Savage Beast (Savage People Book 2) Read online

  Savage Beast

  Copyright © 2016 by Charleigh Rose

  Cover Design: Charleigh Rose

  Editing: Paige Smith

  Formatting: Champagne Formats

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any shape of form (don’t fuck with us), including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in a case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (or teasers. You can make a ton of teasers. We’d actually like that a lot and be totally nice to you because we love our readers’ faces.)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and places are a product of these authors’ imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales in entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Synopsis

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek: Carter & Quinn

  Acknowledgements

  Contact Information

  Dedicated to our Instagram squad. You girls are LIFE.

  Warning: Taboo, ménage, dirty talk, hot as f*ck.

  I dated a mobster. A monster. A maniac.

  He left me scarred, marred, and done with men in general. The last thing I need is another man in the very same lifestyle. I might let Cole Savage into my bedroom, but I can’t let him into my heart.

  She’s been hurt before. She thinks I’ll hurt her again.

  Problem is, I’m not the one who is trying to hurt her.

  Her ex-boyfriend is a part of the Lucky Lucianos, an up-and-coming Italian mafia in New York City. He thought he could get away with what he did to her, but he won’t be so lucky when I get my hands on him.

  Success is hunger.

  I’d learned that the hard way. How? I was hungry.

  So hungry my cheeks were hollow and my skin was yellow.

  So hungry it felt cold, even in New York in August.

  So hungry all I could think about was my last meal.

  It all changed one day when Graham Savage caught me trying to shoplift from one of his many stores in Brooklyn. It was a fucking wrapped sandwich and a can of Coke. I wasn’t greedy, but it’d been a while since I’d last had a decent meal, and I guess I got a little sloppy.

  Fine. Very sloppy.

  I was only thirteen when I tried to run away and he jerked me back into the store by the collar of my shirt and swung me against the wall, pinning me with both his arms and his threatening gaze.

  “And just what the fuck do you think you’re doing, punk?”

  He had a foreign accent. I found out later that it was Irish. I knew I had Irish roots—my last name was O’Donovan, for crying out loud—but that didn’t give him any brownie points in my book. If anything, it made me hate him more before I even knew him. My family was a bunch of fuck-ups, which is why I ended up living in the hallway of a Brooklyn building. Mom kicked me out when I was eleven because I didn’t get along with her ex-boyfriend. I didn’t get along with her ex-boyfriend because he tried to touch me twice while I was asleep. It was all a big mess.

  Anyway, the point was, I didn’t like Graham Savage from the get-go.

  “Fuck you!” I yelled in his face, knowing full well that I was gonna get a beating for this bullshit. I couldn’t even blame him. I stole from him, then I cussed him. He had every right to punch my ass and drag me outside to finish the job.

  “Fuck me? You don’t have the right anatomy, kid, but let me tell you something. If I ever find you anywhere near my business again, you’re dead. Not thrown into juvie. Not beaten up. Simply dead. You know, like Simply Red, but without a pulse.”

  Weirdo. Just a goddamn weirdo. What the hell did he mean by that anyway? Simply Red? Was that a band?

  “Let go of me,” I hissed through clenched teeth, my neck burning with embarrassment and surprise. There were a few women in the convenient mart, and they were looking at us. The cashier, an older man with a tweed jacket and salt and pepper hair, looked at us, too. I didn’t like the attention. I was too used to being a walking shadow of what used to be a person. Getting noticed made me feel so weird I swear I became itchy.

  “Fine,” I bit out. “I will never go near your grocery store again. Now, let me go.”

  He released his hold on my shirt and moved away from me, but I didn’t make a move right away. His other fist still held the sandwich wrap and the can of Coke I tried to steal from him, and my eyes zeroed on the food and the cold, sweet drink. My vision filled with black dots, and I knew that if I didn’t put food in me sometime soon, I’d probably pass out again. I hated fainting. Fainting was the worst. Fuck, I should’ve paid more attention before I tucked the food into my tattered jacket.

  “You want this?” Graham raised the hand that held the sandwich, arching his eyebrows. “You want this fucking food?”

  He sounded so condescending I wanted to punch him in the face, but knew I barely had any strength in me to get out of there with all my body parts intact. I nodded slowly, swallowing the ball of shame down my throat. Fuck yeah, I wanted that.

  Gulping, I shrugged.

  “So what if I do?”

  Graham grinned like the Savage that he was and nodded. “Then you gotta pay for it, lad.”

  “How?” I asked. “I have no money. Can’t you tell by my fucking clothes?”

  They were torn, ragged, and I stank. I knew I stank. That was the worst part of it all. I knew I fucking reeked, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  “I don’t need your money, you stupid little shit.” He laughed, but there was no humor in his voice. “I want you to fight for me.”

  “To fight for you?” Had he looked at me? I was skin and bones. At that point, I highly doubted I could take down a chick who weighed a buck twenty. But he just nodded, like this was some sort of a good deal on his part. Was he drunk? More important —did I actually wanna do it? I didn’t mind fighting. I never cared too much about the blood or the pain. I was always able to see through the pain. I guess years of being abused by my stepdad trained me well.

