing work, and maybe that's why I like it. It gives me an extensive amount of time to dwell on my unhealthy obsessions. It allows me to wonder if Rust, sitting at the kitchen table in his faded blue jeans and baggy white tee—letting me see the outlines of his throbbing muscles—was looking at me funny. Almost like he was interested? Or is this some major projection?

Putt, putt, putt.

Ah, great. The engine sputters and dies while the rain hammers against the car's roof. I try it several times and then groan, laying my forehead against the steering wheel. How perfect is this?

I could run back through the rain and see if one of my coworkers could give me a ride, but I don't want to impose on them. We don't have Uber or a real cab company out here. Could I call Rust? On the surface, there's nothing wrong with that. It's just me calling a family friend for help. I'm unsure how my twisted thoughts could make me feel guilty about that . It's not like I'm going to do anything. I'd never act on these urges. I can't.

With no other choice, I take out my cell phone and call the home landline. After around thirty seconds, he answers, "Hello?"

"It's me," I tell him.

"Is something wrong?" I'm more projecting and wishing, but he almost sounds protective when he asks this. It's almost like he'd go into a warrior rage if something were wrong.

"No, it's just my car. It's died on me. I was wondering…"

"I'll be right there. What's the address?"

I give him directions. Saying nothing else, he hangs up. I try not to let the silly crush whelming inside me take that personally. It's how he's always been since I've known him: quiet and to the point. It's nothing to do with me, with us .

As I wait, I read a book on my Kindle. Lately, I've been reading a lot of Regency love stories, simple and sweet tales about noblemen who claim their woman with minimal effort, with lots of nice scenery, and hardly any drama at all. It doesn't take a genius to figure out I'm maybe trying to escape my own predicament.

Finally, his headlights appear, cutting across the darkness and the lashing rain. Thunder claps, and a bolt of lightning streaks across the sky. Okay, I'm not a baby, but that was close . Lightning strikes again as Rust walks toward the car. He's wearing a light jacket, but I can see he's brought one of my big coats for me. My chest tingles just like my downstairs often does when thinking about him. A coat, a small gesture, maybe, but it means a lot.

He opens the passenger door, hands me the coat, then stands in the rain. Maybe he doesn't want to get my car wet, but it'll just mean getting his rental wet anyway. Or perhaps he doesn't want to be close to me. I wonder if I should offer to sit in the backseat. I'm used to that flat stare, but it doesn't mean it feels good.

I quickly wriggle into the coat and then awkwardly climb from the car. He shuts the passenger-side door and walks ahead of me, opening the passenger-side door to the rental. I'm tempted to brush my hand across his stomach as I slip by, but then the specter of Mom flashes in time with the next lightning strike.

I let out a pathetic wail when it suddenly strikes again. "Sorry," I mumble, hurrying into the car.

He walks around to the driver's side, his silhouette huge in the headlights. Dropping into the seat beside me, he says, "You don't have to be. I get it."

He starts the car and drives. It takes me a moment to realize what he means. I'm on edge, waiting for the next strike to jolt through me and make me feel dorky. So young . I probably seem like a silly kid to him.

He's probably talking about the night my mom died. It was stormy, the lightning crashing just like this, but it wasn't the lightning. It was the fact that her warm smile would never touch me again.

"It's nothing to do with that ," I snap.

Rust keeps staring straight ahead, his dark hair wet. It gives him a wild look, even wilder than in his cage fights. He doesn't say anything. He has this weird effect on me. As a kid, I used to think of him as magic. Then that got all tangled with the Mom, sin, and morally correct stuff, confusing me even more. It's like his silence is begging me to speak.

"It's just scary, that's all. Lots of people are scared of thunder."

Silently, staring into the dark, he skillfully guides the car across the wet road.

"That's like saying everybody scared of snakes must've had a snakebite and a tragedy on the same day or something."

"We're not talking about snakebites, and we're not talking about everybody. We're talking about you," he says sternly.

This is more than I've gotten out of him in God knows how long, but it's not like I've ever tried. Is that what I'm doing now, trying? When I know it can only end in disaster?

