ROMANCE: SHAPESHIFTER ROMANCE: Dragon Baller's Bride (Dragon Shifter Alpha Male Romance) (Paranormal Romantic Suspense) (49 page)

“
O
h
, no.” Michael looked faintly queasy. “Look, I’ll go, but—”

“I’m not here to yell at you,” Jasmine whispered. She held a finger up to her lips and beckoned Michael to come closer to the ring with her.

“Oh, my God.” Michael stopped dead. “
You’re
the chick he won’t shut up about?”

Jasmine turned guiltily, a flush rising hot in her cheeks. She tried to bite back a smile, but couldn’t bring herself to do so.

“You
are
.” Michael’s voice was accusing. “Look at you! When was the last time you dressed up?”

“Shut up! I’m not dressed up.”

Michael raised an eyebrow at her shirt, jeans, and boots. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you wearing something other than your scrubs.”

“That’s…never mind.”

“Oh, my sister is screwing my MMA instructor...oh, no.”

“Shut up!”

They both quieted down when some of the boys looked over at them, and crept closer to watch the match in progress. Tyler had gotten in the ring himself, as he’d told Jasmine he was going to do.
I’ve even been afraid to fight my own students,
he said, shaking his head.

He had clearly been training. They hadn’t had much time for one another in the past few weeks, her with her work and her school, him with his training, but she had often brought her work to the gym after classes were done, and read as he trained. She let her eyes travel over the bruises on his torso, wincing in sympathy, and noted the scrapes on his knees and knuckles.

He had also clearly been fighting for hours by now. His steps were dragging with exhaustion, though his eyes were clear, and his opponent had all the quicksilver speed of a tiny teenaged boy. Without an ounce of fat on him, and fairly short for his age, he had clearly learned to get out of the way in fights. As they watched, however, he seemed to work his courage up, and as he danced away and Tyler followed, the younger boy came back with a punch that knocked Tyler back across the ring. There was a murmur.

“Oof.” The man stood, but he was grinning around the blood on his mouth. “
Good.
Good job.” There was some scattered clapping, and the boys went to retrieve their bags, a few of them throwing curious looks Jasmine’s way.

“That was a good match.” She smiled as she looked at him. “Aren’t you worried you tired yourself out too much, though? The tournament is tomorrow.”

“This is the only way I can sleep before tournaments,” he confided. “Otherwise I lie awake all night.” He squeezed his eyes closed. “I’m terrified.”

“Don’t be.”

“Why not?” He looked over at her. “Do you know what it’s like to lose in front of that many people?”

“No. But I know you didn’t let yourself be destroyed last time.” Jasmine reached out to put a hand on his face. “And I know that the worst part of losing was realizing that you didn’t have the life you wanted. And so you built one.”

He leaned his face against her hand, smiling. “Sometimes I think you’re not even real.”

“I’m real.” Jasmine smiled at him, then looked over to where Michael was hovering. “I’ll be right there.”

“Stay with me tonight,” Tyler said quietly. “Come back to my place.”

“I can’t. I need to go cook some dinner and—”

“Emma and I can cook dinner,” Michael said. He flushed when they looked over. “Well, we
can.
”

“And pack lunches for yourselves?” Jasmine asked suspiciously.

“I can’t make your crazy rice bowls, but I can make PB&J.” He shrugged, and then cleared his throat awkwardly. “Why don’t you take a night off?”

“That would be nice,” Jasmine admitted.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Michael said, and left at high speed before his face could explode from his blush.

“He’s a good kid,” Tyler said. “So. Shall we?”

“I don’t have any pajamas, or a toothbrush, or—”

“We’ll stop and get you a toothbrush, and you can wear one of my tee-shirts for pajamas.” He gave a little growl. “I cannot wait to see you wearing it.”

Jasmine blushed and laughed as he ushered her out, but she sobered as they walked through the streets together to his apartment. He’d become more withdrawn with every passing day as the tournament approached. Often she saw him staring at the wall, his eyes shadowed as if he hadn’t slept. He’d pushed himself hard enough in training that she had worried for him, at times. He would hobble along the streets with her, refusing her offer to get a cab.

She would take care of him tonight. She rolled her aching shoulders and promised herself that no matter how tired she was, it would be worth it for her to see him win and regain his confidence tomorrow. She plastered a smile on her face and looked brightly at him whenever he looked over at her.

When they got to his apartment, however, he poured a glass of wine and put it in her hand, then ushered her firmly to the couch.

“Sit,” he said firmly.

“What?” She could see the steaks and potatoes on the counter, and she wasn’t sure how long she could stay awake. She should start cooking now.

“I’m going to make some dinner,” Tyler said. He draped a blanket over her lap. “
You
rest a moment.”

“You’re going to cook?” They had spent their dates around the city, walking to taco stands and hanging out in the little diners between their homes.

“It’s not going to be gourmet, but I actually can cook, you know. How did you think I survived this long living on my own?”

“That’s true.” Jasmine kicked off her boots and curled her feet up under her. It felt amazing to be able to sit down. Her shift at the hospital had been much too long. “So…” She watched him as he began to chop the potatoes. “Who taught you to cook?”

