I was only responsible for not telling Ace ahead of time. Problem was, how would I erase my husband’s agony?
When the latest target of his anger tapped out, I approached the cage. As my stomach turned and my fangs threatened to emerge, I wished I had remained in the entrance. The once pristine white mat was stained red. Blood even dripped from the sides of the fencing.
Then I noticed Ace. His knuckles bled, but I could see the flesh knitting back together. Bruises dotted his bare muscular chest, most likely remnants of other healing wounds. He shot an intense scowl toward another would-be competitor. The man wisely held up his hands and backed away from the octagon.
“Who else wants some of this?” he bellowed, like he’d morphed into a berserker.
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