"I was there," he goes on, with something almost passionate in his tone, husky. A shiver dances down my spine and warms my blood. "I remember how devastated you were. Every time the thunder hit, it was like she was dying all over again."

I can't help it. Tears start pouring the second the emotion of his words slams into me. A sob escapes me as I remember it: the drive, the noise, like the world was crashing down. He's right.

"Mary…" He stops at the side of the road. "I didn't mean to make you cry. Sometimes I forget…"

He doesn't finish it, but he doesn't need to. "How oversensitive people can be?"

"Not over sensitive," he says. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

"You're right." I manage to stop myself, rubbing the tears from my cheeks. "I haven't thought about it like that in years."

"Apparently, I'm a therapist."

It's so deadpan I'm not sure if he's making a joke. He doesn't do that often. Then I see the subtle curve at the edge of his mouth. The sadness melts away. Nothing else matters. I've dreamed of him smiling at me so many times, noticing me, and now it's like nothing else exists—just us and the rain and the warmth.

"You'd be a good therapist," I tell him. "You're a good listener."

"Nah, Mary," he replies. "That's only with Brad and you. Mostly, I can't stand people, and most people can't stand me. I'm fine with that."

"People love you," I say.

He starts the engine again, relieved my crying fit is over. "Always act with dignity and self-respect when in front of others, even family." I hear Mom lecturing, wagging her finger at the camera, making me seem like a sinner for experiencing emotion, but she had a point. She wanted the best for me. She loved me. Right?

"People love Rust the cage fighter," he says. "They love my accomplishments, and I'll always be grateful for that. If I were me, a big moody bastard, living a normal life, people would be sick of me, and I wouldn't give a damn."

"Would you live in the mountains or something?"

His lip curves again, a sight that makes me sparkle as he focuses on the road. "If it means getting away from people, I'll do whatever it takes. Why do you think I fly private?"

"Okay, Mr. Brag," I say.

He laughs again, just like earlier. I seriously need to calm down, but any positive emotion from him is like a tickle right to the reward center of my brain. "Do you think I'm trying to impress you, good girl?"

He frowns like he's pissed at himself for bringing up the old nickname. I went through a super religious stage as a kid, soon after Mom died. This was before I found the DVD. I asked Dad, Brad, and even Rust to call me that.

" Good girl . I remember that. I must've looked silly with that big Cross around my neck."

He shrugs. "I don't care about people's religion. I don't care where that came from."

"It's okay. I kind of like it. It takes me back to those days."

He tightens his grip on the wheel. I wish he were wearing short sleeves so I could see the tightness of his forearms, the power in them. I think of them twitching when he moves his hands over my body.

"Were those good days for you?" he asks.

"Good? No, not really, but they were simple. As a little kid, I believed so hard that it made everything okay for a while there. It helped me, but I could never get back to that. I tried so many times."

"Maybe you'll get back there one day," he says.

"What about you?" I ask. "Do you believe in anything?"

Rust is notorious for giving as little as possible away in interviews. His stoic demeanor has worked well, making him seem distant, tough, and imposing, especially as a heavyweight. It's not like we've ever really talked before. Thanks, Brad, for giving us some alone time. No, no , I'm so twisted.

"No," he says darkly. "I never have, and I don't think I will now. To me, the world has always seemed cold."

"Because of… your childhood?"

The subtle curve to his lips is long gone. He stares bleakly at the rainy road. A flash of lightning floods his face with light. He doesn't flinch or even react. He just keeps staring. "It has nothing to do with that."

"How do you like your steak?" I ask after a shower. The heating makes the house cozy, and the lamps make it feel intimate. I'm wearing thick PJs and a hoodie, covering myself up. It's not that I think he would be tempted, but it would make me act differently around him. I'd just be waiting—praying—for him to look at me.

He's in the living room, watching a Cain Cruz fight on TV. No, not a fight. That's a younger Rust in there, squaring off against the only opponent who ever defeated him in a fight.

"Medium," he says, glancing at me, his expression unreadable.

"Is this getting you pumped up?" I ask.

"I don't need any more motivation, but there are mistakes in this fight, too many. I can't make them again."

"You won't," I say.

