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