Manipulative Attraction

15. ⚛️ The Contender

Thorne sat yoga-style, palms up, feet tucked in the crook of his thighs. He was naked except for a snow-white mawashi around his groin. He wouldn't be sumo wrestling today, but street fighting. No holds barred.

He'd chosen to fight instead of his other option: to let Quentin and Dalton receive punishment. To him, that was unacceptable. He'd ordered the assignment; he'd suffer the consequences.

At Thorne's decision, Quentin and Dalton had risen from their seats in anger, trying to talk him out of it. Thorne had refused to budge.

"Someday," Quentin bit out, his eyes brown eyes squinted with ire, "you'll let us repay what we owe."

Thorne had clapped him on the back, sending the shorter man a few feet forward. "Today is not that day. Besides, I want to fight." To prove his point, Thorne had flexed his biceps as his two subordinates glared back at him.

"Listen to him, Thorne," Dalton broke in, "it's our turn to take the blame."

Anger coursed through him. Thorne didn't need or want aggravation. He had to prepare.

"Go," he said pointing to the door, "I need to get my mind straight, not listen to you two nagging like old women."

Dalton went quietly, but Quentin turned at the last moment to give him a piece of unwanted advice. "You give good bravado, dude," Quentin said snarling, "I hope it protects you in the cage."

What did Quentin know? Thorne was looking forward to the fight.

Angry for weeks, Thorne wanted to smash skulls and break bones. Anything to take his mind off Jeannie Jones.

His smugness at being assigned to watch Jeannie Jones had come back to haunt him. How had he ever thought this job would be a piece of cake?

His dealings with Jeannie had left him confused and extremely frustrated. This "punishment" was just what he needed to relieve the stress he was feeling.

Quentin and Dalton didn't need to worry. Thorne was in the best condition of his life. Those weekends away from Jeannie, he'd been training in many fighting disciplines—for hours on end. He was ripped—not an ounce of fat rested on him. Also, he was much quicker on his feet, able to defeat one opponent after the other in the training room.

Thorne's muscles trembled with the beginnings of adrenaline. He fought against it, willing his body to relax and let his inner warrior, the Beast, come forth. He allowed the Beast to bellow out a cry...a vow to reign triumphant.

The steel box, similar to an MMA fighting cage with the sides enclosed, shut with a clang. Thorne sauntered to the middle and sat, waiting for the match to begin. Smoke-colored two-way mirrors allowed spectators to view the mayhem without getting blood on themselves.

A thump on the glass caused him to look in that direction.

That's probably Quentin, Thorne thought.

He was sure the stocky man wanted him to know that despite their disagreement, both he and Dalton supported him. Thorne gave them the thumbs up, smiling.

"Are you ready 59638?" H778 said with a slight tremor in her voice. Thorne snapped his head to the speaker in the corner. Her less than monotone voice had unnerved him. He shook it off, springing up to his feet as if he were jumping rope. He let the adrenaline he'd held off, course through him.

Thorne rolled his neck, laced his fingers and pushed them out. His arms were as steady as iron rods.

"Let's do this."