Win by Submission

  ALSO BY MELYNDA PRICE

  The Redemption Series

  Until Darkness Comes

  Shades of Darkness

  Courting Darkness

  Braving the Darkness

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 Melynda Price

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of

  Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477828700

  ISBN-10: 1477828702

  Cover design by Kerrie Robertson

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014955729

  The events in this story are completely fictional and not based upon any actual events in the lives of any person or entity (real or imaginary) identified in the story.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Preview: In Fall 2015, it’s Aiden’s turn to meet his match …

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Wham! Cole slammed his open-gloved fist into De’Grasse’s face and smiled in satisfaction when he felt the bastard’s nose break upon impact. A crimson geyser shot from his nostrils, splattering the mat. The crowd went wild cheering at the carnage—bloodthirsty vultures, the whole lot of them. But then what did that say about him? He craved their energy, fed off their excitement, consuming their bloodlust like a ravenous sin-eater.

  “Oh, man! Did you see that?” Rogan cried into the mic. “De’Grasse’s nose is definitely broken, and Easton isn’t wasting any time passing his guard.”

  Rising up over his opponent’s waist, Cole hit De’Grasse with a series of quick, hard jabs. Each time his fist connected with the prick’s face, the rush of adrenaline surged hotter through his veins. Rarely was it personal; each fighter he faced in the cage was just one more stepping-stone to the title. But with De’Grasse, this shit was for real, and Cole was loving every second of it.

  Crazy Dan had lived up to his name when he’d pulled a stunt last month that had nearly tanked Cole’s career. The media was still nipping at his ankles like a school of piranha; sponsors threatening to drop him. There were few crimes where one was assumed guilty until proven innocent, and it just so happened that assault and battery while under the influence of steroids and booze was one of them.

  He knew De’Grasse had been desperate to hang on to his title. Cole had just underestimated the level that bastard would sink to in order to keep it. Wham! Cole nailed him with a right hook that sent De’Grasse’s mouth guard bouncing across the mat. His opponent bucked, attempting to displace him, but Cole had his hooks in. He was locked onto De’Grasse’s waist so tight, all Crazy Dan could do was roll to protect his face. It was a fatal error many fighters made, giving up their back, but the preservation instinct was strong, and God knew the bastard wouldn’t last much longer like this. He was drowning in his blood—a fitting end, since he’d yet to tap.

  There was no way in hell this fucker was getting out of this hold. With two minutes left on the clock, time was on Cole’s side, and in the next few seconds De’Grasse would realize the inevitable truth as well—he was going to lose his fight, and with it the light-heavyweight title. A reality Cole was more than willing to help him come to grips with as he grabbed De’Grasse’s head and yanked it back, slipping his forearm beneath his chin.

  “Oh, man! This looks bad for Crazy Dan De’Grasse! Easton’s got him in a rear naked choke, and it looks like he’s about to finish him! Will De’Grasse tap?”

  The crowd roared. Lights from the audience flickered, cameras flashing, as he growled in De’Grasse’s ear, “You’re finished, you fucking piece of shit.” With a swift jerk, he grabbed his wrist and leveraged his forearm tight against De’Grasse’s throat, cinching the hold tight and cutting off his breath. The fighter kicked and flailed, but Cole held him with ease, fury fueling his straining muscles. He was starting to wonder if the bastard would rob him of the satisfaction of a tap, opting to pass out instead, when he finally felt that succinct patting on his forearm. He hesitated a moment before acknowledging the surrender, wanting the prick to suffer as long as possible.

  “Oh, shit! He tapped!” Rogan yelled in amazement. “For the first time in his career, De’Grasse tapped! If you’ve ever wondered why they call Easton the Beast of the East, you got a view of it here tonight, folks! There was no way Easton was going to let this fight fall into the judge’s hands. He came out swinging and just did not quit! You gotta wonder if this fight was not a bit personal for Easton. There’s been a lot of controversy surrounding the fighter these past few weeks. But no matter which side of the debate you fall on, there can be no question of who the new light-heavyweight champion of the world is!”

