Butterfly Assassin

by Annabelle Jacobs

  Bare-chested as he was, Michael now saw why he’d got his nickname. Well, one of the reasons anyway. The intricate butterfly tattoo on Aaron’s chest was about five inches across, from wing tip to wing tip. Michael wanted to run his fingers across it, to trace the dark, delicate ink covering Aaron’s smooth skin.

  Aaron rolled his shoulders and moved his head from side to side, jumping in place.

  Michael couldn’t look away.

  All that exposed skin, muscles taut, primed and ready to unleash whatever power Aaron chose to allow himself. To say he was captivating was an understatement.

  Mouth a little dry, Michael swallowed.

  How had he thought not kissing Aaron would make things easier? How? If anything, it was worse, because now he wanted it so much more. Scrabbling for something to focus on, something to get his mind back on the job, he leaned in close to Harry and whispered, “How can he fight in those boots?”

  Harry scoffed. “They’re lighter than they look.”

  And he has shifter strength. They probably feel like slippers.

  Aaron didn’t glance their way once, although Michael got the feeling he knew they were there. He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, shaking out his arms and focusing solely on the bloke opposite him.

  Michael, on the other hand, couldn’t tear his gaze away, transfixed by the play of muscles across Aaron’s back and shoulders. He looked nothing like the guy who’d teased him in the office on Tuesday—all playfulness wiped from his expression, replaced by a cold, steely concentration. He looked every bit the fighter, like someone ready to do whatever it took to take down his opponent.

  He looked dangerous.

  And I like it.

  He liked the version of Aaron who grinned and ran his fingers teasingly over Michael’s groin, and he liked this one too. The version who looked as though he’d pick Michael up and fuck him against the nearest wall without a second thought. Heat pooled in his belly at that image, his jeans getting a little tighter as his cock stiffened.

  Harry turned to him, eyes narrowed. “Really?”

  Shit.

  Fucking shifter senses.

  But then Harry shook his head with a sigh. “Not that you’re the only one.”

  A flash of jealousy took Michael by surprise, and he couldn’t resist a quick look around to see who else was watching Aaron with the same interest.

  There were more than he’d expected in a crowd like this.

  Harry nudged him again, eyes darting over to the far corner where the light dimmed. “Blake just came in with a few others I don’t recognise.”

  Michael immediately snapped back into work mode, not looking over straight away, instead slowly gazing around the room until finally landing on the spot Harry’d indicated. “Which one?” he whispered. In the photos they had, Blake always wore some sort of hat. Michael couldn’t pick him out.

  “Big bald guy with enormous shoulders and grey jacket.”

  Immediately spotting who Harry described, Michael tried to make out the people with him, but the fight was about to start, and everyone pushed a little closer together to get a better view. Heads blocked his line of sight, the dim light not helping. Maybe the lack of light didn’t bother Harry?

  He shuffled closer, lips next to Harry’s ear. “Did you see Smith?”

  “Maybe.” Harry shrugged one shoulder. “Can’t be certain. But there’s another one of his bodyguards over there, so it’s a good bet he’s there too.”

  “Can you make out what they’re saying?” He was having trouble making himself heard over the shouts from the people around him, so he didn’t expect a favourable answer. When Harry shook his head, it was still disappointing though.

  They’d just have to hope they had better luck after the fight, when people started to leave.

  “How long do his fights usually last?”

  “Not long. Two, three rounds tops.” Harry grinned. “That’s why they call him the Assassin.”

  “Ahh.” Made sense.

  Now when he looked at Aaron, that nickname didn’t sound funny at all. He was all grace and fluid movement, light on his feet as if he was almost flying. But the edge of danger he held sent a shiver down Michael’s spine.

  Butterfly Assassin was the perfect name for him.

  The announcer yelled for the fight to start, and the crowd erupted into shouts for whoever they’d bet on.

  As the two fighters advanced on each other, Michael finally took notice of the other guy, Mac Martin. And Jesus Christ, he was massive. Maybe six foot four, six five, built like a tank. “Is he like you?” he whispered to Harry because the guy looked too big to be human.

