Page 27 of Hateful Games

It appears even more sinister and seedy.

The crowd’s attention is riveted to it, some aggressively pushing aside each other to reach the front. The anticipation of the upcoming fight thrums in the air while the boys start to pump their fists toward the sky, chanting to begin the match.

The announcer enters the cage, his shaggy blond hair shining under the flickering lights.

“It’s time!” he shouts. “Who’s ready?”

“Fight! Fight! Fight!”

“Fighting tonight for the Savages is Bryant.”

Cheers go around as a huge, bulky, and a beast of a guy storms into the cage from my right. His body oiled up as he eyes the crowd with a menacing glare, flexing his muscles. I can only imagine what the other fighter is going to look like. Although, this guy looks like he could beat anybody into a pulp.

“Our next opponent, fighting for one final time for the Hellions, is our very own favorite,” introduces the announcer, his deep voice raising goosebumps as he builds the anticipation. “The undefeated Nova D’Cruz.”

My. Heart. Drops.

My lungs suddenly not breathing enough oxygen.

The world vanishing around me.

Meanwhile, the crowd goes berserk when Nova is introduced. The screams so loud, it’s deafening. His popularity distinctive, just like it was in our high school. Why did I assume it would be different here? My fiancé is well-versed in amassing his fan following.

Yet I’m in disbelief, finding it extremely hard to believe Nova fights in an underground and very illegal boxing ring. Let alone digest he hasn’t lost a single match.

And then he enters the cage.

Stealing the rest of my air.

An aggressive and savage beast of a warrior.

He saunters to the center in all his half-naked and muscular glory, towering over the other two like a dark Greek god. Confident and graceful. I gulp past the sudden dryness in my throat, slowly coming to my senses as I study him, seeing him after almost a year.

Looking nothing like the boy I remember.

He’s all man, carved from stone.

Broad shoulders taper into muscled pecs to a chiseled set of eight-pack abs, each distinctive and hard. The small trail of hair leading to the deep V of his hips and into a lean waist. My eyes—which suddenly have a mind of their own—travel lower to his loose black shorts, hanging just above his knees.

The rest of him is just as perfectly built.

When did he get so ripped? Or was he always hiding all of that underneath his clothes?

I reluctantly pull my gaze up before my mind conjures a mental image of him naked. Wondering if he’ll look better without anything hindering my view. Or if height does in fact have any correlation to a man’s size.

It’s a dangerous territory I cannot travel into.

Fuck… I couldn’t possibly be drunk after one tiny sip. Right?

Messy hair falls on his forehead, which he always keeps pushed back. If I didn’t despise him so much, I might even say he looks dreamy. That chilling and angry expression… Every woman’s kryptonite. Wet dream. Spank bank material.

Stop it, Rosa.

Unlike his opponent, Nova doesn’t engage with the audience that is chanting his name like a prayer. His attention is locked tight on his huge rival, yet Nova is the one who looks terrifying with his iconic and seething calmness.

I’m oddly mesmerized.

Meanwhile, I’m so lost checking him out, distracted by his sinew and unbelievably corded muscles, that I miss half of what the speaker says and only catch him at the end yelling, “Let’s go!”

---