  Cole released De’Grasse and leapt to his feet before the ref could pull him off. He raised his fists in the air and roared with triumph. The crowd went wild. Women screamed, “I love you, Cole!” Several of them raised their tops, shaking their gorgeous tits in salute. Fuck, he loved this job. A few haters booed, but to hell with them. Nothing could overshadow the thrill of having 100 percent pure adrenaline running through his veins.

  He turned to acknowledge the other side of the stadium with a Hell yeah, I did it! fist pump into the air, when something slammed into the base of his spine. It struck hard and fast, propelling him into the ropes. Cole’s body bowed, something in his back snapped, and he legs buckled beneath him. As he collapsed onto the mat, the cheering crowd grew eerily silent. Rogan spat out a nasty curse Spike TV would undoubtedly have to censor. Cole's pulse hammered in his ears as a lash of white-hot pain shot down his legs. He tried to get up, but they wouldn’t cooperate. Fire burned through his spine, lighting up every nerve ending all the way to his feet. The pain was excruciating.

  A roar of rage tore from his throat as he struggled to ignore the hot poker in his back and focus on the medic suddenly in his face asking questions and yelling commands he couldn’t follow: “Lift your legs. Wiggle your toes. Can you feel me touching you here? How about here?”

  As Cole lay on the mat, his crew scrambled around him, some shouting demands, others lying their asses off and telling him everything was going to be okay. And then, as if the cage wasn’t wild enough, his buddy Kruze hopped the ropes and dove for De’Grasse. Fists were flying, refs were yelling, it was total fucking chaos. The crowd was screaming again, but this time shock and outrage filled their cries.

  T
urning his head, he fixed his stare at the blinding lights overhead. This is happening . . . But the insidious infusion of ice entering his spine told him different. Slowly, burning cold spread down his legs, turning them numb, and in that moment Cole knew deep in his soul that nothing would ever be okay again.

  Six Months Later

  Fuck. No.”

  “I’m not asking, Cole. You can’t stay here any longer. They’ve done everything they can. The rest is up to you now.”

  “If this is ‘everything they can,’ then I want my fucking money back,” he growled, slamming his fists against the arms of his wheelchair.

  Marcus, his manager, stood a little straighter and defiantly crossed his arms over his barrel chest, refusing to be cowed by Cole’s temper. Apparently, the guy was prepared to go the round with him and he intended to come out the victor.

  “Just hear me out, Cole. You need to take a step back from all this. Get your head on straight again.”

  “It’s not my head that’s the fucking problem, Marcus!”

  The man scowled, his disapproving frown hitting Cole below the belt. “Enough with the language, huh, kid? You think I don’t know you’re pissed off? Hell, I’m pissed off. We’re all pissed off. But that’s not going to get you on your feet again, son. Look, think of this as an opportunity for some R & R, a change of pace, a chance to get out from under the damn media spotlight for a while. In case you haven’t noticed, the tabloids haven’t exactly been gracious to you lately.”

  Oh, he’d noticed. Thanks to that bastard De’Grasse, he was a woman-beating drunk under suspicion by the MMA league for roid use. None of it was true, but what the hell did that matter? Those media parasites only reported what sold—sex, drugs, and scandal. No one cared about the hours he spent every month in the Children’s Hospital, or the time he donated at the rec center for disadvantaged kids. Hell no, who cared about shit like that when they could be reporting where he went clubbing last night and who he might be fucking.

  Now, they speculated whether or not the cripple could ever fight again. According to the tabloids, in the last six months he’d nearly died—twice. He’d faked his injury to avoid getting cut for use of anabolic steroids, faced criminal charges for assault and battery with a deadly weapon—because that was what happened when an MMA fighter punched you in the face—and he might or might not be the illegitimate son of Hugh Hefner. Bullshit—all of it.