  “No,” Harry whispered back. “Just fucking huge.”

  His fists were huge too. Michael winced as he took a well-aimed swing at Aaron, then sighed in relief when Aaron danced out of the way. He darted in, trying to get under Martin’s guard, but Martin was too quick.

  They traded jabs, each evading the other until Aaron landed a punch to Martin’s kidney with enough force to make him double over for a moment before righting himself.

  Michael heard Harry’s muttered, “Careful,” and tried not to worry. Aaron had been in plenty of fights. He could keep his strength in check.

  Another punch caught Martin on the jaw and he staggered back a step. Aaron shot a quick glance over to the corner where Blake was, a slight scowl on his face, then seemed to slow down. Harry caught it too, frowning as Martin then landed two consecutive hits.

  Someone yelled the end of the round and the fighters stalked off to opposite sides.

  Aaron bent to get a bottle of water, drinking heavily before setting it down again. He flinched when he stood back up like he actually hurt. And shit, he couldn’t heal when he fought. Of course he couldn’t or people would see. Michael had listened when Aaron had told him that, but apparently, it hadn’t really sunk in what that meant. Yes, Aaron could heal later, after the fact, but while he was fighting? He’d be in just as much pain as the other guy.

  The second round went much like the first. Aaron landed a good couple of blows, but Martin caught him on the jaw, splitting his lip. Blood trickled down his chin, and Aaron wiped it away with his taped hand.

  It was easy to see how Aaron’s blood got on Crossford’s tape.

  “This is where he usually ends it,” Harry said, smiling.

  Michael tensed, waiting for Aaron to land the final blow, but it never came.

  He hit Martin in the side again, but not enough to knock him down. In fact, Martin barely looked winded. When he darted forward—surprisingly fast for such a big guy—Michael expected Aaron to dodge and then counter-attack, but Martin’s fist smashed into Aaron’s ribs, knocking him to the floor.

  Harry flinched beside him. Clearly, this wasn’t what usually happened.

  Aaron glanced over to the corner again as he got to his feet, a little shaken.

  The round ended without either of them making significant contact again, thank God, because Aaron was definitely favouring his left side now.

  Back at the edge of the ring, Aaron poured water over his face this time, shaking the excess off and splattering a few people nearby. Michael stared at him, willing him to turn their way. He wanted to get a look at Aaron’s eyes, make sure he wasn’t in any kind of trouble. But Aaron stared straight ahead, appearing to see nothing.

  Another two rounds passed. During the last one, Harry had taken to clenching and unclenching his hands, flinching every time Martin’s fist connected with any part of Aaron.

  After four rounds of trading punches, both fighters looked worse for wear. Cuts and red marks covered their bodies and faces, tape-covered hands smeared with blood.

  “I thought you said three rounds max?” Michael muttered, marvelling at the control Aaron had over his body. None of his injuries showed any sign of healing.

  Before meeting Aaron, Michael hadn’t known that was possible. As far as he was concerned, shifters got hurt and they healed.

  H
arry tore his gaze away from Aaron, his worry clear. “That’s the longest he usually lets them go, and he doesn’t normally take this many hits.”

  “You think he’s okay?”

  “Physically, yeah.” He wrinkled his nose. “Well, apart from getting beat up. But there’s something not right. The way he keeps looking over at Blake’s corner…”

  “Yeah.” Michael had been thinking something similar. Someone had told him to either make the fight last or throw it. Michael really hoped it was the first option. He had no desire to see Aaron dragged out semi-conscious.

  Round five began much like the previous ones. The two boxers eyed each other warily, neither daring to go for the killer blow yet. Martin danced forward, guard up, and then a lightning quick jab to Aaron’s ribs seem to take Aaron completely by surprise. When Martin followed it with an uppercut to his jaw, Aaron stumbled and fell backwards, landing in a heap on the floor.

  Jesus, that had to have hurt both of them. Connecting with bone like that must take a toll on your hands. Sure enough, Martin shook out his right hand, grimacing as he waited for Aaron to get back up.

