Taming the Fighter Who Hated Me

Shane Callahan was the single most offensive human being I had ever encountered. The first time I took an interest in him, he looked me dead in the eye and sneered, "Back the fuck off, you sick faggot. You disgust me." Three years later, I found him bleeding to death on the concrete floor of an unsanctioned underground fight club. I bought his life. When he finally came to, he stared up at me through swollen, purple lids, voice raw and suspicious. "Why the hell did you pull me out?" I smiled, letting the silk lapels of my coat fall open. "I’m a queer, Callahan. What the fuck do you think a queer wants with a man like you?" He immediately dragged his hands down, shielding his groin, his lips peeling back in a snarl. "You filthy dog." I reached out, caught him by the shoulder, and flipped him flat onto his stomach, pinning him into the mattress so hard the air left his lungs in a wheeze. "With a man like me," I murmured into the shell of his ear, "what good do you think covering the front is going to do?" 1 The pit had a new problem child. The club manager practically bowed as he led me up the private iron staircase into the VIP mezzanine, his hands wringing together like dry parchment. "It’s this kid, Mr. Mercer. He refuses to take a dive." The manager leaned close, lowering his voice against the roar of the crowd below. "He’s won six bouts in a row. The odds are completely fucked. The high-rollers on the books are starting to lose their minds." I rested my forearms on the brass railing and looked down into the cage. Sitting on an overturned grease bucket in the corner, staring blankly at the blood-spattered canvas, was Shane Callahan. Memory hit me like an electric shock, dragging me back thirty-six months. I didn’t hand out my attention easily; in my world, men bent over backward for a fraction of my favor. But three years ago, when I had extended a silver-plated invitation his way, what had he given me in return? Back the fuck off, you sick faggot. I tapped the edge of my cigarette against the railing, watching the ash drift down through the smoke-choked air. "Put Maddox in the cage with him next round. Triple the dose on Maddox's pre-fight cocktail." The manager swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "Right away, sir. And... how far should Maddox take it?" I didn't turn around. My voice remained as light and indifferent as the autumn wind outside. "Beat him until he stops breathing." 2 Down in the pit, there were no weight classes, no rounds, and no refereeing. The animals in the bleachers paid for one thing: red meat. Maddox was built like an industrial press, six-foot-four of scarred muscle and unhinged aggression, and tonight he had enough synthetic amphetamines coursing through his veins to stop an ox's heart. He felt no pain. Shane was fast. He moved like water, ducking hooks that would have shattered brick, constantly pivoting, hunting for an angle, an exposed throat, a liver shot. But you cannot reason with a bulldozer that has no nerve endings. The roar inside the warehouse nearly blew the corrugated roof off when Shane coughed his first mouthful of dark blood onto the floor. He staggered, caught himself on one knee, and forced himself back up. That face of his—god, even split open and dripping red, there was an infuriating, untamable vitality to it. He lasted two more exchanges before Maddox caught him mid-pivot and slammed him into the concrete. The fists came down like sledgehammers. Heavy. Rhythmic. Shane’s mouth and nose sprayed crimson with every impact, his head bouncing off the deck. The crowd went feral, pounding the chain link, spitting foam. "Kill him! Break his fucking neck! Kill him!" I curled the corner of my mouth. Game over. I stood, smoothing the crease of my slacks, preparing to leave. But just as I turned my back, my gaze snagged on Shane’s eyes. Unfocused. Glazing over. Those were the eyes that had arrested me three years ago—alive with an arrogant, sunlit insolence, burning with youth. Now, the light in them was flickering, guttering out like a dying match. My shoe stopped mid-stride. A sudden, sharp hollow opened up behind my ribs. After everything, I still wanted him. "Call it," I told the manager. "Get him out." 3 By the time they hauled Shane into the back locker room, his pupils were blown wide, his consciousness slipping through his fingers like sand. I crouched beside the rusty gurney and waved my hand in front of his battered face. "Two choices, Callahan," I said, voice calm and level. "You come home with me, and I keep you breathing. Or