Page 96 of Ruthless Kings of Obsession

Matteo's frown deepens, sweat still glistening on his torso as he processes this information. "I knew a Ren in the cage fighting circuit," he says slowly, memories clearly surfacing. "But he died. One of the bloodiest matches in underground history."

"That would be my cousin," Ren confirms, running a hand through his teal-streaked hair. The gesture looks casual, but I catch the tension in his shoulders. "Yeah, I used to train with him. Help him work on speed because that's where he struggled. That and dodging fast enough to keep his head from getting bashed open."

The words hang heavy in the training room's charged atmosphere. Something passes between the two men – recognition, perhaps, or shared understanding of a world most people never see.

"Obviously didn't dodge fast enough in the end," Ren adds, attempting his usual lightness but not quite managing it. The ghost of his cousin's fate seems to hover between them like smoke.

I watch Matteo carefully, seeing how his jaw tightens at the memory. Sweat continues to roll down his chest, following the defined lines of muscle that speak of years of training, of fighting, of surviving things most people couldn't imagine.

"Matteo," I say softly, drawing his attention. Those dark eyes find mine immediately, carrying shadows I'm only beginning to understand. "Would you... could you explain what it's like? Cage fighting for survival?" I pause, adding quickly, "If it's something you don't mind talking about."

He rolls his shoulders back, the movement making every muscle ripple with controlled power. As he straightens his stance, I can't help but appreciate the lethal grace he embodies – the way his body has been honed into something both beautiful and deadly.

Sweat trails down his frame, highlighting scars I've never noticed before. Some are obvious – raised lines that speak of blade work and bad luck. Others are subtler – the slight unevenness in his ribs that suggests they've been broken and reset multiple times, the way his left shoulder sits just slightly different than his right.

His chest rises and falls with measured breaths as he considers my request. Each inhale emphasizes the definition in his torso, while each exhale carries the weight of memories I can see him deciding whether to share.

The training room's lights cast interesting shadows across his skin, making certain scars more prominent while hiding others completely. It's like reading a map of survival, each mark telling its own story of violence survived and lessons learned.

I find myself holding my breath, caught between wanting to know these darker parts of him and fearing what that knowledge might cost. Because this isn't just about cage fighting, is it? This is about understanding exactly what kind of man I've married – what kind of darkness he carries beneath his carefully maintained control.

More sweat beads on his chest as he maintains that perfect stillness, that predatory pause that makes even Ren grow quiet. The air feels charged with potential energy, with unspoken histories and carefully buried truths waiting to surface.

My eyes trace a particularly prominent scar that runs along his collarbone – wondering what weapon caused it, what fight marked him so permanently. The story is there in his flesh, written in a language of violence and survival that I'm only beginning to learn how to read.

His silence stretches like wire about to snap, making every small movement seem magnified. A drop of sweat trails down his abs, following the defined lines of muscle with maddeningslowness. The sight is hypnotic, almost meditative, as we all wait for him to decide how much truth he's willing to share.

"Do you two need a room?" Ren's amused voice cuts through my blatant appreciation of my husband's physique, making heat flood my cheeks as I realize I've been caught staring. Again.

But before I can formulate a response, Matteo moves with that lethal grace that never fails to take my breath away. One moment he's across the training mat, the next he's pressed against me, eliminating any space between our bodies. His skin is still slick with sweat, making the contact feel electric as his eyes lock with mine.

Our lips hover mere inches apart, close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath, taste the promise of violence and passion that always seems to radiate from him. His presence overwhelms my senses – the subtle scent of his cologne mixing with sweat, the way his muscles shift against me with every breath, the dangerous intent I see building in his dark eyes.

"Cage fighting," he whispers, his voice dropping to that register that makes my knees weak, "is an addiction." His words ghost across my lips, making them tingle with anticipation. "The empowerment it gives you... nothing else comes close."

I remain perfectly still, caught in his gravity like a planet orbiting its sun. Every point of contact between us feels charged with potential energy, with carefully controlled power that could unleash at any moment.

"You're fighting for survival," he continues, one hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face. The gesture seems almost tender, contrasting sharply with the darkness in his voice. "Every little moment, every breath, every heartbeat – it can all change in an instant."

His other hand finds my hip, fingers pressing just hard enough to keep me from swaying closer, though God knows Iwant to. The heat of his palm burns through the thin material of my workout shorts, making it hard to focus on his words.

"Once that cage closes," his lips brush my ear now, sending shivers down my spine, "no one is coming to save you. No referee stepping in, no rules to protect you, no mercy to beg for." His grip tightens slightly as he adds, "The only time anyone interferes is to drag your dead body out."

The brutal honesty of his words should frighten me. Should make me want to step back, to create distance from this man who speaks so casually of death and violence. Instead, I find myself pressing closer, letting him feel exactly what his darkness does to me.

His sharp intake of breath tells me he notices, especially when I deliberately shift against the hardness I can feel growing between us. His eyes darken further, pupils dilating with a hunger that matches my own.

Those dangerous hands slide to my waist, keeping me still as his gaze travels over my exposed skin. The sports bra and shorts suddenly feel like too much and not enough all at once. Each sweep of his eyes leaves trails of fire in their wake, making me hyper-aware of every inch of flesh on display.

"Sweet Precious Gem," he breathes, the nickname carrying new weight in this charged atmosphere. His thumbs trace small circles on my hipbones, the touch maddeningly light despite the obvious strength in his hands. "You have no idea what you do to me."

I arch deliberately against him, feeling exactly what I do to him pressed hard against my stomach. "I think I have some idea," I whisper back, enjoying how his pupils dilate further at my boldness.

Something dangerous flashes in his expression as he continues, "People keep going back into that cage because the thrill of survival is like crack." His hands flex against my waist,probably leaving bruises I'll admire later. "Nothing compares to watching your opponent hit the ground after challenging you. After thinking they could take what's yours."

One hand slides up my ribs, fingers splaying wide to feel my thundering heartbeat. "The world has to acknowledge you then," he says, voice growing rougher with remembered victory and present desire. "Has to admit you're the better fighter. That you survived. That you're worth betting on."

The training room feels too small suddenly, too confined to contain whatever's building between us. The air grows thick with tension, with promise, with carefully controlled violence that could explode at any moment.

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