Jaw clenched against the pain throwing continuous haymakers against every organ in my body, I return to Caleb and his tattoo.
For once, he’s quiet and remains that way.
Good, because whatever comes out of my mouth right now wouldn’t sound human.
I finish his tattoo and make it through the rest of the afternoon and evening on autopilot. Reason cautions me to give Eden room, time. But every hour—every minute—that passes presses down on my rib cage, even as a sense of panic cranks up each time I glance at my watch or cell. By the time the last walk-in client leaves, I can’t wait another moment.
Hiking my chin at Jude, I palm my keys and tug on my beanie. “Hey, do me a favor and lock up? I have to go.”
My brother pauses in the middle of wiping down his tattoo chair and studies me for a beat before nodding. “Yeah, I got you.”
I head out, and the entire twenty minutes to Eden’s apartment, I battle the noose of dread and anxiety steadily tightening around my neck. Choking on the sense of foreboding…and resignation.
Minutes later, I stand in front of her door and knock. Not soon after we started having sex, she gave me a key to her place, since I often came in late. But using it now… Yeah, it doesn’t seem right. Not when, after tonight, she’ll most likely never want me inside again.
My chest seizes, and I focus on pushing air in and out of my lungs, like I would during a fight. Then I knock again.
The click of a lock disengaging reaches me first, and then the door swings open as if in slow motion. As if my mind is winding reality down so it captures each moment, to save it for later when mental snapshots are all I have left.
She stands in the doorway, and I take her in like a starving stray.
She’s my everything.
It’s not hard for me to admit that; I’ve wanted her from the moment I looked up and noticed her in that club’s crowded VIP lounge. Not long after, she met and fell in love with my brother and became a fixture in my family.
And since then, I’ve loved her.
As she stares at me with betrayal glinting in her dark gaze, I love her.
And when I walk out of here tonight with our relationship littering the floor like smashed glass, I’ll still love her.
“Can I come in?” I ask.
She shifts backward, and I take that as her answer. Stepping past her, I enter the apartment that has become as familiar to me as my own place and close the door behind me.
She crosses her arms over her chest, and the gesture is so vulnerable, as if she has to protect herself from this conversation—from me—I jerk to a stop, granting her distance. Or maybe it’s more for me, so I don’t surrender to the temptation to reach for her, touch her.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I scavenge my brain for a place to start, an excuse that would make any of this okay. But I’m coming up empty-handed on both. Nothing I could say is going to erase that disillusionment and betrayal, so all I can give her—what she deserves—is the truth.
“I’m sorry, Eden,” I begin. “I should’ve told you about the fight.”
“Why?” she asks, and I almost flinch from the thick hoarseness. Earlier at the shop, her face had been unreadable, shut down. But now, her hurt pours out of her.
“Why I agreed to the match, or why did I keep it from you?” I ask, my fingers aching with the need to brush her pale skin, smooth my thumbs down the elegant column of her throat, which has to be scratched and sore if her voice is any indication. Scratched and sore from crying.
Over me. My decision. My deception.
When I’d held her in my arms eighteen months ago while she broke down after her fist day in the shop, I’d vowed that she would never have another reason to cry and hurt.
And now, I’m the reason for both.
“Either.” She shrugs a shoulder. “Both.”
“The BFC approached me about a rematch against Israel Clarkson because of what happened with the first event.”
“You mean Connor dying,” she interrupts with a snap of temper.
“Yes,” I agree. “When people think of that match, they don’t remember the title fight. They recall it being the night Connor died. There’s a shadow cast over it. So the BFC wants to redo the match. Also, that was the last fight of my career. Listen—” I shove a hand over my hair, fisting the strands. Exhaling, I try again. “I know I’m not explaining this well. At first I didn’t accept the offer—”