you lie right here and bleed out." His cracked lips twitched. I leaned down, bringing my ear close to his mouth. "Go... fuck... yourself..." he rasped. A laugh slipped out of me. "Still the same feral stray. Suit yourself." I straightened and turned toward the metal door, throwing a careless sentence over my shoulder. "You really have nothing left to live for? Not a single thing?" Every human being has an anchor. Nobody walks through hell without a reason. The room went dead silent. Just as my hand touched the brass handle of the door, a sound cracked through the damp concrete room. Hoarse. Desperate. "Save me." I didn't turn back. I merely lifted two fingers in the air, signaling the private medical team waiting in the corridor to go in. I walked out into the cold night air, and someone immediately draped my cashmere coat over my shoulders. I checked the Patek Philippe on my wrist. I was five minutes behind schedule. Five minutes wasted on Shane Callahan. In my precisely engineered, mechanically cold life, Shane was already proving to be an anomaly. 4 It took two months in a high-end private facility to piece his ribs, his skull, and his spleen back together. The moment the discharge papers were signed, my driver delivered him directly to my penthouse. I cut my afternoon board meeting short, driving back through the city faster than usual. When I took the private elevator straight up and entered the master suite, I heard the sound of rushing water from the bathroom. I pushed the frosted glass door open. Shane jerked around, water streaming down his lean, corded shoulders. "What the fuck!" He instantly clamped both hands over his groin, backing into the subway tile, his glare venomous. "Are you out of your mind? Can’t you see I’m taking a shower?!" I unfastened my watch, setting it on the marble vanity, and began unbuttoning my shirt. Piece by piece, right in front of his deteriorating expression, I stripped completely bare. "I see it." "You sick faggot, you—" Before he could finish the curse, I stepped under the hot stream, grabbed his arm, spun him around, and slammed his chest flat against the wet tile. "Didn't anyone ever teach you, Callahan?" I murmured, pressing my weight against him until his spine arched. "When you're dealing with a queer like me, it’s the back you need to cover." The roar of the showerhead did little to drown out the gasps, the choked groans, and the steady stream of filth Shane spat into the steam. It was the same handful of words, over and over. Pervert. Disgusting. Animal. Get the fuck off me. "Is that all you've got?" I chuckled against his neck. He ground his teeth together, the veins in the back of his hands bulging as his fingers clawed at the slick ceramic. "Fucking sickos like you used to get dragged behind trucks." I hooked my fingers into his hip, shifting his angle, and a violent shudder ran through him, his knees buckling so hard he nearly hit the shower floor. I leaned over his shoulder, watching the sharp profile of his jaw. "Before you throw stones at me, Shane, maybe check your own glass house," I whispered. "A straight guy being handled by a queer isn't supposed to get hard." He froze. He looked down at himself, water dripping off the tip of his nose, staring in total, uncomprehending horror at his own body’s betrayal. The sheer, childlike bewilderment on his face in that split second was so raw it was almost endearing. A sharp ache coiled deep in my lower belly. I reached around, caught his wet chin between my fingers, and turned his face to press my thumb against his bruised, crimson lips. "All right," I breathed against his mouth. "I'm done in here. Let's move to the bed." 5 I possessed neither the patience nor the temperament for gentleness. He trembled beneath me, his hands clutching my forearms with white-knuckle force as his breath fractured into ragged, hitching sobs. His handsome face was crumpled in pain, damp brown hair plastered to his temples by sweat and steam. He looked ruined. Utterly, intoxicatingly wrecked. Every drop of desire in my blood caught fire. Even the curses he hissed through his teeth felt like lighter fluid poured straight onto the flame. "Filthy dog..." "Mm." "Get off... get the fuck..." I pushed harder, burying myself deeper. "What was that?" His neck arched back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat, practically begging for teeth. I leaned down and bit the cord of his neck, hard enough to taste salt and iron, and a strangled whimper tore out of his chest, vibrating straight through my ribs. He drove me out of my mind. I wanted