Beneath These Scars

by Meghan March

  Beneath These Scars

  Copyright © 2015 by Meghan March LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Editor: Pam Berehulke, Bulletproof Editing

  www.bulletproofediting.com

  Cover design: © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  www.okaycreations.com

  Photo: © Sara Eirew

  www.saraeirew.com

  Formatting: Champagne Formats

  www.ChampagneFormats.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Visit my website at www.meghanmarch.com.

  I’m the guy you love to hate.

  In every story in my life, I seem to end up playing the villain—and I’ve got the scars to prove it.

  That role works fine for me, because I’m sure as hell not anyone’s hero. I run my life and my empire with an iron fist—until she knocks my tightly controlled world off its axis.

  She’s nobody’s damsel in distress, but I can’t help but want to save her anyway.

  I guess we’re about to find out if there’s a hero buried beneath these scars.

  Beneath These Scars is the fourth book in the Beneath series, but may be read as a standalone. However, if you prefer, it may be best enjoyed after reading Beneath This Mask (Beneath #1), Beneath This Ink (Beneath #2), and Beneath These Chains (Beneath #3).

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About This Book

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1: Lucas

  Chapter 2: Yve

  Chapter 3: Yve

  Chapter 4: Lucas

  Chapter 5: Yve

  Chapter 6: Lucas

  Chapter 7: Yve

  Chapter 8: Yve

  Chapter 9: Lucas

  Chapter 10: Yve

  Chapter 11: Lucas

  Chapter 12: Yve

  Chapter 13: Lucas

  Chapter 14: Yve

  Chapter 15: Lucas

  Chapter 16: Yve

  Chapter 17: Lucas

  Chapter 18: Yve

  Chapter 19: Yve

  Chapter 20: Lucas

  Chapter 21: Yve

  Chapter 22: Lucas

  Chapter 23: Yve

  Chapter 24: Lucas

  Chapter 25: Yve

  Chapter 26: Lucas

  Chapter 27: Yve

  Chapter 28: Yve

  Chapter 29: Lucas

  Chapter 30: Yve

  Chapter 31: Lucas

  Chapter 32: Yve

  Chapter 33: Lucas

  Chapter 34: Yve

  Chapter 35: Yve

  Chapter 36: Lucas

  Chapter 37: Yve

  Chapter 38: Yve

  Chapter 39: Yve

  Chapter 40: Yve

  Chapter 41: Yve

  Chapter 42: Lucas

  Chapter 43: Yve

  Chapter 44: Lucas

  Chapter 45: Yve

  Chapter 46: Lucas

  Chapter 47: Yve

  Chapter 48: Lucas

  Chapter 49: Yve

  Chapter 50: Lucas

  Chapter 51: Yve

  Chapter 52: Lucas

  Chapter 53: Yve

  Epilogue: Lucas

  Also by Meghan March

  Connect with Meghan March

  About the Author

  With every book, it takes a village to bring it from a spark of an idea to what you’re reading today, and I’m incredibly fortunate to have an awesome village. Special thanks goes out to:

  Angela Smith, the best PA and friend an author could be blessed to have, for being with me every step of the way on this crazy journey.

  Rachel Brookes, my amazing critique partner and friend, you have no idea how much I value the gift of your insight and time.

  Angela Marshall Smith and Pam Berehulke, editors extraordinaire, for helping to wrestle this story into submission (not that Lucas would ever submit) and polishing it until it shone.

  Chasity Jenkins-Patrick, kick-ass publicist, for talking me off more than one ledge and always pushing me in the right direction.

  Sara Eirew for shooting a fab cover pic, and Sarah Hansen for creating yet another gorgeous cover.

  My mom, for being the most supportive parent a daughter with crazy dreams could ask for. I love you.

  The Meghan March Runaway Readers Facebook group, for being the most fabulous collection of ladies I’ve had the pleasure of (virtually) meeting. Hope to hug you all at events soon!

  All the book bloggers who take the time to read and review this and any of my other books. Your time and dedication is truly appreciated.

  My readers—you’re the reason Lucas’s story is laid out on these pages. Thank you for loving this series, and I hope you enjoy what’s coming next.

  SWEAT DRIPPED INTO MY EYES as I bounced on the balls of my feet. Someone had to be calling out how much time was left in this round soon. My pride was on the line, and there was no way I would hand it over to Con Leahy. He’d already gotten the girl, and I wasn’t about to let him humiliate me in the ring in this piece-of-shit New Orleans gym too.

  My muscles burned, but that was nothing compared to the heat of victory—or the sting of defeat. What had started out as a boxing lesson had quickly transformed into an all-out brawl for dominance and respect.

  Only you would pay a million dollars to get your ass kicked, Titan. The voice in my head mocked me as I bobbed and weaved. But I hadn’t paid a million to get my ass kicked. I’d done it because that night at the charity auction I’d been drunk, pissed off, and determined to prove a point—he might’ve gotten the girl, but I was still the one with the power. I got a sick sense of satisfaction that every time Con bought something for his gym and these kids, he had to think of me.

  I swung with another right hook. The blow connected with Con’s jaw and snapped his head to the side.

