Blood of Cupids (21 page)

“Don’t be late.”

I dismissed Church, offering my final words of the day to
the group. We’d all be spending the next hour cleaning ourselves up for Pop’s
funeral.

I unlocked the door to his house, my house, and pushed
inside. How could I live here without him? I removed my colors and threw them
onto the couch. I decided not to bury him with his cut; being that I now knew
it was a life he never wanted. Still, to honor his memory, I wore his President
patch.

With my Pops gone and Sean somewhere in hiding, I was the
new President of
The Blood of Cupids MC.
To think, only two weeks
earlier I was planning on running away to California with Grace.

I hadn’t seen her, hadn’t heard from her since the night of
the war between our families. As her family dragged her away from me, I
accepted I would never see her again. It was that acceptance that forced me to
move on with my life, dedicate myself to my club.

I tossed my clothes to the floor as I stepped into to the
bathroom and then into the shower. I shaved off the two weeks of hair growth
from my face and splashed cologne over my naked body.

I put on a suit.

I walked to the cemetery.

I watched as they put my Pops into the ground.

I sat in the metal chair, feeling utterly alone. A figure
sat down next to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see she was small,
with short blonde hair. She was wearing a giant black hat that was offering
unwanted shade from the warming sun.

I would’ve said something to her, but today it didn’t
matter. I didn’t care about her. I didn’t care about anyone.

I bowed my head, wishing to hide from the world. The woman
next to me shifted, and then placed her small hand in mine, wrapping her
fingers around my knuckles.

I knew that hand. I knew that skin. I knew that warmth. She
pulled her hand away, leaving behind a small piece of paper. The words could
have stopped my heart.

Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake

Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take…

“Grace?”

“Shhh.”

Prologue

My surroundings come into focus at last. I realize that I
am
floating—but not through space. Warm water, scented with lavender and sage,
suspends my naked body, comforting me. It laps against my skin, caressing every
curve and limb of me. At first, I think I must be treading water in some hot
spring, or sunbaked ocean—the body of water is that vast. But as the rest of
the scene comes into focus, I find that I’m not in a sea at all. I’m in a
marble and golden bathtub, sunken into the floor of some elegant, unknown room.
I gaze up and see that the ceiling is made of curved glass, and the moon shines
down from above. The moon, and some other very vibrant lights...perhaps of the
neon variety?

“What are you doing all the way over there?” asks a rich,
rasping voice.

I look around sharply, sending little splashes of water
everywhere as I try to cover my naked breasts. Warm, amused laughter rings out
from the far side of the enormous tub. I peer through the steamy air and see
that I’m not alone in this place. There, across the way, glow two piercing blue
eyes. Heart battering against my ribs, I inch closer. Up out of the mist rises
a broad, cut torso, covered in inky lines. Two thick, muscled arms drape over
the edge of the tub. A face unlike any other, itself like something carved out
of marble, watches me approach. And a full, irresistible smile bursts open
there as I approach.

“There’s my girl,” Declan Tiberi growls, holding out his
strong hand to me.

I place my hand in his, marveling at the sudden spread of
heat that rushes through me at his slightest touch. Declan pulls me toward him,
guiding me through the steamy water. His brown curls are wet, slicked back from
his gorgeous face. Slowly, tentatively, I come to standing before him, letting
my eyes trail all along every defined muscle of his chest, his web of intricate
tattoos. I spot a scar or two on his chest, rising up from the bulky, firm
panes of his pecs.

“Won’t you come closer?” he breathes, running his hands
down my bare arms. A cascade of goose bumps stand up wherever his fingertips
trail.

I sink down into the water, hiding my naked body from
view. I’m suddenly bashful, feeling young and inexperienced. My long blonde
hair twists and waves in the water, fanning out all around me. My cheeks are
burning with excitement and self-consciousness.

“I’m a little nervous,” I admit to him, averting my eyes.

“It’s just me,” he says softly, “You know me, Kassie.”

My familiar name rolling off his tongue sends a shiver of
joy down my spine. I dare to meet his gaze, feeling like I could get lost in
those sapphire eyes.

“I’ve never...been with a man before,” I tell him
honestly, “Not really. I’ve messed around and all, but never...you know.”

“Is that so?” he asks, unwaveringly, “Well...do you want
to know what it’s like? To be with a man—to be with me?”