to crush him. I wanted to grind his bones down and swallow them whole until he lived inside my skin. For the first time in my thirty years, I finally understood why men burned down empires for an hour in bed. The wet, frantic rhythm of skin on skin filled the dark room. He had no breath left to swear at me, his defiance eroding into something thin, desperate, and pleading. "Please... don't... no more..." I shifted, kissing the wet salt trailing down the corner of his eye. "Shane," I murmured, my voice thick. "Whose bed is this? Who am I?" He gasped for air, his chest heaving three, four times before he could piece together the syllables. "Adrian... Mercer." His voice was rough, low, and beautiful. It sounded infinitely better wrapped around my name. "I was going to let you sleep tonight," I said against his mouth. "Too bad." Shane, you are far too breathtaking when you break. 6 Shane stayed in my penthouse. The first rule I laid down was absolute: he was never stepping foot inside an underground ring again. He fought me on it with everything he had. "Who the fuck are you to tell me what I can do?" he snarled across the dining room table. "You come back from those bouts bruised to the bone, limping, wincing every time I lay a finger on you," I said, slicing into my steak without looking up. "It ruins my mood." "Do you have any idea what it means to cut off a man's livelihood?" he shouted, slamming his palms on the dark wood. "You're taking food off my table!" "And?" "You arrogant prick!" He lunged. He had professional reflexes, and I took his right hook square across the cheekbone. The butler dropped a silver tray; the maids in the hallway froze in terror. I had never, in my entire privileged life, been struck by another human being. Yet, oddly, I didn't feel a flicker of rage. The scuffle dragged us both onto the Persian rug, fists turning into grips, fury bleeding into friction. We sparked like flint and steel. By morning, I had taken my fill. I dragged myself out of bed, buttoning a fresh shirt, while Shane lay tangled in the Egyptian cotton sheets, glaring at me like a caged wolf. "Someone ought to cut that thing off you and feed it to the coyotes," he spat. I paused by the door, adjusting my cufflink. "Want another round?" His gaze dropped instantly, his shoulders tensing. I smirked and reached for the doorknob, but before I could turn it, his voice drifted from the bed, quiet, muffled, and thick with defeat. "You can't just stop me from earning money, Mercer." There was an edge of helplessness in it. A tiny, raw tremor of despair. A ripple disturbed the smooth, icy surface of my chest. Before I could examine what that ache was, it slipped away into the shadows. 7 I had my private investigator pull Shane Callahan's background that afternoon. The file was thin, but heavy. His parents had died in an industrial boiler explosion at a textile plant just outside the city. Shane had been fifteen. His brother, Luke, had been ten; his little sister, Maisie, just seven. "The settlement from the company was insulting," my assistant explained quietly, standing on the other side of my mahogany desk. "Non-union shop. They barely paid burial costs. A fifteen-year-old kid carried the entire family on his back from that day forward." He flipped a page. "The sister, Maisie... she’s in end-stage renal failure. She’s been living in a county hospital ward for the past eighteen months waiting on a kidney. The brother, Luke, just started his freshman year at state college." My assistant’s face softened with genuine pity. He could look at those numbers and feel the suffocating weight of an impossible life. I couldn't. I had been born into private equity and old money; poverty was an abstract concept, like zero-gravity physics. You cannot truly comprehend a cage you have never touched. I closed the manila folder. "Understood." As autumn turned bitter and gray, Shane couldn't go back to the cage, so he found a part-time gig at an auto body shop on the west side. One evening, on a whim I couldn't quite justify to myself, I had the driver take a detour all the way across town to pick him up. Outside the garage, under the freezing neon light, two young men were leaning against a rusted fender, sharing soft-serve ice cream despite the bite in the air. One was Shane. The other was a kid his age, wiping motor grease from his hands with a rag. The coworker slung a heavy arm over Shane’s neck, leaning in close to whisper something right against his ear. Shane didn't pull away. With me, he flinched or braced himself whenever I got within arm's