  Yeah. That’s right. But my mental cheer came a moment too soon, and pain exploded in my left side.

  Shit, that’s going to hurt tomorrow.

  I stumbled back but threw myself forward again, shooting out my fist with an uppercut that knocked Con back a step. This was how it had gone for the last several minutes—trading punches and circling each other.

  There was no love lost in this ring, that was for damn sure, and I was ready for this to be over. I would walk out of here with every bit of the respect I was owed. Fuck anyone who thought otherwise.

  Con moved toward me and the circling started again. The cheers and chants from the crowd surrounding the ring in the old warehouse gym seemed to grow every time I glanced beyond the ropes. A flash of blond hair caught my eye as I stepped left and Con shifted to the right.

  Vanessa.

  She threw her head back and laughed at something said by her redheaded friend, Elle. I turned my attention back to the man in front of me, but my focus wandered again when a huskier, sexier laugh echoed through the room.

  My eyes strayed from Con for a second too long as I tried to track down the source of the laughter. Pain burst through my jaw, catching me by surprise, and I stumbled back into the r
opes. Using their momentum, I shoved off to the side, my pride stinging from my momentary lapse in concentration. Embarrassed and now thoroughly pissed off, I surged forward and attacked.

  One punch. That was all I landed before the bell rang, signaling the end of the round and my very expensive “lesson.”

  I pushed off Con, and my knee might have slipped as I stepped back . . . and caught him directly in the balls. It was probably an accident. I huffed out a chuckle, but Con didn’t share my humor.

  “Goddamn it!” he roared. “Are you fucking serious?”

  It was like stabbing a bull with a matador’s sword, but I was ready for him. I jumped out of the way as Con charged, and shifted into a defensive stance when he swung.

  “Should’ve expected a cheap shot from you, motherfucker.” Unrestrained anger flashed over his face as every shred of coaching mentality fled, along with that smug superiority he’d been giving me.

  Good. You aren’t better than me, Leahy. I could buy and sell you a hundred times over.

  He might’ve gotten the girl, but I wasn’t going to let him get away with her clean. I wanted blood.

  “Should’ve expected you to strut around this ring like a fucking cock of the walk,” I shot back.

  Con feinted and swung again, but I’d been studying his movements. I bobbed and weaved, and got the hell out of the way.

  I threw my own punch as soon as I had a clean shot. It landed just below Con’s left eye, splitting the skin over his cheekbone and sending blood spattering everywhere.

  The taste of victory was sweet. “First blood,” I said under my breath.

  Apparently my words weren’t quiet enough because Con’s head snapped up and he glared at me with disgust, as if I needed to be put down like a rabid animal. “This ain’t a fuckin’ duel, you piece of shit.”

  “It sure isn’t a friendly competition either.”

  “Paid a million to get that cheap shot in, didn’t you?”

  My lips twisted into a mocking smile. “I sure didn’t pay a million to have you show me up.”

  Con dropped his hands and shook his head. “Just when I thought you weren’t a complete fucking asshole.”

  “You were wrong,” I replied, turning for the ropes.

  Con’s fists lifted and before I could react, one connected with my cheekbone. The instantaneous gush of blood told me I’d have a scar to match his, but it didn’t matter. One more scar wouldn’t hurt my banged-up face.

  I roared as I charged, but I didn’t get the chance to retaliate. Shouts filled the room, and beefy arms wrapped around my body, holding me back.

  “You’re not half bad when you’re not being a shady rich prick,” Lord’s voice said in my ear.

  I lunged toward Con, but Lord’s grip only tightened. “Get your goddamn hands off me,” I growled at him.

  Leaning closer to my ear, he lowered his voice. “When you calm the hell down and realize you’re making an ass of yourself in front of a bunch of kids and women.”

  I glanced out to the crowd and read disgust on so many faces, including Vanessa’s. Like it mattered what a single goddamn person in this gym thought of me. I could buy and sell them all.

  Lord was still holding me back when Con came toward us. He yanked his gloves off and wiped at the blood still dripping from the gash on his face.

  “You’re also not half bad when you’re paying attention—and when you’re not throwing a knee into my nuts. But I think you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

  I jerked at the arms trapping me. “Call off your dog, and I’m gone.”

  “You ever want another round, it’s gonna cost you two million next time,” Con said.

  “For another chance to make you bleed? I’d pay even more.”

  Con nodded to his brother, and Lord let me go. The crowd had already started to disperse. The only person in the building who probably didn’t want to run me down in the parking lot was my COO, and arguably my friend, Ryder Colson. And he was nowhere to be seen.

  Instead of Colson, I saw a group of women moving toward the door—Vanessa Frost in her white cotton dress, Elle Snyder in her yellow retro number, and two others I didn’t know. One looked familiar with tanned skin the color of honey, her hair in dark waves, and a curvy body displayed by a funky teal dress with hot-pink polka dots. She hooked her hands on her hips, and that husky laugh echoed through the room again. Apparently she was the one who had distracted me in the ring. My eyes didn’t move from her to take in the fourth woman.

