Ruthless Kings of Obsession (Leighton Royals University #3)

32. Cage Me In

Cage Me In

~ G EMINI~

"I want to cage fight."

The announcement cuts through the private training room's focused atmosphere like a blade. Matteo pauses mid-strike, his fist frozen inches from the punching bag as he processes my words. Sweat glistens on his bare chest, evidence of the intense session I've been watching for the past hour.

Across the room, Ren stops his pull-ups, his muscled arms flexing as he hangs from the bar to look at me. His usual playboy smirk takes on a different quality as he watches me finish wrapping my hands, the bandages crisp and white against my skin.

"You're more... instinctive than I remember," he observes, something like appreciation coloring his tone. The way he says 'instinctive' carries layers of meaning – a polite way of saying I've grown more reckless, more willing to embrace the dangerous impulses we all carry.

I can't help the smirk that curves my lips as I secure the last wrap. "Keep doing your pull-ups," I tease, deliberately letting my gaze drift over his exposed torso. "That four-pack is struggling."

His gasp of mock horror echoes through the high-ceilinged space. "I'll have you know," he protests, swinging slightly on the bar, "I obviously have a six-pack. The top abs are just... shy. Hiding after too many pastries at the photoshoot."

The mention of the shoot makes something warm unfurl in my chest. Watching Ares work his magic in front of those cameras had been nothing short of extraordinary. The way he transformed – not just physically, but energetically – into something that transcended mere modeling.

The photographer had been almost reverent, treating each shot like he was capturing lightning in a bottle. And in a way, he was. Because Ares wasn't just posing – he was commanding the space, owning every angle, every shadow, every flash of light that dared try to define him.

"It was amazing, wasn't it?" I say softly, remembering how the studio had fallen completely silent during certain moments. How even the most jaded fashion executives had leaned forward, unable to look away from what was happening before their lenses.

TIME Magazine's creative director had actually cried during one particular sequence. Actual tears, streaming down her face as Ares moved through a series of poses that somehow managed to convey both strength and vulnerability, power and grace, darkness and light.

"He's going to change everything," she'd whispered, dabbing at her eyes with an expensive silk handkerchief. "The industry, the art form, the whole damn game."

And she was right. Because watching from the sidelines, I'd seen something I'd never fully appreciated before – just how completely my King owned his power. Not just physical beauty, though God knows he has that in spades, but something deeper. Something that made every person in that studio recognize they were witnessing the birth of an icon.

"They offered him the cover right there," I continue, pride making my voice slightly rough. "Didn't even wait to review the shots. Just knew they had something extraordinary."

Ren drops from the pull-up bar with practiced grace, reaching for a towel to wipe the sweat from his face. "Our pretty boy's going to be more than just a King now," he observes, though there's no jealousy in his tone – just genuine appreciation. "He's going to be fucking legendary."

"Language," Matteo chides automatically, finally lowering his fist from its frozen position. But I catch the slight curve of his lips, the pride he's trying to hide behind his usual composed mask.

Because that's what we are now – this strange, beautiful family built on obsession and possession and things darker still. We celebrate each other's victories like they're our own, take pride in each other's triumphs as if we've all somehow won together.

"Still want to cage fight?" Ren asks, breaking through my reminiscing as he approaches the training mats. His grin turns dangerous as he adds, "Or were you just trying to get my attention with that four-pack comment?"

I crack my knuckles deliberately, enjoying how the sound echoes through the space. "Oh, I definitely want to fight," I confirm, moving onto the mats with measured grace. "The question is: are you ready to get your ass handed to you by a girl?"

"Do you even know how to cage fight?" Matteo asks Ren, his voice carrying that subtle edge of authority that makes everything sound like both question and challenge.

Ren's usual playful demeanor shifts slightly as he nods. "Yeah," he says, something darker entering his tone. "My cousin used to cage fight. Taught me everything he knew."

Matteo's frown deepens, sweat still glistening on his torso as he processes this information. "I knew a Ren in the cage fighting circuit," he says slowly, memories clearly surfacing. "But he died. One of the bloodiest matches in underground history."

"That would be my cousin," Ren confirms, running a hand through his teal-streaked hair. The gesture looks casual, but I catch the tension in his shoulders. "Yeah, I used to train with him. Help him work on speed because that's where he struggled. That and dodging fast enough to keep his head from getting bashed open."

The words hang heavy in the training room's charged atmosphere. Something passes between the two men – recognition, perhaps, or shared understanding of a world most people never see.

"Obviously didn't dodge fast enough in the end," Ren adds, attempting his usual lightness but not quite managing it. The ghost of his cousin's fate seems to hover between them like smoke.

