"Strike three," Raymond mutters, the words barely audible over the roar of the crowd. "You're out."
Naz slouches back in his seat after a moment, throwing his arm over my shoulder and pulling me toward him. I have a million questions (like what the fuck did he mean by again?) but I know now's not the time to ask that. Naz presses a kiss to the top of my head and says not a word as the arena erupts in chaos.
I don't know what's going on—who's who or what's what—but everyone around us is immersed in our surroundings. Two men make their way to the ring, music blaring as people scream. One's in blue shorts, the other in red, with names I can't pronounce and faces I don't recognize.
The brutality right from the ding of the bell is alarming. I sit still in my seat, in Naz's arms, as the men in the ring ferociously pound on each other, round after round, very little letting up. We're so close I can see the blood, sweat, and tears, hear the sickening blows, the grunts and pants and cries. It's barbaric.
I'm appalled.
A quick glance at Naz tells me he's enthralled.
He watches the fight with gross fascination. The others around us cheer and jeer, screaming and jumping up out of their seats, but Naz just sits there, watching attentively, his thumb absently stroking my arm.
The fighters seem to be equally matched as they go toe-to-toe. Naz squeezes me tighter to him after a few rounds. "Who are you pulling for?"
"Blue shorts guy."
"Blue shorts guy," he echoes with a laugh. "Is there a reason?"
There is, but I'm not going to admit it. The guy with the blue shorts has a design shaved into his hair on the side of his head. It's fascinating.
Instead, I shrug. I don't really care who wins.
The fight goes on and on. Every punch sends the crowd reeling. I hear their frenzied yells, feel it vibrating the floor beneath my feet, rocking the air around me. Naz doesn't say anything else, watching, his expression darkening as he stares into the ring. During the last round, the room erupts in commotion when red shorts hits blue so hard I hear the crack and feel the thump as he hits the ground.
He's out cold.
It's over. Half the arena cheers, while a low thrum of boos seems to underlay the celebration. Naz finally pulls his eyes away from the ring as I frown. "Guess red shorts won."
"Guess so," he says. "Good thing, too."
"Why?"
"Because I had a quarter of a million riding on him."
I gape at him as he stands up. He offers me his hand, and I take it. We don't say goodbye, don't hang around to celebrate, don't even wait for the official announcement of the winner. We leave the arena, heading back into the casino, and make our way back up to the penthouses.
I let him dwell in silence during the journey, but once we're back in the suite, I can't take it anymore. My head is a frantic jumble of thoughts, puzzle pieces I can't quite fit together.
He turns to me right inside the door, his expression serious. It's dark, the light so dim he looks like little more than an eerie shadowy form. I can barely make out his eyes. I want to ask him questions, but the words are intimidated.
He knows me, though.
I know he does.
"I was married once," he says quietly, unprompted, answering what I long to ask. "It was a long time ago—a long, long time ago. Feels like forever, like another lifetime. I was a different person then, a different man. I didn't have much, but I had her… and then I didn't have her anymore."
My feelings are at odds with each other. I'm not sure what to say. "What happened?"
"I told you what happened," he says, and as soon as I hear those words, I know. He lost his family. "She was only eighteen. She didn't deserve what happened to her. She should've survived… they should've survived."
"They?"
He hesitates for a moment, as if maybe he's not going to answer, but the response finally leaves his lips in a whisper. "She was pregnant."
I can't breathe again, and it's not from a hand around my throat. It's the lump of emotion that I can't swallow down that blocks the air from entering my lungs. A baby.
He lets out an exaggerated sigh. "They died, and I survived. I was younger than you are right now… young and dumb, didn't think these things could ever happen to me. But I'm not naïve anymore, Karissa. I'm not going to lose another. I'm not going to make those mistakes again."
"Who could do such a thing?"
"A coward," he says. "A fool. He deserved to be punished, but the authorities let him walk away. They let him go. So I vowed someday I'd make him pay."
"Have you?" I ask quietly.
"No," he says, taking a step toward me. "Not yet."
I can see him better now that he's closer, can see the sadness lurking in his eyes. I don't think twice before reaching out and cupping his cheek, feeling the coarse, bristly hair against my palm. Naz doesn't like to be touched much… he prefers to do the touching, to be the one in control, even if it's only for show. I may not know everything about his history, but that is something I do know. It's something I've learned being with him.
So I expect him to pull away, to grasp ahold of my hand, to move from my reach or divert my attention, but instead he just stands there, staring down at me, letting my fingertips trail along his jawline and explore his face.
"I won't let it happen again," he repeats. "You're special to me, Karissa. I didn't expect you to be."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know what I expected," he says, "but I didn't expect your innocence."
"I'm not that innocent."
His expression softens. "You're a cute little kitten."
I roll my eyes. "I am not."
"You are," he says. "You may growl, and hiss, and meow, and maybe sometimes you bring out those claws, but I know how to make you purr. I'm the king of the jungle. I'm the predator."
"Does that make me your prey?"
He shakes his head. "That makes you my queen."
I caress his face before threading my fingers through his hair. "You make me feel like one."
He says nothing in response, and I say nothing else, as he finally pulls my hands away from him, linking his fingers with mine to pull me toward the stairs. He takes me up to the second floor, to the master bedroom, where he slowly, and carefully, strips me out of my clothes. I nervously stand in front of him naked as his eyes scan my body.
After a moment, he turns and strides away.
My brow furrows. I hear him in the closet, and he returns holding one of his neckties. I stand still as he walks around behind me. I'm waiting for him to try to tie my wrists together again, thinking maybe he'll go for the ankles, even preparing for him to wrap it around my neck, but I let out a soft gasp when he slips it around my eyes instead. The room is cloaked in darkness as he blindfolds me, tying it securely in place.