Broken: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance

by Scarlet MMA, Simone

  And because it was the first time she’d seen him come close to smiling that night, Lyssa allowed her lips to curl.

  “Yeah,” she joked. “Maybe I am.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lyssa

  Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was kindness. More likely, it was because she had nowhere else to go.

  Whatever the reason, Lyssa ended up sitting down by Silas’ bedside, and keeping him company that night.

  “So why did you come here?” Silas demanded, as he lay on the back, staring at the ceiling. He was becoming painfully familiar with it – pretty much his only view.

  “I-I don’t know,” Lyssa admitted, as she lounged back in the uncomfortable hospital chair and kicked off her shoes. “My editor wanted an exclusive. I just figured I’d go for it.”

  She sighed.

  “Does that make me an awful person?”

  “No,” Silas murmured, rolling his eyes to look at her. “But pretending to be my girlfriend does.”

  “I’ve apologized for that.”

  “Have you?”

  “Well, maybe not,” Lyssa snorted. “But I was thinking about apologizing for it.”

  Silas snorted.

  “It doesn’t matter.” He took a ragged breath. “It’s kind of you to stay.” He stared up at the ceiling, without really even seeing anything. “I don’t think I could do this alone… And it’s not like I have anybody else.”

  Lyssa nodded.

  “I-I’m scared,” Silas admitted.

  Lyssa didn’t know what to say, so she just reached out her hand and slid her fingers into his.

  Silas felt that, at least. Her slender fingers, entwining with hers. Her skin was smooth, and soft. He squeezed her hand tightly.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  And then they both fell into thoughtful silence – nothing to say, or do, except exist in each other’s company.

  Chapter Twenty

  Lyssa

  It was three or four in the morning before Silas finally fell asleep. The nurses had the annoying habit of sweeping in every forty minutes or so to run tests, or demand paperwork, and Lyssa herself had grown so annoyed with it at that one point she’d threatened to barricade the door unless they let them get some rest.

  But now the hospital was slightly darkened, and the only light through the windows was from the moon outside.

  Lyssa climbed up stiffly from the chair she’d been sitting in, and wondered what to do.

  She knew she should go home. Although after getting kicked out of Travis and Nikolai’s apartment that morning, she wasn’t even sure where ‘home’ was any more.

  She still paid rent on a shoebox studio up in Jersey City, but she’d barely spent the night there in weeks. It would be cold, and dark, and lonely.

  And she didn’t fancy being any of those things tonight.

  And then there was Silas to think about. Whatever her motives were for sneaking her way into his hospital room, she was there now – and it looked like he appreciated it.

  The poor bastard was alone, and scared, and looking at what must be one of the most horrific thoughts to face a young, fit, athletic man.

  The thought of being crippled.

  He needed somebody. And for that moment, she was as close to ‘somebody’ as Silas was likely to get.

  Treading barefoot across the room, Lyssa found a transparent plastic bag containing Silas’ personal effects. There wasn’t much – he’d been dressed in shorts and gloves when he’d been injured.

  But it looked like somebody had found his wallet, and phone, and thrown them into the bag as he was being wheeled out of the stadium.

  It was a happy coincidence that they had – because the last place you want to be in America without your wallet is a hospital.

  But it was Silas’ phone she was more interested in. Lyssa pulled it out of the bag, and swiped the screen. She was happy to find it unlocked.

  Instinctively, Lyssa checked the ‘Contacts’ – looking desperately for somebody to reach out to. Somebody Silas cared about.

  But there were only a handful of contacts in his phone, and the only other ‘Batras’ in his contacts was somebody called Alberte, with a +34 country code.

  Spain.

  Maybe this was his father.

  Copying the number into her own phone, Lyssa stepped out into the corridor and dialed the number.

  She didn’t know what she was going to say. Hell, with nothing but eleventh grade Spanish to fall back on, she didn’t even know how to say it. But she listened as the phone droned with that weird European ring town, and then her heart skipped as she heard the clunk of the call being answered.

  A gravelly voice murmured: “Salud.”

  “H-Hi,” Lyssa stammered into the phone. “Do you speak English? I’m calling from America. It’s about Silas.”

  There was a gasp from the other end of the phone. It suggested that whoever had just answered knew exactly which ‘Silas’ Lyssa was talking about.

  Part Two

  Logroño, Spain

  Chapter Twenty One

  Lyssa

  Two Weeks Later

  Lyssa shivered, as she stood on the sidewalk outside Logroño–Agoncillo Airport and waited for her ride.

  She couldn’t believe she was here. Spain, of all places.

  Aside from a trip to Cancun on her eighteenth birthday (which had resulted in food poisoning and crabs) she’d never been out of the country before – and now look at her!

  Logroño, Spain. A place she didn’t even know existed until she’d spent that night in hospital with Silas Batras.

  And what a place it was.

  When Lyssa thought of Spain, she had visions of heat-shimmering plains and flamenco dancers. Instead, Logroño was a foggy little oasis, nestled amongst towering green mountains.

  On the plane trip from Barcelona, where she’d made her connection from New York, Lyssa had stared out of the window and watched the sun-drenched landscape of central Spain morph into something resembling Middle Earth, from Lord of the Rings. Dramatic hillsides. Rolling green mountains. And the fog.