  “I’m not going to fight for you for a sandwich,” I said. It was negotiation, and we both knew it. For one sandwich? Hell no. But for three good meals a day I was willing to do a lot at this point, including sucking his dick. Okay, that was a blunt exaggeration. But I’d eat out Mrs. Singh from down the road, and that old bitch was 110. Easy.

  “How about if you get three big meals a day, two snacks, and protein shakes?” Graham grinned, and I noticed the commotion around us died down. No one cared about this shit anymore. It was obvious he wasn’t going to call the police on me or kick the shit out of me.

  It’s funny how human nature worked. No wonder people love watching cage fighting. People just enjoy it when others get hurt.

  “I say bring this shit on. I’m game.” I hitched one shoulder, and Graham threw his head back and laughed before handing me the sandwich and the Coke. I breathed in and snatched them, then tore into the sandwich and cracked open the Coke right there in the middle of the convenient mart. My mouth watered all over the bread, and the first
time my teeth sank into it, I actually moaned.

  “Who do you want me to fight?” I asked between swallows.

  “Not sure yet. But I can guarantee he will be bigger and stronger and will kick your ass. Don’t worry. I got a bloke named Carter who can stitch you up.”

  “Hey, I’m stronger than I look.” My brows furrowed.

  “I don’t give a fuck.” Graham laughed. “I need you to lose. I’m going to bet on the other guy.”

  And just like that, the last bite that I took got stuck in my throat and my breath hitched.

  Fuck, I was going to get so screwed.

  Oh well, at least I’d have food in me.

  One week later, I had my first fight.

  One month later, I was already taking weekly fights, and winning most of them, too.

  One year later, I was officially a Savage, with the legal documents to prove it.

  “Wrap me up,” I ordered my roommate, Carter. We were sitting behind the bar. It allowed me a perfect angle of the commotion of the Irish pub we were at. I heard the loud noises and banging of beer against old rotten wood and fuck if it didn’t make my heart beat ten times faster. I loved this part. The moments before the fight. I knew that soon, I’d enter the cage. Soon, he’d get in, too. Soon, I’d look him in the eye and I’d smile, and he would cave and he would lose—yes, lose—before we’d even touch gloves. Then it would all be over.

  It was what I did.

  How I made a living.

  How I made a dying.

  Literally.

  Ever since I killed that guy in the ring three months before, things changed, and not for the better. Graham had to put me up against guys who were much bigger and much stronger because no sane man wanted to fight me. My Irish boss plucked out heavyweight fighters from the WWL and the UFL. For the right kind of money, they showed up and fought me. No one wanted to place their bets against me. It was great for my ego and catastrophic for the business. And in our business, The Savages’ business, we needed people to put a lot of money on the guy who lost.

  Which was why this evening, I was up against someone who was eighty pounds heavier than I was and a master in jiu-jitsu. I started my formal MMA training when I was fifteen, a couple of years after Graham took me under his wing. This meant that I was a pro and knew exactly what I was doing.

  But he was huge, Brazilian, and people called him “The Killer”. I may have been cocky, but I wasn’t stupid. I still gave respect to those who fought me, and I was interested to see how the night was going to unfold. Carter wrapped the black cloth around my knuckles tightly, throwing a glance behind his shoulder. His eyes were on me and on the shelves of alcohol, not on the crowd.

  “See anyone you fancy?” he asked in his funny Irish accent. He had a thick one because he was from Northern Ireland. “Norn Iren so it is,” he always slapped my back while he said. I had no idea what it meant and didn’t give two shits either. But I liked Carter. We were the same age—twenty-eight—and we both owed our lives to Graham Savage for different reasons. I never asked too many questions, but Graham made it sound like Carter’s story was even sadder than mine.

  “Not yet, but don’t worry. I’ll get out of here with a piece of ass,” I groaned, looking at the time on my smartphone. Ten more minutes. I was ready. So fucking ready. The adrenaline in my body was too much, and I felt like I could fucking fly if I wanted to.

  “Fresh meat on the other side of the street. They opened a new night club.” Carter shrugged. Fucking Brooklyn. A new club opened every week. I swear they were like mushrooms after the rain nowadays. Couldn’t they leave my neighborhood alone and stick to Manhattan? Other than the pussy, I hated the clubs and bars of Brooklyn.

  “Yeah, I’ll check it out later,” I snapped, killing the conversation. I didn’t care. I knew I was leaving here with a woman by my side. Whether I’d win or lose, women dug tattooed fighters. And that’s exactly what I was. Call me sick, but I especially loved letting out some sexual steam after a fight. Not only was it a great way to get rid of the remaining adrenaline in my bloodstream, but I also liked it when the woman would accidentally open a fresh stitch or my open lip and I’d drip blood all over her, marking her as mine, with my DNA, with my pain, with my fucking blood all over her body.

  Yeah, I was definitely getting laid that night.