“More than anything,” I breathe, inching closer.

“I want to show you, Kassie,” he says, coming toward me
in the water. “I want to show you what it’s like. How good it can be.”

His torso rises up out of the pool, his perfect rack of
abs glistening and slick. He towers over me, even as I stand, letting my
breasts meet the warm air. He groans as he takes me in, his eyes drinking in my
every inch, my every curve.

This
is it,
I think to myself as he closes the space between us. Declan cups
my chin in his strong hand, titling my face up toward his. He looks sure and
serious, but elated. Happy. And all at once, I realize that I’m not afraid
anymore. I want this. I want him.

“Just let me show you,” he says, his voice rasping
lustily, “Let me make you feel amazing, Kassenia. I’ll show you...”

He lowers his full, firm lips to mine. I close my eyes
open myself to him, full of trust and longing. His tongue glides deliciously
against mine. He pulls me against him, and I feel the rock hard length of him
pressing against my belly. Just feeling him there, knowing that he’s hard for
me
, is almost more than I
can handle. I throw my arms around his broad shoulders, desperate to feel him
inside of me, where I’ve never felt any man before. I want him to be the first
one to know me that way. He’s the first man I’ve ever met who’s man enough to
handle me. Take me. Show me what this is all about.

Declan catches me up in his arms, spinning me around in
the warm, steamy air. He sets me down on the edge of the tub, my legs snaked
around his tapered waist. I lay back against the cool tile as his fingers trail
over my collarbone, ribs, thighs. His thumbs brush over the pink peaks of my
nipples, sending shockwaves of pleasure dancing along my nerves. He cups my sex
in a sure hand, running his fingers all along my slick slit. He pulls his hands
away and a new, unnamable, amazing pressure makes itself known against that
throbbing place between my legs. A low, aching need goes off like a bomb in my
belly as I suck in a huge breath, waiting to be filled up by this incredible
man.

“Declan,” I moan, bucking my hips toward him, “I need
you...”

Chapter One

Somewhere
beneath Las Vegas, Nevada, present day...

A thousand rabid boxing fans leap to their feet as the
fighter squares off against his challenger. The two fearsome, ruthless men have
been at it for nearly a dozen rounds, flying at each other with nothing short
of deadly force. Each man has been bruised and beaten, taken and given
staggering blows—but only one can walk out of this ring with his life, it's the
only way this fight ends.

The very canvas beneath the fighter’s feet begins to tremble
as the crowd stomps and jostles, craning their necks for a glance of him. He
knows that he’s something to behold. At six and a half feet tall, 200 pounds
and change, he’s a man to be reckoned with. His balanced, cut form ripples with
muscle, but not the curated, manicured muscle you find on urban gym rats and
vain, desperate men. No—the fighter’s bulk has been earned. Built up on the
battlefield, in the ring, fighting hand-to-hand, tooth and nail. Just as he
does now.

He wipes the blood and sweat off his brow, a wild grin
spreading across his full lips. His opponent has put up quite a fight, but he’s
fading fast. The challenger’s knees wobble, his chest heaves, he may just
collapse of his own accord. But the fighter can’t take any chances. The stakes
are too high to leave anything up to fate. He has to finish this man, for good.

“Dante’s Son. Dante’s Son. Dante's Son.” the crowd chants
feverishly, crying out the fighter’s ring-christened name.

They can smell blood in the air, and they’re lusting for
more. This is what they came for, after all. If they’d just wanted to see a
good fight, anywhere in Vegas would have done. But here underground, far from
the reach of the law or God, this is where real fighting lives. This is where
men fight to the death, while millions of dollars trade hands at the end of
every night. You can feel the tension, the excitement, the primal drive of
money, power, and the finality of death electrifying the air. The fighter
breathes it in, all of it, as he prepares to strike one last time.

“Finish him!” screams a young man’s voice from beside the
ring, “Kill him now!”

“Eyes on the prize,” another voice joins in, “Focus now,
brother.”

“He’s weak in the knees,” howls an older, gruffer man, “Go
for it, son!”

For a moment, the fighter lets his eyes flick toward the
rollicking voices. His pounding heart swells in his chest as he sees his
brothers lined up along the ring. They cling onto the ropes, their faces
flushed with pride and vigor. No, they’re not the fighter’s flesh and blood,
but they’re the only family he’s ever known.