I watch Matteo carefully, seeing how his jaw tightens at the memory. Sweat continues to roll down his chest, following the defined lines of muscle that speak of years of training, of fighting, of surviving things most people couldn't imagine.

"Matteo," I say softly, drawing his attention. Those dark eyes find mine immediately, carrying shadows I'm only beginning to understand. "Would you... could you explain what it's like? Cage fighting for survival?" I pause, adding quickly, "If it's something you don't mind talking about."

He rolls his shoulders back, the movement making every muscle ripple with controlled power. As he straightens his stance, I can't help but appreciate the lethal grace he embodies – the way his body has been honed into something both beautiful and deadly.

Sweat trails down his frame, highlighting scars I've never noticed before. Some are obvious – raised lines that speak of blade work and bad luck. Others are subtler – the slight unevenness in his ribs that suggests they've been broken and reset multiple times, the way his left shoulder sits just slightly different than his right.

His chest rises and falls with measured breaths as he considers my request. Each inhale emphasizes the definition in his torso, while each exhale carries the weight of memories I can see him deciding whether to share.

The training room's lights cast interesting shadows across his skin, making certain scars more prominent while hiding others completely. It's like reading a map of survival, each mark telling its own story of violence survived and lessons learned.

I find myself holding my breath, caught between wanting to know these darker parts of him and fearing what that knowledge might cost. Because this isn't just about cage fighting, is it? This is about understanding exactly what kind of man I've married – what kind of darkness he carries beneath his carefully maintained control.

More sweat beads on his chest as he maintains that perfect stillness, that predatory pause that makes even Ren grow quiet. The air feels charged with potential energy, with unspoken histories and carefully buried truths waiting to surface.

My eyes trace a particularly prominent scar that runs along his collarbone – wondering what weapon caused it, what fight marked him so permanently. The story is there in his flesh, written in a language of violence and survival that I'm only beginning to learn how to read.

His silence stretches like wire about to snap, making every small movement seem magnified. A drop of sweat trails down his abs, following the defined lines of muscle with maddening slowness. The sight is hypnotic, almost meditative, as we all wait for him to decide how much truth he's willing to share.

"Do you two need a room?" Ren's amused voice cuts through my blatant appreciation of my husband's physique, making heat flood my cheeks as I realize I've been caught staring. Again.

But before I can formulate a response, Matteo moves with that lethal grace that never fails to take my breath away. One moment he's across the training mat, the next he's pressed against me, eliminating any space between our bodies. His skin is still slick with sweat, making the contact feel electric as his eyes lock with mine.

Our lips hover mere inches apart, close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath, taste the promise of violence and passion that always seems to radiate from him. His presence overwhelms my senses – the subtle scent of his cologne mixing with sweat, the way his muscles shift against me with every breath, the dangerous intent I see building in his dark eyes.

"Cage fighting," he whispers, his voice dropping to that register that makes my knees weak, "is an addiction." His words ghost across my lips, making them tingle with anticipation. "The empowerment it gives you... nothing else comes close."

I remain perfectly still, caught in his gravity like a planet orbiting its sun. Every point of contact between us feels charged with potential energy, with carefully controlled power that could unleash at any moment.

"You're fighting for survival," he continues, one hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face. The gesture seems almost tender, contrasting sharply with the darkness in his voice. "Every little moment, every breath, every heartbeat – it can all change in an instant."

His other hand finds my hip, fingers pressing just hard enough to keep me from swaying closer, though God knows I want to. The heat of his palm burns through the thin material of my workout shorts, making it hard to focus on his words.

"Once that cage closes," his lips brush my ear now, sending shivers down my spine, "no one is coming to save you. No referee stepping in, no rules to protect you, no mercy to beg for." His grip tightens slightly as he adds, "The only time anyone interferes is to drag your dead body out."

The brutal honesty of his words should frighten me. Should make me want to step back, to create distance from this man who speaks so casually of death and violence. Instead, I find myself pressing closer, letting him feel exactly what his darkness does to me.

His sharp intake of breath tells me he notices, especially when I deliberately shift against the hardness I can feel growing between us. His eyes darken further, pupils dilating with a hunger that matches my own.

Those dangerous hands slide to my waist, keeping me still as his gaze travels over my exposed skin. The sports bra and shorts suddenly feel like too much and not enough all at once. Each sweep of his eyes leaves trails of fire in their wake, making me hyper-aware of every inch of flesh on display.

"Sweet Precious Gem," he breathes, the nickname carrying new weight in this charged atmosphere. His thumbs trace small circles on my hipbones, the touch maddeningly light despite the obvious strength in his hands. "You have no idea what you do to me."