  “All wrapped up. Wait here. I’ll go get your gloves.” Carter patted my shoulder and disappeared into the kitchen. I swung my legs in the air, still sitting on the high bar, feeling like a kid. I was tall, and yet the bar was high enough for me to do that. It was one of the things I liked about Graham’s pub, O’Leary’s.

  My eyes traveled through the crowd and landed on my boss and his wife.

  Graham and Dahlia.

  Her arm was flung over his shoulder and she grinned at something he’d said. She was pretty, sure, if you liked that kind of beauty. Generic blonde with big boobs—bigger now after she had their second kid, a girl named Kathleen—and long legs, probably too long if you think about it. They looked happy. They got married a few years ago, so they should be. He smiled politely at someone. I couldn’t see who because the crowd was too thick and the person was too short. Then someone cleared the way, and my first prey jumped into my vision.

  I remembered her.

  Her name was Jade. I looked her up on Facebook, Twitter, the Yellow Pages, and every other place in the world after seeing her once at their dinner party all those years ago. Then I saw her again at their wedding, but she was a bridesmaid and was always surrounded by a shitload of pink-wearing prissy little cunts. I wanted her for myself, but knew better than to ask Graham for her number. She was off-limits. I knew that, too, and yet I didn’t care.

  Because look at her.

  Look. At. Her.

  She must’ve been mixed, her skin was deliciously tan, but then she had light green eyes. Her lips were the perfect shape, pillowy and soft and begging for my cock to stroke them gently before it plowed right in.

  Jade was going to be my dessert for that night, I’d decided right then and there.

  I released a breath and stretched my shoulders, cracking my neck and licking my lips before Carter came back. He gloved me up and shoved the teeth cap into my mouth before I was able to form a sentence. It was a shame because I wanted to tell him I had my name slapped on that fine ass and to make sure no one got anywhere near her. I still remembered how he tried to flirt with her at the dinner table all those years ago—four, I think? —when we were at Graham’s. I knew he’d back off if I told him right there that she was mine, but I refused to look like a world-class idiot and talk with my mouth cap in.

  “You good, Champ?” He slapped both my shoulders and looked me in the eye. I nodded.

  “Kick this wanker’s arse, mate. You’ve got this.”

  And I did. I walked into the makeshift cage Graham had arranged in the backyard of O’Leary’s. The place was surrounded by deserted construction buildings, which allowed for a quiet and secluded fighting ring. People held the net of the cage with their fingers and already yelled and cursed at the guy who waited for me there. I walked past the throng, and people cheered for me. They were clapping, yelling, and asking for me to high-five them. Catching a glimpse of him for the first time, I flashed him a big smile and finger-gunned his head on a wink. It did the trick. He was bigger than me. Probably eighty pounds heavier and at least six seven. He was a real giant, but he already looked saggy and upset at my mute threat. Oh, and he looked about as graceful as a fucking oil barrel. Seriously, Savage needed to step up his game if he wanted people to bet against me. It was starting to get embarrassing. I climbed into the ring, and the gate behind me clicked closed. I wasn’t sure by whom.

  It was just he and I now.

  I was about to get hit, and it was going to hurt.

  But I knew for a fact that it was going to be a lot worse for him.

  There wasn’t a judge. This wasn’t an official league. The rules were the same, though—no kicking the
junk, no shoving fingers into bodily holes and eyes, no weapon, no greasing, and no acting like a douchebag. Unfortunately, some of my opponents conveniently forgot it every now and again. But that was okay because I was still able to take them down easily.

  The crowd around us cheered and slammed their fists against the cage. Some sprayed beer over us. The cold, fizzy drinks got into our eyes on occasion, but that didn’t bother me too much. Blood was more annoying because it burned like a motherfucker and itched every time it dried on your face. And—as you’ve probably gathered—unlike in professional leagues, we didn’t take breaks between every round. We just fought until the other person was knocked out, submitted or, on one occasion, dead.

  We touched gloves, our eyes meeting, yet our bodies so far. The noise around me died, and I dove deeper into my mission—destroying the man in front of me.

  I made it a point to never personify my opponent. I didn’t want to know anything about him. To me, he was a nameless, faceless no one. My next meal ticket, just like the first fight I took all those years ago.

  He stood between my paycheck and me.

  And he was going to lose.

  We started the fight, and I immediately went for uppercuts, pacing around him, shadowing him, tiring him out. He was bigger, hence slower than me, and it was easy to exhaust him quickly.

  A jab to the chin.

  A roundhouse kick to the stomach.

  And boom!

  I knocked him out after two minutes, and the gate clicked open, with his crew ushering him out to tend his broken nose. The canvas under my feet was soaked with blood, our footprints inked red on it, and when my eyes met Graham’s, I shrugged helplessly.

  I knew the day when he asked me to lose a fight for gambling purposes was close. Closer than I I’d have liked it to be.

  Regardless, I had another mission in mind. My job was done, and earlier than I anticipated. I needed to rewind and release some of the tension building up to the fight. I needed to find that Jade chick and feel her warm cunt as it tightened around my cock in a death grip, squeezing a world-class orgasm out of both of us.