Faces old and young, tanned and pale, brutish and bright—he
knows them all. And at the very end of the line sits a handsome, silver-haired
man. He doesn't cheer as he watches on, only looks calm, composed. The deep
lines in his face are unmoved by chants or jeers. He simply meets the fighter’s
eye and nods, once. It’s as much encouragement as the fighter needs.

They each wear their black leather cuts, patched and faded
but symbols of power all the same. Across the back of each man, the words
“Dante’s Nine” and "Las Vegas, NV" are emblazoned. It’s their family
title, their club’s identity. One of the most feared and respected MC names in
the United States. And they’re here on the fighter’s side.

Emboldened by his brothers’ ferocious loyalty, the fighter
sails across the ring, fist cocked back. Time slows to a crawl as he watches
his opponent’s eyes. The defeated fighter watches the other man approach, he
simply stands there accepting his fate, knowing that he’s about to die. It’s a
phenomenon Dante’s Son has witnessed many times before. This year alone, two
other boxers have given up their lives to him. This man will be the third.
After he falls, one more fight stands between the fighter and his freedom. But
he can’t think of that now.

His balled fist cracks against the challenger’s temple; he
quickly grabs the dazed man's head between his own powerful hands, and with a
skillful twist a sickening crack rings out in the turbulent air. The fighter
raises his inked arms as his opponent's lifeless husk crumples onto the canvas,
his soul has fled. The eight other men of Dante’s Nine vault into the ring,
hoisting their victorious brother onto their broad shoulders. “Dante’s Son” is
his ring name, and the crowd shouts it now. He drinks in their clamoring,
cacophonous praise. He fights for his brothers, his club. And for them, he
hasn't won yet again.

Back in the locker room, alone at last, the fighter shucks
off his gear. He lifts the heavy golden belt off his tapered waist, setting it
reverently down beside his street clothes. It’s a symbol of victory, but he
knows he still has business to finish. He can’t stop thinking about the
contract he signed just last year, locking him into four death matches;
tonight’s was number three of four. He’s managed to come out on top of these
first three, but who’s to say what the fourth will hold?

The fighter looks down at his inked, weary body. The thick
panes of his chest rise and fall with each labored breath. Each of his
abdominal muscles stands out in sharp relief as he winces with the aching pains
shooting through him. How is he going to make it through another fight like
this one alive? He shakes out his mane of dark curls, stepping into the hot
spray of the shower. Warm water runs in rivulets over his broad shoulders, his
biceps and sculpted thighs. He’s built his body into a fighting machine, but
how much longer will it run?

He scrubs himself clean, watching the blood and sweat swirl
away down the drain. By now, he’s used to being a killer. All his years in the
military taught him how to tamp down his human guilt and disgust at taking
another life. But all that repressed shame and sadness hasn’t evaporated; his
humanity hasn't completely been killed. With each of these fights to the death,
it comes just a bit closer to the surface.

Clean of body, if not of soul, the fighter wrenches the
water off and grabs a towel. He wraps it around the muscular v of his waist,
shoving a hand through his wet curls. He should be pleased with himself for
coming out on top yet again, but the usual sense of achievement is nowhere to
be found in him. The only reason he signed that contract was to funnel some
extra cash to his club. If he had his druthers, he’d stick to regulation
boxing. Civilized sports. But a deal is a deal, and he has one more match to
go. If he's honest with himself, deep down, maybe this is the way he wants it to
be—maybe he doesn't want to win that last fight.

Footsteps echo off the tile of the locker room, catching the
fighter’s ear. His training sends him straight into action at the sound of an
intruder. He reaches beneath his street clothes and snatches up his handgun. As
he levels it at his unexpected company, a light laugh rings out from the
shadows.

“No need for that, boy,” says a smooth voice, “I’m just here
to talk.”

“It’s you,” the fighter grunts, lowering his firearm, “I
almost put three bullets through your chest. Can’t sneak up on a guy after he’s
just stepped out of the ring.”

“My apologies,” says his visitor, stepping out into the
florescent glow of the locker room. He’s shorter than the average man, but
handsome all the same. His black hair is slicked back, not a strand out of
place. The smile he offers the fighter is blindingly white, even more so offset
by his deeply tanned skin. His every finger sports a ring of gold or diamond,
and his fine Italian suit is cut to perfection.

And for all this, he’s the least welcome sight the fighter
could imagine.