  Colson came up beside me. “Who knew there’d be so many hot pieces of ass in this shit warehouse?”

  I turned toward him. “Give any of them a shot, and you’ll probably find yourself bleeding on the floor.”

  Ryder shrugged off my comment. “Go get your shit. I’ll wait.”

  He was gone before I could tell him he didn’t need to wait around for me. But then again, he was my only ally in a building full of people who undoubtedly would have preferred to see me KO’d on the floor of the ring. Just one more place I’d never be welcome.

  Good thing I didn’t give a fuck.

  I’d showed up, gone toe-to-toe with Con, and had taken back a piece of my pride. That was enough.

  For today.

  I was already thinking of hiring a trainer as I went for my bag.

  “Not interested. Save your breath.”

  “Come on, baby. You have a better offer tonight?”

  “Do I look like a whore to you? And a desperate one at that? Because I’m not.”

  I followed the voices as I strode across the black-and-white checkered floor that started at the door to the gym and led down the hallway to the building exit. The conversation was coming from a doorway on the right, a giant commercial kitchen with a huge prep table and stainless steel appliances.

  The woman in teal and pink was standing in front of a cupboard, stretching as one hand reached high inside. Ryder Colson stood nearby, leaning against the prep table in front of the fridge.

  “Sweetheart, you don’t look like a whore to me, but—”

  “Colson.” My friend’s name came out sharp on my tongue, and I didn’t take any time to assess why that might be—or why irritation and possessiveness spread through my veins. I’d just watched Vanessa fuss over Con’s bloody face, and it was another reminder that I’d missed my shot with her.

  Both Colson and the woman turned their attention to me.

  “You ready to go?” I asked him, and he shrugged.

  “Ms. Santos and I were getting acquainted.”

  “Is that what we were doing?” the woman snapped. “Because I thought you were being a dick who didn’t understand I’m not interested.”

  Her name jogged my memory. Yve Santos. I remembered her from the charity auction. She’d modeled a piece of jewelry; a necklace, I think. But I hadn’t even looked at it, too caught up in the way her red dress had clung to every curve of her killer body. I’d wanted to fuck her then, even though my eyes had spent ninety-nine percent of the night on Vanessa.

  Not surprisingly, Yve still looked as gorgeous as she had that night.

  “You can leave, Colson,” I said, giving him a pointed look.

  His expression darkened before his cheeks reddened with embarrassment. He’d have to get over it. If she were going to spend tonight in anyone’s bed, it would be mine.

  He scowled in Yve’s direction before pushing past me and stalking through the doorway. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Titan,” he called over his shoulder.

  My eyes found Yve again. “He bother you?”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Did he bother you?” I repeated.

  “You’re bothering me.”

  I studied the flush coloring her dusky cheeks, and the subtle rise and fall of her chest. “I think you like it.”

  “And I think you should follow your friend right out that door,” she shot back. “I’m not interested in what either of you have to offer.” And with that she was gone, heading for t
he same door that Colson had exited a moment before.

  Women didn’t walk away from me. It was completely unacceptable.

  I stalked after her.

  “I’ll walk you out.” It wasn’t an offer. I was simply doing whatever the hell I wanted, just like I always did.

  That laugh with its husky, sexy tone rang through the hallway. “I can take care of myself, Titan. Don’t need a rich man to do it for me.” The door swung open at her touch and slammed behind her.

  I paused as the realization hit me. She knows who I am.

  Good.

  She was going to know a lot more of me.

  “MOTHER EFFING CHRIST.” I BANGED my hands on my steering wheel. “Don’t do this to me now, you piece of—” I cut off my words, as if not insulting my car would somehow help the engine sputter back to life. I turned the key again. Nothing.

  I popped the hood latch and got out of the car, slinging my purse over my shoulder. In this neighborhood, it might have seemed like a dumb move to get out of the car and bring my purse, but I wasn’t helpless. I was locked and loaded with my .38 Special. Ever since Elle had dragged me to the shooting range with her one night, I’d been hooked on the idea of being able to protect myself. The only question I couldn’t answer was: why hadn’t I done it sooner?

  Although if I had, I’d probably be in prison right now.

  After propping the hood open like I knew what I was doing, I stared down at the steam rising off the radiator—at least I thought that was where it was coming from. I didn’t know jack about cars. Nope, I was more likely to find vintage Chanel at a roadside antique shop than to figure out what had gone wrong with my semi-reliable Jetta. But my Blue Beast was getting old; she was going on seventeen.

  Shaking my head when looking under the hood gave me no answers, I dug into my purse and pulled out my cell phone. I scrolled through the contacts, teeth gritted. I hated asking for help, hated having to admit that I couldn’t take care of my problems myself. But sometimes a girl didn’t have a choice. Cousin Stevie’s Happy Hookers would be a lot cheaper than—

  My thoughts were cut off as a sleek dark gray sports car slowed to a stop beside the Blue Beast and me. What I knew about cars could fill a shoebox, but even I recognized expensive when I saw it. The darkened passenger side window lowered as I reached back into my purse, wanting the comfort of my Smith & Wesson in my grip. Just in case.