“I learned to cook on my own, actually.” He shook his head. “I was terrible at it for years. Thankfully, we have the internet. I was trying to get through a steak one night and I thought, ‘I bet someone actually has steps to do this.’ Turned everything around.”

“Mm-hmm.” Jasmine cradled the wine glass in her hand and watched him work, smiling as he tossed the onions in a pan and set the potatoes to boil. “So what do you normally cook for yourself?”

“Piles of pasta and salad and meat,” he said cheerfully. “I want to try those rice bowls Michael mentioned, though. Will you make me one?”

“Sure, but it’s nothing fancy. It’s just plain old Jamaican rice and peas. My dad taught me how to make it.”

“Rice and
peas
? That sounds…Indian.”

Jasmine laughed. “It’s actually kidney beans. And coconut milk, and spices…it’s good. Not fancy, but good.”

“My kind of food.” He grinned up at her. “Drink your wine.”

“I’ll fall asleep if I have any wine.”

“You need some sleep.” He came over to kiss her. “Did you get your paper in?”

“Yeah.” She felt herself grin. “I got an A.”

“Of course you did. Did you know you have this ferocious scowl while you’re writing? It’s adorable.” He grinned at her as he went back to the stove. “You like balsamic vinegar, by the way, right?”

“Ugh, white people. But, sure. I’ll have some of your fancy vinegar.” She took a sip of her wine and grinned at him over the rim of her glass.

“I will have you know,” Tyler said with great dignity, “that balsamic vinegar makes a fantastic marinade.”

“Uh-huh.” She giggled. “You have any sea salt over there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a white boy.” He gave her a surprisingly cheeky smile. “You like me, though.”

“I do.” She shook her head to watch him. He’d cleaned the blood away, but he was still covered in bruises and scrapes. Even so, he was one of the most beautiful people she’d ever seen in her life. That he was with her—that he
wanted
to be with her—was something that still didn’t make any sense to her.

As if sensing her thoughts, he looked up at her.

“I’m so happy with you.”

“It’s only been four weeks,” Jasmine admonished him. At his raised eyebrow, she felt herself grin. “I’m happy with you, too.”

“Because we’re perfect for one another,” he said precisely. “See, you’re smart and pretty, and I like smart, pretty people. It’s uncanny.”

Jasmine snorted a mouthful of wine up her nose and reached frantically for a napkin.

“Sorry, sorry.” He came over to kiss the top of her head, and then knelt by her side. “What I mean to say is…I’ve never actually had anyone believe in me. My coach took me on because he thought I could win without him having to do anything. My parents…well, never mind about them. My teachers thought I was a lost cause. And I…well, I tried to live up to that.” He shrugged his shoulders and swallowed. “I did everything I could to disappoint them. Maybe I thought it was funny. Maybe I thought that if they were so determined to convict me, then I’d just be that person and not give a damn about any of it.

“You’re the only one who has looked at me, looked at what I was too afraid to admit I wanted, and ask why I wasn’t working for it. Maybe it means nothing to you—but it means a lot to me. I know it means a lot to Michael, too. I’ll bet it means a lot to your little sister.”

Jasmine reached for his hand. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“We’re going to find you a dream,” Tyler promised her. He laid his forehead against hers. “Something you really
want
to do with your life. Maybe it’ll be nursing. But whatever it is, we’ll find it. And I’ll be there whenever you need encouragement to go for it.” He kissed her. “
And
I’ll cook you dinner.”

“Every night?"

“If you want me to.”

E
ven in the locker room
, the roar of the crowd was deafening. Tyler sat on the bench and sank his head into his hands. He could remember listening to this sound before, back when it only fired him up. His words to Jasmine rang in his ears:
I did everything I could to disappoint them.
It hadn’t just been his teachers and his parents. He thrived off the energy of thinking that the world hated him and wanted to see him lose. When he went into the ring, it had been with the assumption that everyone there wanted to see him get knocked out—and he wasn’t going to let them win. He was going to disappoint them.

Jasmine was out there today, her and all the guys from the gym. There were people in the crowd from his neighborhood, who’d stopped to ask if he was
the
Tyler that was fighting in the tournament coming up. These guys knew boxing from the old days, from growing up like he had, fighting anyone and everyone. And as soon as he went out there and started to lose, they were going to know he was a fraud and there was going to be pity in their eyes every time they saw him afterward.

He was shaking. He wanted to grab his bag and run. Better to be a coward and have them believe he could have won, after all, than have them see him lose. Everyone was out there. His old coach was out there, even—but for the other guy.

Drake. Tyler shook his head. The kid had kept training. Tyler supposed he had kept training, too, honing his eyes to see new techniques and working his body to the limit every day before class and after class. He’d spent his mornings running down the familiar roads and lifting weights in his tiny living room, but surely that wasn’t the same.

Unless…well, maybe it was.

You’ve lost before, and it didn’t kill you.

So what if they all thought he had lost it? He stood up, bouncing on the balls of his feet to loosen the muscles. So some of them expected him to win. Hell, some of them probably
did
hate him. But this time, he wasn’t here for any of them. He was here because he found a pure, unmatched beauty in the art of the fight. He was here because the woman he loved had believed he could do this.