reach. But here, he leaned into the casual contact, threw his head back, and laughed—an open, bright, unguarded sound that cut through the cold. Had I ever seen Shane laugh like that? Not once. A sour, suffocating heat flared behind my ribs. Shane spotted the black Maybach idling by the curb. He waved goodbye to the kid, jogged over, and slid into the leather interior, smelling of motor oil and cheap vanilla. "What are you doing here?" he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The tightness in my chest deepened. "Had business in the district. It was on the way." He nodded, asked no further questions, and went back to chewing the edge of his sugar cone. "Stay away from other men," I said, my voice dropping an octave. Shane paused, frowning. "He’s a coworker." "I don't care. Don't let them hang on you like that. You don't know what kind of filth is running through their heads." His brow furrowed deeper, a look of profound disgust washing over his face. "You think everyone in the world is as sick as you?" I turned my head, my eyes locking onto his. "What did you just say?" "Normal people aren't like you, Mercer." The words barely cleared his teeth before I grabbed him by the front of his jacket and slammed him down across the wide leather bench. The privacy partition whirred upward, sealing us in the dim, soundproof darkness. Shane stiffened. Outside the penthouse, in public, his resistance was always muted—he hated making a scene, suffocating his protests in the back of his throat like a trapped animal. I didn't understand the sudden, blinding fury tearing through me, but I didn't care to stop it. I pinned his wrists above his head, pressing down until my chest crushed his. "Not like me?" I sneered, leaning into his ear as his breathing turned shallow and jagged. He clamped his jaws shut, turning his face away into the leather, his body shivering. I reached down, dragged his calloused hand between our bodies, and forced his palm flat against the damp, warm front of my trousers. "Feel that, Shane. Whose reaction is that? Tell me again how you aren't like me." He jerked his hand back as if he had touched white-hot iron, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and fractured with a panic he couldn't hide. I gave a low, bitter laugh, but the irritation inside me only sharpened. "You and I are cut from the exact same cloth, Callahan. Don't let me catch you forgetting it again." I was drowning in him, completely blind to how lethal that current already was. 8 When I woke the next morning, Shane was already sitting up on the edge of the mattress. His hair was a messy nest of dark strands, one stubborn cowlick sticking straight up in the back. Looking at it, a ridiculous warmth brushed against my ribs. "Don't go to the shop today," I said, sitting up against the headboard. "Stay home and rest." I knew I had been too rough in the car. "I have a shift," he muttered, not looking back. My silk tie had knotted poorly, and I yanked it loose with an irritated tug. "Can't I afford to keep you?" He was still half-asleep, his voice dull and groggy. "What, you're gonna keep me forever?" "What if I do?" The words slipped out of my mouth before my brain could vet them. "What if I keep you for the rest of your life?" The bedroom fell dead silent. The gentle morning draft from the balcony fluttered the loose hair at the crown of his head. I looked away, clearing my throat, terrified of digging into the terrifying truth behind what I had just said. I pivoted sharply, needing to change the subject. "About your sister," I said, keeping my tone crisp and managerial. "My people found a compatible donor kidney through a private registry. I’ve already retained the chief of transplant surgery at St. Jude's. You can go down there this afternoon, meet the team, and lock in the surgery date." I stood, smoothing my cuffs. "Don't worry about the billing. It’s handled." Shane’s mouth parted slightly. He turned around, staring at me as if I were speaking an alien language. I couldn't help myself. I reached out and ruffled his hair, smoothing down that ridiculous cowlick. "I have to go." As I pulled my hand away, his fingers suddenly shot out, clamping around my wrist. His eyes were rimmed with red, his grip trembling with an intensity that bordered on pain. He looked so fragile, so utterly stripped bare, looking up at me for confirmation. "Is that... are you serious?" It was such a minor thing for me—a phone call, a transfer of funds from an auxiliary account. Back then, I didn't understand that the things we step over without looking can be