After He Chose My Adopted Sister, I Bought A Wilder Beast

Kevin, the elite bodyguard I'd spent ten years training, chose my adopted sister, Eva, over me when it came down to life and death.

So I went straight to an underground fight club and picked out the craziest, most ruthless bastard I could find.

A month later, Kevin got word and came rushing back, dragging his battered body past the guards at my door, fighting within an inch of his life.

He knelt on the floor, eyes bloodshot, clutching the hem of my dress.

"Principessa, what does that scarred stray have that I don't?"

Kevin, the elite bodyguard I'd spent ten years training, chose my adopted sister, Eva, over me when it came down to life and death.

So I went straight to an underground fight club and picked out the craziest, most ruthless bastard I could find.

A month later, Kevin got word and came rushing back, dragging his battered body past the guards at my door, fighting within an inch of his life.

He knelt on the floor, eyes bloodshot, clutching the hem of my dress.

"Principessa, what does that scarred stray have that I don't?"

...

I'd had too much to drink tonight. I was wasted.

Now, I was sitting in the VIP stands of an underground fight club, chewing on an unlit cigarette to steady my nerves.

A fight club fixer sidled up to me, his face a mask of flattery. He lowered his voice. "Looking for a little excitement, I assume?"

"As it happens, I've got a real beast, fresh from the deathmatches. He's guaranteed to help you blow off some steam."

I lit my cigarette, took a drag, and exhaled a plume of white smoke before flicking the ash. "Show me."

The fixer glanced around warily. Once sure it was safe, he snapped his fingers, signaling someone from the shadows to step forward.

The man who approached was tall, with broad shoulders and a lean, well-defined waist.

When he stopped in front of me, he blocked the overhead light completely, casting me in shadow.

Before I could speak, the fixer yanked hard on the heavy chain of his shackles.

He was forced to his knees. Then, the fixer ripped the rough mask from his face.

It was the signature gear of the lowest-rung fighters, who were treated no better than animals here.

The fixer grabbed a fistful of his black hair and forced his head back.

The man's skin was pale, his nose straight and high, his jawline sharp as a blade. His brow bone and the corner of his lip were bruised from heavy blows.

His narrow eyes were fixed on me. But there was no fear in them.

"See, Principessa?" the fixer said, trying to curry favor. "A body like this is pure satisfaction, whether you beat him or do something else."

I swallowed, a flicker of interest stirring within me.

I couldn't deny it, he was my type. Besides, a recent ambush had left my nerves shot, and my doctor said I needed some kind of release.

But then I remembered Kevin, waiting for me back at the family estate.

I'd spent ten years training him myself. If I brought some wild man home now, he'd definitely throw a fit.

The fixer noticed my hesitation and kicked the man. "Get up! Let the principessa see what you're made of!"

The man slowly got to his feet.

His hands still bound tightly in the cuffs, his tattered black tank top tore, revealing a stunningly powerful physique.

But his skin was a canvas of bruises and vicious scars.

The fixer quickly slapped the mask back on his face. He pounded the man's hard chest.

"Look at this physique. He's the most ruthless, most uncontrollable madman here." The fixer lowered his voice.

"Two thousand in cash, and you can do whatever you want with him for two hours. As long as you don't kill him outright, he'll be good as new by tomorrow."

I narrowed my eyes. "The most uncontrollable?"

Uncontrollable was the ultimate taboo, and I've always had a taste for danger.

To hell with taboos.

After all, the Kevin I'd so carefully trained was an ungrateful snake.

He'd abandoned me without a second thought in a life-or-death situation to protect my sister, Eva.

Since he was cheap and durable, I might as well get one who would actually obey.

I staggered to my feet, too drunk to speak clearly.

"If I want to buy him outright, name your price."

"Oh! That won't be a small sum," the fixer said, rubbing his hands together greedily. "He's the most profitable beast in my stable."

"Just give me the number."

"For the Marino family, one hundred thousand."

I laughed out loud.

Kevin's training had cost me millions. A hundred thousand for an uncontrollable madman was laughably cheap.

"Too steep for you?" the fixer asked tentatively.

I didn't waste words. I just kicked the black briefcase at my feet over to him. The latches popped, revealing stacks of neat bills.

"Cash. Count it."

And just like that, in ten minutes, I'd bought Lucas.

There was no way I was taking the reek of blood back to the estate, so I took him to my private penthouse suite at the hotel.

Before we left the fight club, the fixer warned me repeatedly: until he was completely broken, I was not to remove his mask or his shackles under any circumstances.

Inside the lavish suite, Lucas stood motionless by the door, his eyes downcast, like a weapon waiting for its new master's command.

After my shower, I wrapped myself in a towel, not daring to undo his shackles. "You should wash up, too."

He looked at me for a moment, then turned and walked silently into the bathroom. The sound of the shower started a moment later.

A few minutes later, I pushed open the ajar glass door. "I left my phone in here."

Lucas hadn't locked the door at all.

He stood rigid and naked under the showerhead, his back to me.

His skin was a wild, rugged bronze, which only made the crisscrossing scars on his back look all the more shocking.

Warm water sluiced over his cuffs. Dark red, bloody water mixed with the filth of the underground ring, running down his spine and narrow waist.

His broad shoulders were drawn tight, the muscles trembling slightly.

Kevin always wore his hair in a meticulously styled slick-back. But Lucas, his dark hair was soaked and plastered messily to his forehead.

I felt an immediate urge to touch him.

I walked up to him, picked up a towel, and began to dab at a fresh, still-weeping wound on his abdomen.

The moment my fingers touched his lower stomach, he grunted and grabbed my wrist.

His voice was a low rasp, mingling with the clank of his metal chains. "What are you doing?"