  So much fog!

  The puffy white clouds had flooded between the hills and mountains like milk, and it made for a dramatic sight as the small plane Lyssa was flying in came into land.

  And now, outside the small airport, she had the reverse view. Hills and cliffs reared up either side of the road, and the fog and clouds hung overhead so closely that she imagined you could climb to the top of one of the hills, reach up and touch it.

  There was something magical about this place.

  That might have been because it was a ‘microclimate’, as the guidebooks had explained. A little oasis in northern Spain, with a weather system all its own. Cool, and wet, and sunny. The reason why it produced some of the finest wine in the world.

  And, even though it was only nine in the morning, Lyssa was thinking she deserved a glass of it already.

  Just as she was thinking that, an old car horn parped shrilly through the cool morning air, and Lyssa looked up to see a rickety Citroen van rumbling down the smooth roads towards her.

  The thing looked fifty years old, if not older. The paintwork was faded and rusty, the exhaust was pouring blue smoke, and the engine sounded rougher than Lyssa’s tumble dryer the time she’d accidently left her phone in it.

  But the faded writing emblazoned on the side – Bodegas Batras – advertised that this was, indeed, her ride.

  Despite being the only person standing on the sidewalk, she raised her arm and waved desperately.

  With a backfire and a plume of smoke, the old van rumbled to a halt, and the driver’s door rattled open.

  A rotund, swarthy man in a vest and corduroys clambered out. He looked like he was in his mid-forties, and despite being overweight and out-of-shape, the resemblance was unmistakable.

  This must be Alberte. Silas’ brother. The one Lyssa had called all those weeks ago, back when she’d
spent the night with Silas in hospital.

  “Ola,” the swarthy man waved, looking Lyssa up and down suspiciously. “Senorita Meadows, si?”

  Lyssa nodded, offering her hand.

  The big man ignored it.

  “I’m Alberte,” he growled, in a thick Spanish accent. “Silas’ brother.” He looked down, at Lyssa’s single suitcase. “You want to put that in the back of the van?”

  So much for European chivalry, she scoffed.

  Wheeling her bag around to the back of the van, she opened the rear door with a creak. Flakes of rust fell to the floor, as she hefted her bag in and slammed the door shut behind it.

  “It’s not too long a ride,” Alberte announced, as he hefted his bulk back behind the wheel. “Got any cigarettes?”

  Lyssa hefted open the passenger door, and clambered into the ripped and fraying seat.

  “Here,” she reached into her purse, and pulled out the last of a pack of Marlboro she’d been saving. Offering Silas’ brother a cigarette, she asked: “How is he?”

  Alberte shoved the cigarette in his mouth, and lit it with the smoldering lighter from the dashboard.

  “You’ll be able to ask him yourself in fifteen minutes,” he growled.

  And then the big man rammed the van in gear, and the rattling vehicle shuddered off down the highway.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Lyssa

  Logroño, Lyssa soon realized, was like another world.

  She’d been born and brought up in the strip malls and suburbs of New Jersey. This place – with its starkly rugged hills and valleys – was like something out of a picture book.

  “It’s all vineyards,” Alberte exclaimed, as they rolled past another endless field of vines. “They make some of the best wine in the world here, in La Rioja.” He snorted bitterly. “Not that you Americans appreciate it.”

  Lyssa ignored the barbed comment, and replied:

  “You speak really good English.”

  “Our mother was an English teacher,” Alberte explained, as he gripped the wooden steering wheel tightly. “And my father studied winemaking in Bordeaux with an English vintner.”

  He turned and looked at Lyssa with his beady brown eyes: “We’ve always spoken good English at home. Don’t give my brother credit for learning it.”

  From the look on Alberte’s face, Lyssa got the distinct impression he didn’t give his brother credit for much.

  Fortunately, they didn’t need to follow-up that conversation. As soon as Alberte had said his piece, he guided the van around a hilly corner and their destination reared into view.

  A towering old compound of red brick buildings, all behind a faded archway bearing the name Bodegas Batras.

  “We’re home,” Alberte snorted, as he guided the rattling van through the archway. “Welcome to the bodegas.”

  As the van came to a shuddering halt in the courtyard, Lyssa looked over:

  “What does bodegas mean?” She had visions of those sketchy Spanish convenience stores all over New York City.

  “Winemaker,” Alberte cranked the handbrake up. “It’s like the French would say ‘chateau’ or something.”

  With that, he rattled open the driver’s door and stepped out onto the cobblestones with a groan.

  The doorway of the biggest redbrick building – a mansion-like house – swung open. A severe-looking young woman stepped out, followed by two little boys with ruffled black hair.

  And behind them, wheeling himself in a rickety-looking wheelchair, was the man Lyssa had travelled all this way to see.

  Silas Batras.

  Lyssa stepped out onto the cobblestones, and stared over at that handsome, tanned face.

  “Hi,” she smiled.

  And Silas said nothing. He just turned his wheelchair round, and wheeled himself back into the looming, dark house.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Silas

  Damn. He hadn’t expected it to hurt.