the very boulders crushing someone else to death. The nightmare that had kept him awake in the dirt, bleeding his knuckles raw in back alleys for years, had been erased by me with a stroke of a pen. "Why would I lie to you about that?" Shane lowered his head, his chest hitching in silent, ragged breaths. I looked down at his dark eyelashes, fluttering against his cheek, and a bizarre, foreign ache tightened in my chest. Much later, I finally understood what that feeling was. It was an urge entirely detached from lust. It was simply the desperate, overwhelming need to press my lips against someone’s forehead and keep them safe. In my entire life, until Shane Callahan, I had never felt it once. 9 A multi-billion-dollar acquisition entered its final closing stages that month. I lived on black coffee and adrenaline, practically sleeping in the corporate boardroom, forgetting meals until my assistant placed them directly in front of my face. I hadn't been back to the penthouse in four days. Realizing a crucial environmental clearance document was locked in my private study at home, I buzzed my house manager. "Yes, bottom drawer of the walnut desk." "Right away, Mr. Mercer. I'll have the courier bring it down." My eyes wandered to the small porcelain dish on my desk. Strange—I was a man who ignored trivial domestic details, yet I had somehow memorized the fact that Shane had a weakness for blueberry tarts. "Is Shane at the house?" "Yes, sir." "Have him bring it." The moment Shane walked into my corner office forty minutes later, I realized what a catastrophic mistake I had made. Winter was setting in. He was wearing a cream-colored turtleneck beneath a tailored charcoal wool coat I had bought for him. As the coat swung open, the lean, firm contour of his waist was on full display. One look, and forty-eight hours of corporate strategy evaporated from my brain. I dismissed my vice president and general counsel immediately, waving them out the door. Shane touched his cheek self-consciously. "What are you staring at?" I gestured for him to come over. He hesitated, then walked behind the desk. I reached out, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him against my chair. He looked down at me, his fingers twitching slightly. For a second, I held my breath, waiting for him to touch my hair. But his hand stalled in midair, dropping back to his side. "You lost weight," he said quietly. "I'm exhausted," I mumbled, burying my face against his sweater. I didn't even realize how much I sounded like a man whining to his lover. "What have you been doing all week?" At the mention of that, a faint, genuine warmth broke across his features. "At the hospital with Maisie. The doctors say her labs are stable. They set the surgery for next Tuesday." He paused, swallowing hard, his voice dropping into something delicate. "Thank you, Adrian." Had Shane ever been this soft with me? My grip on his waist tightened instinctively. If buying his gratitude was this easy, I would have moved heaven and earth for him ten times over. "That's all the thanks I get?" Shane blinked, uncertain. "What else do you..." I parted my knees, reached up, and pulled him down by the collar until he was kneeling between my legs on the plush carpet. The gesture was unmistakable. The color drained from Shane’s face, leaving him rigid and pale. To be honest, I had wanted him on his knees for months. But with his feral pride, I had always assumed he’d bite me bloody out of sheer spite. Now, though, I knew he wouldn't. Because beneath the rough exterior, Shane was far more decent, far more innocent than I was. He believed in debts. He believed in paying them back. Just as I anticipated, he took a slow, shuddering breath, his trembling hands reaching for the zipper of my slacks. Anticipation spiked through my veins, hot and sharp. But as I watched his crimson lips part, drawing closer, I couldn't miss what was sitting in his eyes: humiliation, endurance, and a profound, hollow helplessness. My fingers tangled in his hair—and froze. A sudden, suffocating ache clamped down on my heart. I caught him under the arms and hauled him up violently, pulling him into my lap and burying his face into my shoulder. "What now...?" he gasped, disoriented. "Forget it," I rasped, wrapping both arms around his back, pressing his chest flat against mine. "Just let me hold you. Let me recharge." He stiffened, whispering a soft, bewildered, "You're out of your mind," but he didn't pull away. I closed my eyes and tightened my grip, trying to drown out the frantic, chaotic beating of my own heart. I