Wild Side (Rose Hill, #3)(98)

Again, the crowd starts their chants of this is awesome as both men pull out every trick in their bag. Strength, agility, and cardiovascular fitness blend to put on a hell of a show.

I can see why he skips rope. I understand why he does yoga. Because he’s not just all muscle. He moves like a wildcat. He can kip-up from flat on his back and kick higher than his head.

They pin each other several times over, always kicking out on the two count.

It’s all absurd and completely entertaining.

When Rhys tosses Will from the ring, I startle and rear back. Will crawls away and grips the divider, slumping over it right in front of me.

“Oh my god,” he huffs. At first, I’m concerned that he’s injured, but then he peeks up at me. “Rhys told me you hate me.” His words are hushed, but I hear them all the same. He takes a break, dramatically resting his forehead on the black padded wall, thumping his fist like he’s working through the pain before gritting out, “Still nice to meet you.”

I bark out a laugh, but my amusement fades when Rhys’s shadow looms over us. He bends over Will, gripping his hair and holding his back, and he whispers into his ear with an unhinged grin. “Did I say you could talk to my wife?”

“Oh, hot,” Rosie exclaims, which makes me let out a manic giggle.

I cannot believe this is my life.

What I can believe is the way the crowd goes wild as Rhys lays Will out with one high kick and lifts his bulky body in preparation for his finishing move. Over the mountain.

Chants of Wild Side, Wild Side, Wild Side thunder through the arena as he lifts Will in the opening choke hold. Then Will pushes off in a dramatic arc over Rhys’s six-foot-five frame. His body goes limp and bows over the structure of the ring as he lands. Rhys, sweaty and out of breath, drops to the mat and lies over him, one leg hitched up under Will’s arm.

The ref drops too, fist held high before beating it down on the ground.

One.

Two.

Three.

Pandemonium.

That’s the only way to explain it. Absolute mayhem that makes me giddy and unhinged. I’m screaming at the top of my lungs as I watch Rhys hold his hands up in victory and turn in a slow circle, soaking up the pure chaos of his win.

He looks so happy. Tears spring to my eyes, and I bounce on the spot, screaming even louder.

Elle leaps into the ring with the championship belt, holding it out to him with a wide smile. Rhys pauses only for a beat before taking the hardware.

She says something to him I can’t make out before stretching her arms toward him, one toned leg stepping forward in a sultry stride—all hip sway and sass and just exaggerated enough to be slow.

Too slow.

Because Rhys has turned and slid out of the ring toward me.

With the massive gold belt slung over his shoulder, he stalks toward me, making my stomach plummet and my heart thunder. The weight of all the eyes in the arena combined with every camera at ringside swiveling in my direction freezes me.

“What are you doing?” I whisper-shout as he draws close to our front-row seats.

But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he just reaches for me. One strong hand grips the back of my neck as he drags me toward him and kisses me soundly for everyone to see. My hands land on his slicked pecs and slide up to his shoulders as whistles and cheers break out around us. I feel the roughness of his stubble against my mouth and the smoothness of his mask against my cheek. He slips his tongue into my mouth in one teasing swipe that has me pressing closer to him, not caring about the setting at all.

Only when he draws away does he answer my question. “Kissing my wife, obviously.”

His eyes are bright, sparking with life. He’s panting, and since he kissed me breathless, so am I.

People talk and move around us, but it all fades away when his next words hit my ears. “Take my mask off, baby.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“But, Rhys…” My eyes bounce between his, my heart suddenly lodged in my throat. “You—”

“Tabby, I’m tired of hiding. I don’t need to anymore, thanks to you. This is my choice. You and me. Together.”

My eyes well with tears, and for a girl who couldn’t cry for months, I feel precariously close to crying. “You’re sure?”

He nods, hands cupping my jaw. “Very sure.”

I lift one trembling hand to the back of his head and fumble with the snaps on each of the two straps as the arena goes eerily quiet. Without even realizing, my left hand has been holding the mask in place, keeping it from falling away.

My eyes meet his again, searching for one last confirmation that he wants this. My lungs are tight, and it feels as though all the oxygen has been sucked out of the arena.

His lips tip up in the smirk that used to infuriate me. Now, it makes my core hum with excitement. “What are you waiting for, Mrs. Wild Side?”

With a tearful giggle, I shake my head at him and pull the mask away to an incredible surge of raucous cheering.

He kisses me again before pressing his forehead against mine and whispering, “I love you, Tabitha.”

Then he’s gone.

Facing the cameras, heaving the belt above his head, looking smug as hell.

He makes his way back into the ring to address the audience.

Every eye in the stadium is on him.

But his eyes are on mine the whole time.