I arch deliberately against him, feeling exactly what I do to him pressed hard against my stomach. "I think I have some idea," I whisper back, enjoying how his pupils dilate further at my boldness.

Something dangerous flashes in his expression as he continues, "People keep going back into that cage because the thrill of survival is like crack." His hands flex against my waist, probably leaving bruises I'll admire later. "Nothing compares to watching your opponent hit the ground after challenging you. After thinking they could take what's yours."

One hand slides up my ribs, fingers splaying wide to feel my thundering heartbeat. "The world has to acknowledge you then," he says, voice growing rougher with remembered victory and present desire. "Has to admit you're the better fighter. That you survived. That you're worth betting on."

The training room feels too small suddenly, too confined to contain whatever's building between us. The air grows thick with tension, with promise, with carefully controlled violence that could explode at any moment.

Sweat continues to roll down his chest, catching light with every measured breath. I want to trace each drop with my tongue, want to taste the salt of his skin, want to feel exactly what that carefully contained power can do when properly motivated.

His hands tighten further, whether to keep me still or himself in check, I'm not sure. Probably both. Because that's what we are, aren't we? Two predators recognizing something equally dangerous in each other.

The sports bra suddenly feels too restrictive as my breathing quickens, matching his rhythm like our bodies are already moving together. His thumbs press harder into my hipbones, creating anchor points of exquisite pressure that make me want to beg for more.

"Is that what you want?" he asks, voice dropping even lower. "To feel that kind of power? To know what it's like when your life depends on being stronger, faster, more ruthless than the person trying to end you?"

The question hangs between us like smoke, heavy with implications neither of us is quite ready to voice. Because this isn't just about cage fighting anymore. This is about something darker, more primal – the kind of hunger that can only be satisfied with blood and victory and complete surrender.

His gaze drops to my lips, lingering on the way I can't quite catch my breath. Every point of contact between us feels electric now, charged with potential violence that could transform into something else entirely at any moment.

"Or maybe," he continues, that dangerous hand sliding higher beneath my sports bra, "you just wanted an excuse to get me all sweaty and bothered?" His smirk carries equal parts promise and warning. "So which one is it, Sweet Precious Gem?”

"Or maybe," he continues, that dangerous hand sliding higher beneath my sports bra, "you just wanted an excuse to get me all sweaty and bothered?" His smirk carries equal parts promise and warning. "So which one is it, Sweet Precious Gem?"

"Do I have to choose?" The words emerge breathless, charged with everything building between us.

His answering chuckle rumbles through his chest, the vibration making every point of contact between us feel electric. "My wife," he whispers against my lips, "doesn't have to choose anything. You get everything you want. Always."

The kiss that follows carries none of his usual control. His hands find my hips, gripping hard enough to bruise as he claims my mouth with devastating thoroughness. I respond immediately, letting him feel my own desperation as I arch into him, eliminating any remaining space between our bodies.

A groan escapes him as I deepen the kiss, the sound swallowed by my mouth but felt through every inch of contact. His skin burns against mine, still slick with sweat from training, making every slide of muscle feel dangerously sensual.

Some distant part of my brain registers that we're still in the training room, that Ren is probably watching this display with his usual amused interest, that anyone could walk in at any moment. But those concerns feel meaningless compared to the need burning through my veins.

Maybe it's the recent brush with death that makes me care less about propriety. When you've faced mortality – felt its cold breath on your neck, tasted its bitter promise on your tongue – wasting time with social niceties seems absurd.

Life's too short to deny what we both want.

Matteo's hands slide lower, gripping my ass and pulling me impossibly closer. The new angle makes his intentions absolutely clear, and the sound that escapes me is hardly dignified. But dignity seems like a small price to pay for the way he's looking at me – like he wants to devour every inch, claim every breath, own every heartbeat.

"Tell me what you want," he growls against my lips, the words carrying that edge of command that makes my knees weak. "Fast or slow, Sweet Precious Gem?"

"Fast," I breathe between desperate kisses. "Hard."

His answering laugh holds dark promises as his eyes hood with pure possession. The look transforms his features into something almost primal – a predator who's caught his prey and plans to take his time savoring the feast.

"As you wish, Sweet Precious Gem." The words fall like stones into still water, creating ripples of anticipation that spread through every nerve ending. His hand delivers a sharp slap to my ass that makes me gasp. "Bend over for me."

The command hangs in the air like smoke, heavy with promise and dark intent. Training room cameras be damned – some hunger transcends propriety.

Sometimes survival means taking what you want while you still can.