Kiss_Bang (Lost Devils MC #1) - Madison Faye Page 0,7

on one?”

I shrug.

“And I hear you live in a cage? A jail cell?”

She’s speaking to me in fluent American-English, but there’s also just the faintest lilt of an accent—this gorgeous layer of texture that makes her more alluring than she already is. Her tan, bronzed skin, dark silky hair, full, pouty red lips, and those fucking eyes.

Jesus.

I nod again at her.

“Well, no one deserves that,” she frowns. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

I nod again silently. Part of me wonders how the fuck she’s so oblivious that she’s standing so close to me, like right over me. It’s like watching someone at the zoo press their face to the tiger’s cage.

She chews on her lip. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

“Nope.”

She grins, and it’s the first bit of sunshine I’ve seen in literally years. She leans over me, and my eyes drop to her chest.

Fucking hell.

She not even wearing anything that revealing or extra sexy, but her blouse is open maybe one button too much. It’s the most female skin I’ve seen in years, and it takes all of a quarter of a second for my cock to grow rock fucking hard, thickening and throbbing in my jeans.

I sit up, but I grunt, remembering that I’m chained to the table as the handcuff bites into my wrist. I growl, and pain lances through my temple.

“Shit,” she hisses. “Hang on, you’ve got a gash up here, and I think you just pulled a stitch.”

I can feel the sticky ooze of blood, and I watch as she leans over me, dabbing at it. Fuck, she smells like jasmine and vanilla, and I want to inhale her.

…I want to do more than that to her, too. Much, much more.

The nearness of her, her scent, the heat of her skin… it’s doing things to me. More than she probably knows, too. It’s rattling my cage. It’s making me hungry. It’s making me want to take and claim.

It’s sending images through my head of pinning her to the wall, spreading her pretty thighs, and plunging every inch of my big cock deep inside of her. It’s been years since I’ve touched a woman, and she has no idea how dangerous it is to be here with me, alone.

“Hang on.”

She grabs a bandage and tapes it across my forehead over the cut. I ignore the sting.

“That should keep it closed,” she says gently. “I’m not a plastic surgeon, though.” She makes a face. “You might have a scar.”

I shrug, and my eyes drag down to my own bare chest. She follows, and I watch her blush as she sees the multitude of other scars—like the five bullet holes—across my chest and abs.

“Thanks,” I grunt.

The girl smiles. “You’re welcome.”

I growl dangerously. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Four words. This is fucking progress.

She swallows thickly at my warning, and her eyes dart to the handcuff. She’s scared of me, a little at least. That’s good. And smart.

“I had to make sure you’re okay,” she says again, repeating herself.

“Why?”

“Because.”

I shake my head, my gaze piercing into her. “Not good enough. Why?”

She stammers. “Because, I…” she frowns and looks at her feet. “Because I feel guilty that you’re here.”

I scowl. I’m here because Jorge Del Campo is not a man to be fucked with, and I fucked with him. I’m here because Jorge Del Campo is also a little bit of a demented psychopath who likes watching men kill each other. What she has to do with that is almost as perplexing as why the fuck she’s even here, out here in the desert watching these fights at all.

“Why?” I grunt.

She shakes her head.

“Because… I mean, look I don’t know what you did, but it’s wrong that he’s keeping you here.” The girl frowns and looks down. “He’s not a bad person, but my father can be a sadist.”

The room goes numb.

I go numb.

Her… her father. I blink, and it all clicks—the jet-black hair, the regal nose, the same cheekbones. Her being up in the private box for the fights.

Oh shit.

There’s four things Jorge Del Campo loves in this world: Money. Power. The fights.

…And his daughter.

Her. My angel is Jorge’s daughter.

With a grunt, I’m up, my blood roaring and my muscles flexing like molten steel. I flex my arm, hissing as my jaw grinds and my muscles pull tight, until suddenly, the chain on the handcuff locking me to the table snaps.

She gasps and goes white, fear sparking in her eyes as she steps away. But she doesn’t run. She doesn’t scream. My heart