  As Silas wheeled himself back into his family home, he snarled at himself for the twisted emotion that sat like poison in his belly.

  He’d been expecting Lyssa’s arrival for two weeks now – ever since she’d emailed him to say her editor wanted a follow-up interview.

  And, at first, he’d been excited. After all, returning home to Spain in a wheelchair had been cold, harsh and humiliating.

  But the moment he saw her – that tall, lithe girl with the tattoos and the weathered expression – it had hurt.

  It had reminded him painfully of the worst night of his life; lying there in a hospital bed, waiting to learn whether or not his life was over.

  “Silas!”

  The harsh cry echoed back and forth in the old walls of the mansion hallway.

  Silas skidded his wheelchair to a halt, and reluctantly turned his head.

  His sister in law, Celestina, was standing there with her hands on her hips and a disapproving expression on her pretty face.

  “Silas,” she repeated, looking at him with the same expression she did her misbehaving children. “This senorita has travelled a long way to see you. Get out there and offer to take her bag for her.”

  With a groan, Silas wheeled his chair around.

  “Offer to take her bag?” He snarled. “What else do you want me to do? Carry her across the threshold?”

  “It’s a wheelchair,” Celestina snapped, “and that means you’ve got a lap. Go and offer to take her bag.”

  And Silas, who thought of Celestina as the older sister he never had, reluctantly nodded.

  With a groan, he wheeled himself out into the cool morning breeze, and confronted the person who reminded him of all he’d run away from.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Lyssa

  Lyssa had wheeled her suitcase half-way to the front door when Silas reappeared.

  He sat there in his wheelchair, powering the wheels with his big, beefy arms.

  He looked subdued and passive – a shadow of the angry young man she’d met in that dressing room in Atlantic City.

  Almost a shadow. One thing remained. His eyes.

  Silas’ intense brown eyes still burned with the same smoldering intensity she remembered from the night they’d met.

  Lyssa stepped forward, and smiled at the wheelchair-bound young fighter.

  “Hi,” she repeated – hoping for a better reaction this time. “How are you doing?”

  Silas snorted.

  “How does it look like I’m doing?” He scoffed, wheeling his chair around in a 360.

  Lyssa snorted at him.

  “It looks like you’re pretty handy in that thing,” she scoffed, hefting up her suitcase. “So why don’t you take my bag?”

  Silas grunted as the pretty American hefted her heavy suitcase into his lap. But as he looked up at her mocking expression, he couldn’t help but let the corners of his mouth curl.

  The first smile he’d cracked in as long as he could remember.

  “Welcome to Spain, novio,” he grinned.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Lyssa

  They ate dinner together in the back garden.

  Alberte set an old brick barbeque burning, and grilled lamb chops over twigs of old vine. Celestina poured them all glasses of chilled Viura wine, while the two boys played rambunctiously in the tumbledown yard.

  “The big one is César,” Celestina told Lyssa, as she handed her a chilled glass. “He’s seven. The little one is Jesus – but we call him Chucho.” Her face wrinkled in a smile as she watched him play. “He’s four.”

  “They’re adorable,” Lyssa grinned, watching the two boys play. “You must be very proud.”

  “I’m very worried,” Celestina laughed. “Brothers run in the family, just like Alberte and Silas here.” Her cheeks burned a little red. “They’re nothing but trouble.”

  Although trouble seemed like the furthest thing from her mind, right at that second.

  This old house. This beautiful family. Right now, away from the hustle
and bustle of New Jersey? It seemed like heaven.

  And then Lyssa heard the squeak of Silas’ wheelchair, and turned to find him looking up at her expectantly.

  “Hey,” he said softly. “You like the wine?”

  Truth be told, Lyssa hadn’t even tasted it at that point – but she lifted the glass to her lips and gulped down a mouthful. It was crisp, and dry, and tasted delicious.

  “It’s our own label,” Silas explained, as she smacked her lips in satisfaction. “Most of our land is dedicated to Tempranillo, but we dedicate a few acres to growing the Viura grape. During the summer, there’s nothing better.”

  Lyssa looked down at the handsome fighter, and the sadness in his big, brown eyes made her heart ache.

  “It’s beautiful here,” she murmured, turning to look out over the seemingly endless vista of hills and vines. “It must have been amazing to grow up here.”

  Silas wheeled his chair forward, and lifted his own glass from the table.

  “It was hard work,” he snorted, taking a sip. “My father would have us up before the break of dawn, and we wouldn’t see our beds until it was dark again.” He shook his head. “People had a romantic view of how wine is made – but they never see how much work goes into it.”

  Lyssa sipped her drink.

  “So is that why you left? To come to America?”

  Silas looked up at her.

  “You think being a fighter is any easier?” He shook his head. “I didn’t leave because I wanted an easy life. Or, at least, if I did I picked the wrong sport to go into.”

  Pointing across the yard, to where his brother was tending the barbeque, Silas murmured: “I went because I had to. Otherwise I’d always be living in his shadow. At least as a fighter, I knew I was the best on my own terms. If I’d stayed her, to run Bodegas Batras with Alberte, I’d forever be the little brother.”