was feeling mercy. For a plaything. To develop a bleeding heart for an untamed stray was a dangerous, pathetic defect. It was a terrible sign. 10 The corporate war dragged on until the final week of December. The only redeeming part of those grueling weeks was knowing that when I returned to the cold glass tower, there was a warm body waiting beneath the duvet. Shane was a heavy sleeper. One night, I found him dead to the world, a faint red crease pressed into his cheek from the pillow. I stood by the bed, looking at him, an unreasonable irritation prickling at me. I wanted to hear his voice. I slid under the covers and deliberately pressed my freezing feet against his calf. He jumped, his face contorting in a groan. "Jesus Christ! Mercer, are you trying to give me hypothermia?!" He cursed, but he didn't kick me away. "Sorry. Accidents happen. Go back to sleep." "How the fuck am I supposed to sleep after that?" "Good. Stay awake then." "You... get off me... mmph." When I woke the next morning, the gray winter light was filtering through the sheer curtains. Shane was still out cold. I slipped out of bed with utmost care, but before I walked toward the dressing room, I couldn't stop myself from leaning down and pressing a feather-light kiss to his forehead. It didn't carry an ounce of lust. As I pulled away, Shane’s hand twitched in his sleep, his fingers curling slightly into the sheet—the exact same way he unconsciously held onto the hem of my shirt when he drifted off beside me. When bodies stay tangled for too long, the distance between hearts begins to fray. And it happens without a sound. It was New Year’s Eve. Following tradition, I prepared holiday bonus envelopes for the domestic staff. After handing them out in the marble foyer, I called the house manager over. "Find me another envelope." He brought back a standard white one. I frowned. "Something bigger." He returned with a heavy stationery envelope. "Bigger." When we ran out of options, I stuffed a thick stack of cash into the largest one we had, took it upstairs, and set it gently on Shane’s nightstand. I leaned down, brushing the stray bangs from his forehead. "Happy New Year, Shane." There was an embarrassing amount of tenderness in my voice, so quiet I barely recognized it myself. After I pulled the door shut with a soft click, the man on the bed slowly opened his eyes. A faint, tired smile touched his lips, his voice soft against the pillow. "Happy New Year, Adrian." 11 The Mercer family was vast, which meant the annual New Year’s gathering at the ancestral estate in the hills was an exercise in performative elegance. Children ran through the manicured courtyard with sparklers. Near the bay window, my uncle was losing an aggressive game of chess to my grandfather. My mother, Victoria, approached me holding a flute of champagne, her diamonds catching the chandelier light. "Did you stop by the Montgomery estate this morning?" "I did." "Good. Vivian is your future wife. Show some courtesy to her family." I nodded vaguely, my fingers unconsciously fiddling with the leather band of my watch. Beneath the strap, hidden against my pulse point, was a faint ring of teeth marks Shane had left three nights ago. Outside, fireworks erupted over the valley. Inside, crystal clinked against crystal amid hollow laughter and polished smiles. Surrounded by all this glittering noise, an unbearable loneliness hollowed out my chest. I wanted Shane. I slipped out to the terrace, pulled out my phone, and dialed. He picked up on the third ring. The background was dead quiet. "What are you doing?" I asked. "Haven't been back to my place in months," he replied, his voice calm. "Doing some cleaning. Fixing a leaky pipe." A beat. "Why? You need something?" "I'm a little..." The words jammed in my throat. I miss you was a sentence that had never existed in my vocabulary. "Bored." A soft huff of laughter came through the receiver. "You're surrounded by fifty of the richest people in the state and you're bored?" Suddenly, a small tug hit my trouser leg. "Uncle Adrian! Come light sparklers with me!" my niece chirped. Shane heard her. "Sounds like you're busy," he said evenly. "Go back inside." He hung up. I stood there for three seconds, looking at the black screen. I patted the little girl's head. "Uncle has to leave, sweetheart. Go play with your cousins." I snatched my coat off the hall rack and headed straight for the front double doors. My mother set her porcelain cup down, her voice sharp as glass. "Adrian. Where are you going?" My boots didn't break stride. "Don't worry about it."