  “Here we go.” The trace of excitement in Harry’s voice had Michael turning towards him.

  “What?”

  “Look at his face.”

  Michael looked. Aaron’s whole demeanour seemed to have changed. From his determined expression, to the loose way he held his guard up, relaxed, as though just waiting for Martin to make a mistake so he could end this. He looked a different fighter.

  Martin seemed to notice it too, and he hesitated instead of attacking like he’d been doing before. When he advanced on Aaron, every effort was blocked or dodged, and he stalked away in frustration at the end of the round.

  In comparison, Aaron grinned.

  As soon as they called the sixth round, Aaron was ready, focused on Martin like he was prey. He circled him slowly, searching for an opportunity, and when he found it, he shot forward, landing a punch to Martin’s jaw that floored him.

  Martin didn’t get up.

  After the slowest ten count Michael had ever heard, Martin still hadn’t moved.

  “He’s not…?” He didn’t want to say it. They’d given Aaron immunity from anything that happened during his fights, but…

  Thankfully, Harry was quick to shake his head. “Just knocked out. A’s good at that. It’s the quickest way to end the fight. No one can argue if your opponent’s out cold.”

  The announcer-cum-referee still took his sweet time ending it. Almost reluctantly, he leaned over Martin, then moved his arms across each other in a way that apparently signalled they were done. A huge cheer went up, littered with the odd boo. The ref grabbed Aaron’s arm, shoved it up in the air, and declared him the winner.

  Aaron took his applause, his smile re-opening his split lip.

  Once again Michael was in awe that he could stop the injuries from healing. “Now what?” he whispered as he and Harry watched along with everyone else.

  “You collect your winnings and then we go.”

  At that moment, Aaron finally, finally turned their way and stared straight at Michael. The intensity of that look seared his bones.

  No, Michael wasn’t going anywhere. He wanted to see Aaron.

  As Aaron leant down, grabbed his water bottle and towel, Michael shoved his betting slip into Harry’s hand. “You sort this. I need to go talk to him.”

  “What? No! You’re not allowed to go—”

  Anything Harry said after that was lost in the noise of the crowd as Michael hurried after Aaron. One of Smith’s hulking guys—Michael presumed he was anyway—led Aaron through the throng of people, and it was all Michael could do to keep them in sight.

  Hanging back a little as they reached some space, he watched as the guy let Aaron go, and they went separate ways. Once the guy was out of sight, Michael slipped around the corner after Aaron.

  The area where the fight had taken place was relatively intact, but the corridor Michael entered had scaffolding and plastic sheeting down at the far end, and a draught blew in from outside. On his right he spotted a door with the sign for the men’s bathroom and walked towards it.

  Pushing it opened revealed a room a lot bigger than he was expecting. Instead of a line of urinals and a cubicle or two—which were there on the left—it opened up into more of a changing room. Six good-sized lockers lined the wall on the right-hand side, with a wide mirror and a couple of sinks next to them.

  Aaron stood in front of the mirror, examining his face as he slowly unwrapped the bloodied tape from his hands. His eyes met Michael’s in the reflection. He didn’t appear surprised by Michael’s appearance, had probably heard him coming as he rounded the corner. He tongued the cut on his lip before saying, “You shouldn’t be back here.”

  With great effort, Michael forced his gaze away from Aaron’s mouth. “Why not?”

  “Smith’s rules. Only fighters and his guys allowed in the changing rooms.”

  Michael didn’t care. Smith’s goon was long gone. “Is anyone likely to come back here to check?”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “A month ago I’d have said no, but now your guess is as good as mine.”

  “I’ll make it quick then.” He took a step closer, and Aaron turned, leant against the sink, and faced him. “Need a hand with that?” He nodded down at the tape half covering Aaron’s hands. Fully expecting Aaron to refuse, he was surprised when Aaron simply stopped unwrapping them and held his hands out to Michael.

