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Or maybe just someone… nice.
Oblivious to my seething—or, probably, ignoring it—Jonah moves on to prepping asparagus and asks, “You have a fight next month, right?”
I flash two fingers, making a point not to look at him. After five years as an amateur champion, my first UFC contract is about to come into effect. Meaning next month’s fights are the real fucking deal.
About time, if you ask me.
Jonah leaves his amber eyes on my face, frowning under his dark brown beard. “You hire a coach yet, Ave?”
Jesus Christ. Not him, too.
The pack has been begging me to hire a coach for fucking ever. Well, Tristan and Jonah have; Spencer doesn’t care. According to him, it’s my business if I want to be “an obvious idiot” and/or “a suicidal lunatic.” As long as I don’t get blood on any of the furniture, he usually acts like my career never occurs to him. He’s never deigned to attend a match.
Tristan, on the other hand, never misses one. Our pack leader has always treated the fighting as a profession. I guess that’s technically true now, but I still want to smirk at that phrase.
My career.
Ha. More like finding a way to get paid for liking pain.
Because, fuck me, I really do.
The giving, the receiving. I’m not picky.
Seeing my answer all over my face, Jonah grumbles his disapproval for a second and then smirks again. “Excellent. I’ll get some cash out to bet on the other guys.”
He says that every time. Even back when I wasn’t good enough for the amateur league, he perpetually placed ridiculous bets on me and gave me all the money when I won.
It’s ironic as hell that I’m a paid fighter now. After years of scrapping and starving and whatever other bullshit—I’m making money when I don’t really need it anymore.
Being a part of the Thorne pack comes with limitless credit cards, cabinets that are always full of food, and a butler who does all our chores and runs every errand. I quit my old day job at Suburban Ink two years ago and haven’t touched any of my prize money in years.
I snort, trying not to be too amused by this asshole.
After all, my greatest strength as a fighter?
I don’t care.
About me. Or anyone.
And that’s why I win.
chapter
two
“Eat it.”
Avery glares at me across the kitchen island. The dark anger in his light eyes matches the black ink covering his pale chest, shoulders, and neck. “Didn’t I tell you to get fucked?”
I shove the plate closer. It’s a flat disk that blends right into the onyx counter. If not for the bright green vegetables and steamed white fish on top of it, you’d never see the damn thing.
“It’s good for you,” I grunt, flexing a bit of dominance. “Eat it.”
Avery has two moods—Outright Murderous, or I’m Plotting Your Demise. When he realizes I’m not going to give in, he shifts from attitude A to option B.
With a hard yank, one tattooed hand tugs the plate over while the other snaps out to grab the fork I left for him. Staring me down with all sorts of homicide in his eyes, he stabs an asparagus stalk and shoves the whole thing into his mouth, his square jaw working around it.
He tries to hide his wince at the taste, knowing a fear of green things makes him seem less “Metal”. But I laugh anyway. “Atta boy. Get that protein in, too.”