"It's a fight. Anything can happen."

He leans forward, wearing just a T-shirt now, his arms tensed as he watches his younger self. His hair is still a little wet, swept off his face. My hand almost spasms with the urge to run my hand through it, trail down his back, feel him, savor him. Just for a little while. Not forever.

I busy myself with the dinner. When it's almost ready, I return to the living room. The fight is over. The TV is turned off. Rust is leaning over a leather patch with a needle in his hand, prodding at it, making an electronic brr sound.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Tattooing on fake skin," he replies.

" Tattooing? "

He looks up, that subtle curve back on his lips, his dark eyes gleaming almost mischievously. "Fighters retire early—thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven. I'll need a career when I retire. I'm not made for podcasting, coaching, public appearances, or shaking hands and kissing babies. However, this I might be able to do, but it'll take some work."

I walk closer and look down at the piece. It's a wolf's head, drawn well and sketched to give it a sense of depth. "It looks good to me," I say.

He switches off the gun, the brr noise dying. "There's lots of work to do."

"You're just a perfectionist."

He stands up and smirks down at me. I've never seen him smile this much before. Well, not at me. With Brad, he's generally upbeat, but he's never been like this one-on-one before. It feels super significant. It feels sinfully significant, honestly.

"Says the one who cooked a perfect steak."

"You haven't tasted it yet!"

He chuckles. "I don't need to."

In my mind, Mom frowns. "Look at you, pretending like you're on a date. Are you going to have sex with him before or after your brother gets home?" I stamp down on the thought. Or try to. Fail to.

In the dining room, we sit at the table, Rust looking down at his meal with a content expression. I'm struck with a homely sense as if I've just cooked dinner for my man, my husband, and now we'll settle down for the night. It's so, so, so out of place that I want to scream. And husband? I couldn't even legally get married until ten months ago.

I eagerly watch him when he bites into his steak, anticipating his reaction. It makes the crashing rain and thunder seem much more distant.

"Delicious," he says.

"Yeah?"

"I thought I was supposed to be the perfectionist."

I smile. It's more than that. His words light a torch inside me, making every inch of me glow. It's worth more to me than he would ever guess and would probably even make sense to him.

"You seem in a good mood," I say.

"Do I?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Did I break the spell?"

"Coach says it's good to smile before a training camp. He says a warrior has to have memories of being happy when he goes into war. Something to fight for. It's never seemed that deep to me."

"It must be terrifying," I whisper, thinking of his fights.

He shrugs. "It's combat. It's my passion—the techniques, drilling them, and putting them into practice. There's something special about everything fitting into place. Every opponent is a puzzle, and the body is the tool I use to work it out."

"I can't even watch your fights," I say, realizing I've probably shared too much.

"Really?" he asks. "Why not?"

Because I hate seeing him get hit in the face, kicked, or hurt. Even when he wins the fight—which he has every time except one—there's still a chance he'll get hurt. It just shatters something inside me.

"I don't like violence, I guess."

"Violence is just a part of life," he says, and my heart flutters strangely. That's such a depressing statement, but it's true for him. It always has been. I've never heard him talk about his childhood. He never answers questions about it publicly, but I know it's dark.

"Why don't you have any tattoos?" I ask. "If you're thinking of doing it."

"I've thought about it but don't know what I'd get. Honestly, I'm more interested in the craft than anything."

"You need a live subject," I say, laughing. "A willing sacrifice."

He smirks, making me glow way brighter than he has any right to. "Are you volunteering?"

"What? Me? No way. Mom always said tattoos were tacky."

He narrows his eyes. "She said that to you?"

Well, yes, in the video. One of her frequently spoken rules. "Tattoos are for women who have willfully given into their worst desires . "

"Uh, yeah," I say.

"What do you think about them?"

I can't tell him about the time I dreamed of getting a tattoo of him on my body, his name branding me. It was a phase when I touched myself while thinking of him owning me and dominating me. He took all the responsibility, bending me over, saying in his fierce, calm voice, "You have to do this for me. Bend over. Take it for me."

"They're okay," I say, cutting into my steak, not looking at him. I need to control myself.