“It’s not every man that can look intimidating in a towel,”
the well-dressed man smiles, “But I suppose you’re not every man, now are you?”

“You need something, boss?” the fighter asks roughly,
crossing his thickly muscled arms.

“I wanted to congratulate you on a great fight,” the visitor
says, tucking his hands into his pockets, “I knew you’d pull through. I doubt
there’s any man who could beat you in this ring.”

“Here’s hoping,” the fighter says, “One more win and I’m
out. The club will have its cut of the money you make off me, and we’ll all be
square.”

“I hope you’re still comfortable with our little
arrangement?” the man asks, raising his manicured eyebrows.

“Sure,” says the fighter, turning his back, “Even a sliver
of what you’re raking in on my fights will save the club from bankruptcy. And
I’ve already said that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep Dante’s Nine afloat.”

“Why don’t you bail out the club yourself, if that’s the
case?”

“I may be rich, but not that rich,” the fighter says,
shaking his head, “Besides, most of my money is tied up in investments. The
money that I have to spend won’t come close to saving the club. We need a big
pay day, boss. That’s why I agreed to go through with these fights.”

“Well, your sacrifice is paying off incredibly well,” the
man smiles, “I’ve made more than I ever expected to on you. I suppose Las Vegas
is the city to snatch up the money of impulsive, filthy rich gamblers.”

“I suppose so,” the fighter says, dropping his towel and
stepping into a pair of well-loved blue jeans. “I’ll make sure to train hard
for the next match, then.”

“That’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about,” the
visitor sighs, “About your next match, my boy...”

“What is it?” the fighter asks gruffly, pulling on a plain
black tee.

“We want the same thing out of this fourth and final fight:
to make a whole helluva lot of money,” the man begins, “And I intend to, with
your help. The thing is, though, you may not be a huge fan of the methods I have
in mind.”

“I doubt that you could come up with any method that would
shock me,” the fighter scoffs, “I saw shit in Afghanistan that would make your
worst nightmares look like goddamn Saturday morning cartoons. Just tell me what
I need to do.”

The shrewd man locks eyes with the fighter. “I need you to
lose,” he says.

For a long moment, the fighter is silent, processing this
unheard of request. He hasn’t lost a fight since he was a boy of twelve,
overpowered by his lush of a father. He’s forgotten what it’s like to lose to
another man.

“These fights...are to the death,” he says slowly.

“There’s the rub,” the boss says with a shrug.

“You want me to throw the last fight. To let myself get
killed.”

“That’s the idea. It turns out that I stand to make a whole
lot more money if you go down than if you win. Who would have thought? I know
it’s not the best case scenario, but I’m afraid you have no choice.”

“There was nothing about fixing fights in the contract,” the
fighter says heatedly.

“Should have read the fine print,” the boss winks, “The
outcomes of these matches are mine to decide. And I’ve decided that, come
August, you’re going to throw the last one.”

“August...that’s only four months from now.”

“Plenty of time to get your affairs in order,” the boss says,
“Just think about how much money you’ll be bringing in for your gang.”

“It’s a club, not a gang,” the fighter snaps.

“Really? So if I went to the police with your club’s history
of dealing drugs, running guns, and pimping out anything with enough holes to
fuck, that wouldn’t be an issue? Let’s be honest with each other, my boy. Your
gang needs this money. And unless you throw the last fight, I’m not going to
give it to them. You’ll die, sure, but you’ll leave them quite the parting
gift.”

The fighter is silent as the polished man turns to go. What
is there to say? It isn’t as though he has any choice.

“I’ll do it,” he says quietly, his hands balled into fists,
“For them.”

“I knew you would,
Dante’s Son
,” the man smiles,
“Until next time.”

He disappears into the shadows once more, leaving the
fighter alone. All at once, rage takes hold of the warrior. He strikes out at
the metal lockers, punching and kicking, turning over benches, smashing
mirrors. He’s faced so much injustice in his life, but this has finally pushed
him too far. He doesn’t stop until the locker room is destroyed. Only then does
he snatch up his leather cut and slip into it like a second skin.

His retreating back bears the name of Dante’s Nine, and
below, the club’s sigil: a pair of dice, one that’s rolled a four, the other a
five. It’s the fighter’s family crest. His flag. The one thing he’s willing to
die for. And now, he knows he will.

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