And he had better win, because it was going to be damned awkward to tell her how much he loved her if he had just lost. It would be too demoralizing. It was scary as hell anyway, and he needed all the help he could get. He wondered what she would say, and imagined her telling him that it was too early. She would tell him that, too. She would say it had only been a few weeks.

He already knew his answer to that:
I know I’m going to love you. I don’t know how I know, but I know it.
He knew it didn’t make sense. But he also knew it was true. He pushed his way out of the locker room and into the deafening roar, and felt a smile stretch across his face. He did not look for Jasmine; he could feel her there, believing in him. He did not look for the guys—he could hear them yelling his name, and it made the blood pound in his chest. He’d never had anyone in the stands cheering for him before.

He’d never given back before. He’d never taught, or helped, or been kind. And he was surprised to find that the thought of the past few months warmed him more than the thought of victory.

He sized up Drake as he stepped into the ring. They boy was taller now, and his shoulders were broader. He’d been training hard, that much was clear. But there was a sleekness to his gear, a smoothness to his skin, that suggested he’d been training in an elite gym, pushing himself to the limits on shiny machines while never getting down and dirty. Tyler allowed himself a lazy smile.

When the bell went, he waited, and saw the flicker of consternation on Drake’s face. Once Tyler had been impulsive, always rushing in. He had no defensive mode then, and Drake had taken full advantage of that. It was as if the man had expected that Tyler would come back knowing nothing new.

His loss. Tyler darted away as Drake closed in, catching the man with an uppercut in the ribs before dancing out of range. The man winced, and Tyler smiled. Before, he hadn’t been much of a one for a tiny flurry of punches when one big one was so dramatic—but his students, all smaller, all used to winning fights they had no business even being in, had taught him the power of small strikes.

He was holding his own now. Tyler managed his distance, allowing the fight to drag on, searching for signs of weakness in his opponent. Drake was in peak physical condition, no doubt barred from anything delicious and forbidden to drink. But he wasn’t used to fighting for a long time. That was the difference between the two of them. Tyler caught him with a smarting blow on the temple and shrugged off a glancing hit to his torso.

He had a chance here. He felt his heart begin to swell, smugness radiating from inside him. Drake was good, Drake had trained. But Drake had also come here thinking this would be an easy win. He hadn’t thought Tyler would have the strength to get up and fight again. He was going to—

The flurry of punches caught Tyler without warning, blows raining onto his torso and then up onto his head. The crowd’s yells rose to a scream and Tyler stumbled back, his head ringing and stars flashing before his eyes. Drake was closing in on him aggressively now, and every time Tyler tried to evade him, he was getting closer and closer to failing. He knew how powerful Drake’s strikes could be. As he slid sideways the next time, at last, one of those famous punches caught him right along the jaw.

He was falling. He was going to go down, and not get up, and he’d have to watch them hoist Drake’s hand into the air again. Tyler embraced the sickening drop in his stomach as he went over backwards. Time had slowed down to a tiny crawl and he could see everything through his slitted eyes: Drake’s smug grin, Tyler’s former coach yelling in triumph, the crowd with their mouths hanging open. He was going to lose. He’d known he was going to lose and he’d come here anyway. Why?

No.

The thought caught him halfway to the floor. It wasn’t over until he said it was over. He’d lost last time because he’d been too shocked, too hurt, too blindsided to get up again and face another hit. He’d lost because he hadn’t known how to get up. With time still moving so slowly that Tyler felt trapped, lost, he began to twist. He watched his foot start to move. Could he catch himself in time?

Time snapped back into focus and he slammed back against the ropes, catching himself and staggering back up, his hands coming up into a guard. He saw his coach’s eyes widen, heard the yell for Drake to turn around. The fear in the other man’s eyes was like a drug, sending fire down Tyler’s veins. He was still seeing spots but he was not going to go down without a fight—a
real
fight. He was in it for the long haul.

He had something to win for, now.

He unleashed his own flurry of punches, the combination he’d been drilling the boys on for weeks now.
Put effort into your fundamentals,
he told them, striding around as their punches connected with pads.
Your fundamentals will save you every time.
And so they were, his punches landing perfectly on point, knuckles meeting ribs, jaw, nose.

And then Drake was on the floor and the crowd was screaming, and a man was hoisting Tyler’s hand into the air. He shook his head, trying to make sense of what had happened. He could see people jumping and waving, cheering his name and applauding.

It was as if he had never won before in his life. As if he’d never understood what it meant to win. They were proud of him. He’d taken hits and come back. He was their underdog, and he’d won fairly. They were cheering for him. He felt tears in his eyes and blinked them back, punching the air with one fist.

He vaulted over the ropes without even thinking. He could hear Jasmine’s voice, and he ran to her through the crowd, enfolding her in his arms. She was laughing and crying, kissing him, and he could see the words her mouth was shaping even if he couldn’t hear them over the yelling:

I’m so proud of you.

He leaned his forehead against hers and laughed with joy, with relief.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too.”