Page 41 of Quiet Obsession
My mouth goes a little dry, eyes roving the ink covering his arms and chest. A snake slithers from his right pec, around the back of his neck and down the left, identical to the one currently stamped on the inside of my wrist. I wonder if the stamp is a nod to him, or if his tattoo is a nod to the fight club.
Two mirror-image roses are tattooed in the dips of his shoulders, and a spider skitters down a web right below his sternum. Skulls, knives, wolves, and more odd doodles adorn his arms.
There’s no rhyme or rhythm to them, no common theme, just random objects, and yet every single one looks intentional.
“Look who we brought!” Dash announces.
Everyone turns our way, my brother’s jaw clenching harder than Creed’s as they zero in on Noah’s arm around my shoulders. I no longer flinch at his or Dash’s touch, settling into their soothing familiarity. Noah doesn’t remove his arm immediately, only shifting away when my brother comes closer, jaw tight.
“What changed your mind?” he asks, smoothing his tone.
It doesn’t match the hard look on his face in the slightest.
“Dash needed a wing... girl,” I say.
“Wing girl?”
“I needed Millie so her roommate wouldn’t think we were on a date,” Dash clarifies, slotting himself between us. “Come on, Mini Ward, drink. I’m getting more.”
I take a sip, jolting when Brock’s voice booms through two six-foot speakers, one of which is right behind me. The bass rattles through my ribs.
Two guys step into the cage, bare-chested, hands wrapped, shoulders rolling. I edge closer without thinking, adrenaline fizzing through my veins. The energy in the room thickens, and the crowd surges forward, tightening around the cage, as chants break out—Oscar, Oscar, thenDamien, Damien.
My fingers curl into the cold chain-link, nose almost brushing the wire as the fighters circle each other, fists clenched and raised like in a professional fight. The metal bites into my palm when the first punch lands. A shudder shakes me, the crack of bone on bone much louder than I expected.
One of them—Oscar, I think—stumbles, then snaps back with a whooshing swing. People cheer, chant, whistle, and I’m holding my breath, lips parted, heart hammering.
My heart’s going crazy, pounding in my ear while adrenaline rushes through my veins. Damien catches a right hook, his head turning to the side, red gushing from his nose. He doesn’t get a chance to recover.
My eyes are wide, lips parted as I soak in the violence as Oscar barrels after Damien like a hurricane, driving blow after blow until he slams against the chain-link a few feet from me.
A tattooed arm wraps around my waist, yanking me back against a hard, muscular, warm chest just as Damiencrashes into the fence again, closer this time, his shoulder scraping metal exactly where my ribs had been a second ago.
“Too close,” Creed says, his deep voice in my ear.
Heat blooms behind my ribs, the scent of cologne, smoke, and something dark and clean filling my lungs. I don’t realize I’m shaking until his hand tightens at my waist and I feel the press of every finger through the fabric of my sweater. It’s not gentle but firm in a grounding, possessive way. A tremor rolls through my arms, stomach, and thighs.
God, it’s hot in here.
“Easy, MillieBaby.” He dips his head low enough that the warmth of his breath skims my temple. “Don’t forget to breathe.”
I automatically take a deep breath, but it does little to steady me when he’s so close. I feeleverything. The rise and fall of his chest against my back, the flex of his hand at my waist every time the fighters crash too close, the brush of his breath over my hair.
Seconds stretch longer than they should.
The fighters finally stagger away from the fence, circling toward the center of the cage again, and only then does Creed loosen his grip. He steps back but hovers close until the fight ends two rounds later, Oscar winning on points. He grins, his teeth red, lip split, one eye swollen shut.
A minute later, I hear Creed’s name called, and my brother comes to stand beside me. Noah and Dash follow, the three of them surrounding me like bodyguards.
My fingers curl a little tighter around the half-empty cup,then tighter still when Creed’s opponent, Trevor, enters the cage. He’s built like a tank, his biceps larger than my head.
“God, he’s huge,” I mutter, chewing my lip as Trevor rolls his neck and cracks his knuckles, preparing for demolition. “Who the hell matched them up?”
“Creed did,” Noah says.
“What?” I spin to face him. “Why?!”
Hyde chuckles, ruffling my hair. “Are you worried about my best friend, sis?”
