Page 30 of The Fighter

His eyes dance with laughter. “I thought you only invested in the stock market, Tomas. Buying a gym—that’s new. Why’d you do it?”

“It’s important to diversify,” I lie through my teeth.

“If you say so.” He looks unconvinced. “And here she is.” He makes a sweeping gesture toward the top of the stairs. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you tonight’s champion. Please put your hands together for the beautiful and lethal Alina Zuccaro.”

The room bursts into applause, and Alina freezes in her tracks. She scans the room, taking in the dozens of beautiful people dressed as if they were at a charity gala, not at an MMA ring in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Milan. She sees the linen-covered tables against the wall, overflowing with champagne, caviar, and much more, the carnival that Ciro Del Barba surrounds himself with.

She takes a step forward and comes into the light. She’s had time to take a quick shower and change into her street clothes. She’s wearing a pair of black leggings that hug the curve of her ass and an oversize Groff’s T-shirt with a wide neckline that slides off her shoulder. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, her face freshly scrubbed. No makeup except for a slick of lip gloss across her soft, full lips.

There’s a cut on her right cheek. Another cut on her arm. Bruises and injuries are part of fighting, and I’m used to them.

But when I see Alina hurt, everything inside me rebels.

Then, in that overcrowded room, her eyes find mine. For an instant, they’re wide and surprised, and then she moves.

Toward me.

“Tomas,” she says, crashing to a halt in front of me. Her words tell me she’s pissed; her eyes tell a very different story. “You’re here. In Milan. Why am I not surprised?”

21

ALINA

Downstairs, when the invitation to join Ciro Del Barba’s party came through, I asked Zarina, my opponent in my first fight, what it entailed. Mix obnoxiously rich people and copious amounts of alcohol, and they start believing they’re entitled to sex with the fighters. “Are we being pimped out?”

She immediately shook her head. “No,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong, sex can be on the table. Fight, then fuck, right? But only if you’re interested. Signor Del Barba doesn’t tolerate sexual assault of any kind. I’ve seen him personally snap the wrist of a man who got too handsy.” She splashed some water on her face and applied a coat of mascara. “You don’t have to attend. It’s an invitation, not a requirement. It’s usually pretty fun, though, and the food is always excellent. And Signor Del Barba only stocks the best prosecco.”

Fight, then fuck. I wish. Adrenaline-fueled sex sounds good, but the only man I want to fuck is three hundred kilometers away. I’m only here for the prosecco.

Then I climb the stairs, and…

Tomas is here.

Our eyes connect. The noise of the room fades into the background. I walk up to him, my heart beating so fast that I think it’s going to explode. “Tomas,” I say through dry lips. “You’re here. In Milan.” I’m not dreaming. He’s definitely here, dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen in a black T-shirt and dark-wash jeans, and he looks hot enough to devour. “Why am I not surprised?”

His lips quirk into a smile. “Hello, Alina. Nice fight.”

Last night, there had been a fresh cut on his upper lip. Today, it’s started to heal, and the puffiness has died down. My fingers itch to stroke it. Stroke him. It’s late, well past midnight, and the night feels strangely magical. Anything could happen tonight, and I wouldn’t be surprised.

Maybe I’m not here for just the food and wine after all.

Maybe I do want to fight, then fuck.

His compliment warms me from the inside out. “Well, I’m no Asset.” A waiter wanders by with a tray of prosecco, and I snag a glass. I’m parched. “What are you doing here?”

His fingers close around the stem of my glass. “Drink some water first.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you telling me what to do, Tomas?”

“Risking life and limb in the process.” He takes two pills out of his pocket. “Ibuprofen. You’re going to need it. Take them, otherwise you’re not getting out of bed tomorrow. And I don’t think your new pretty boy teacher is ready to handle a full class load yet.” I glare at him, and he adds, “I have some experience with this.”

He does. As he so convincingly demonstrated last night. “So do I.”

“When was the last time you fought five rounds in a row?” he asks pointedly. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Damn him; he’s right. “Smugness isn’t attractive,” I grumble. He hands me a bottle of water, and I swallow my pills. “And his name is Luke.”

His eyes search my face. He’s looking at me like I’m the center of his universe, and it’s an addictive feeling. I want to grab it in my hands and never let go. “I don’t give a damn about Luke,” he murmurs. His fingers trace the cut on my cheek, his touch a soft whisper on my skin. “Does it hurt?”

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