  For whatever reason, that one gesture seemed more intimate than anything they’d shared so far. Half the bathroom lights weren’t working, and the dim light gave the room a cosier atmosphere than it should have. Swallowing a sudden nervousness, and hoping his hands wouldn’t shake, Michael reached out and began to unwrap the tape from Aaron’s outstretched hands. He wanted to ask about Aaron’s tattoo, but something told him now wasn’t the time.

  Silence settled between them. Instead of being awkward or uncomfortable, Michael felt nothing but a charge of excitement, anticipation heavy in the air. It felt like something was about to happen, he just wasn’t sure what.

  Without looking up, Michael knew Aaron was watching him, felt the weight of his gaze as he worked.

  The once-white tape was now dirty with sweat and blood, but Michael didn’t care. Carefully, he removed each layer until Aaron’s hands were free. His job finished, he stepped back—because he thought he should, not because he wanted to—and went to throw the tape in the bin.

  Aaron’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. “Can’t throw it away, remember?” His voice was soft, gently reminding him.

  “Shit. Sorry.” How had he forgotten about the one piece of forensic evidence they’d actually found? Handing the bundle to Aaron, he moved to wash his hands while Aaron opened a locker and shoved the tape into his bag.

  “It’s fine. I’ve almost forgotten a couple of times.” Aaron pulled a clean towel out of the bag and hung it on a hook on the wall, then filled the other sink with water.

  Michael gave his hands a shake, then wiped them on his jeans, all the while watching Aaron out of the corner of his eye. “Did Smith tell you to make the fight last longer tonight?”

  “Yeah.” Aaron bent over the sink and began to wash the blood off his face. “Blake met me at the door earlier. Told me it’d be a good idea if the fight went to six rounds this time.” He splashed water over the back of his neck and through his hair, drops of it running over his shoulders, then down his very muscular back.

  Mouth dry, Michael averted his eyes before he was tempted to reach out and catch a droplet on his finger. “So,” he said, voice rough. Clearing his throat, he tried again, looking up in time to catch Aaron’s smirk in the mirror. “Do you reckon they’d have done anything if you’d knocked him out in round two?”

  Aaron straightened and reached for his towel. “Maybe?” He patted himself dry, the odd drop of water escaping down his front this time, and Michael followed its path until it di
sappeared past the waistband of his jeans.

  Put a fucking T-shirt on already.

  “But I didn’t think it was worth testing him.” Aaron’s smirk was still firmly in place, his cocky expression leading Michael to believe he’d been caught staring again.

  Come on, Michael. Eyes up.

  “No. We want him to think you’re trustworthy, a pushover even, not a pain in the arse or someone they need to worry about.”

  When Aaron reached into his locker again and fished a T-shirt out of his bag, Michael didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. A little of both, if he was honest. “I’d better leav—”

  Aaron’s hand shot out, covering Michael’s mouth, his gaze darting towards the door. He put a finger to his own lips and Michael nodded in understanding.

  The room was deathly quiet, but even though Michael strained to hear what Aaron obviously did, no sound reached him. A couple of seconds passed, and then he heard it—voices outside the door moments before it swung open.

  In a blur of movement, Michael found himself pushed up against the wall of lockers with Aaron’s hands on either side of his face.

  “Just go with it,” Aaron whispered, then crushed his mouth to Michael’s.

  The bathroom door hit the wall, kick-starting Michael’s police instincts. He grabbed Aaron’s hips, pulling him closer, and kissed him back as though his life depended on it. That might be a slight exaggeration, but he wasn’t supposed to be back here. He had no idea how Smith dealt with rule-breakers, but he was certain a slap on the wrist and a stern talking to wasn’t it. Pushing a thigh between Aaron’s legs, he rubbed up against his groin—and fucking hell, Aaron was hard already—moaning into the kiss to make it seem like they were oblivious to their sudden audience.

  Aaron’s fingers slid into his hair, grip tight, and Michael didn’t need stellar acting skills to make this believable. His cock throbbed in his too-tight jeans, his heart raced, and the next moan that slipped out was totally unplanned—he couldn’t help himself.

  He’d almost forgotten they were pretending, so lost in the wet heat of Aaron’s mouth, and he jumped a mile when a voice barked, “What the fuck’s going on here?”