  Cole tore his gaze from the window where he sat watching the swarm of paparazzi camped outside, circling the front entrance like a flock of vultures, waiting for a glimpse of the crippled CFA light-heavyweight champion. Exhaling a sigh, he fixed his stare on Marcus and dragged his hand through his hair, muttering another foul curse that earned him another disapproving scowl from his manager.

  “You need to focus on getting yourself better, Cole. You’re like a damn caged lion on display at the zoo here. And your disposition is just about as pleasant.”

  Cole turned his chair from the window and gave it a hard shove. His four-wheeled prison shot across the room, stopping just short of rolling over Marcus’s toes. “Losing one’s career tends to do that. You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not all rainbows and butterflies these days.”

  “Dammit, Cole, you haven’t lost anything yet! I spoke with Dean, and the Cage Fighting Association has agreed not to challenge your title for at least twelve more months. You’ve got time.”

  “What about De’Grasse?” There were days over these last months and many sleepless nights when the agony had been so unbearable that the only thing keeping him sane was the thought of facing that bastard in the cage again. Vengeance was a powerful drug, dulling pain and strengthening will. It was sure as hell better than any of that narcotic bullshit they kept pushing at him. Shit, if he stayed here any longer, he’d become an addict and they’d be sending him to fucking rehab next. Wouldn’t the Enquirer just love that?

  “The CFA is giving him a shot at the interim. His six-month suspension is up next week, and the association agreed, though it was a split decision, they’re going to give him the interim title fight.”

  Cole’s grip tightened on the armrests of the chair until it creaked with protest. “Against who?”

  Marcus shifted uncomfortably, breaking Cole’s stare. “Kyle Cane.”

  “Fuck me,” he snarled. “De’Grasse’s going to kill him.”

  “For what it’s worth, Dean is pissed. If it were just up to him, that bastard would never put on a pair of gloves in this organization again. He doesn’t agree with the league’s decision to put him back in the ring. But De’Grasse is big money now. Everyone wants to see a grudge match between you two. Hell, even I want to see you pummel that bastard into the mat.”

  “You realize if De’Grasse wins interim and if I’m not cage-ready in twelve months, he’ll become the undisputed.”

  “Of course I know that!” Marcus snapped. “You don’t have to tell me how this shit works, Cole. I was in the business when you were in fucking diapers!”

  Doubtful, but Cole knew when to keep his mouth shut. Marcus was whipping out the effenheimer, which meant he’d been pushed to his limit. But the old man wasn’t the only one. “Look at me, Marcus!” Cole slammed his fists on the armrests, rattling the chair. “I can’t even walk across this room without a pair of crutches! It’ll be a goddamn miracle it I ever fight again!”

  “Then it’s lucky for you I know an angel.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “My niece, Katrina Miller. She’s a phenomenal physical therapist. If anyone can get you back on your feet again, it’s her. She used to work for the Packers, so she knows her way around an athlete’s body. I spoke with her a few days ago, and she’s agreed to take you on.”

  Cole tried to think back, but couldn’t recall Marcus ever mentioning a niece before. He knew the guy had a younger brother, but just like Cole, the old man didn't talk about his family much. “Where are you sending me?”

  Perhaps Marcus was right and it was time to get out of here. His therapy had plateaued, and each day that passed without progress, his hope died a little more. He hated the idea of leaving Vegas. But he hated the idea of staying here like this even more. All in all, he basically hated life in general these days, and if something didn’t change soon, he was pretty sure he was going to crack. It wasn’t like him to be such a cynical prick. Holy hell, even he didn’t want to be around himself.

  Marcus shifted uncomfortably. At his apologetic grimace, Cole tensed with unease. “Somerset, Wisconsin.”

  “Wisconsin? Are you fucking kidding me? It’s January!”

  “I know what month it is, Cole. Katie recently moved back home to help her dad with his PT. I told you my brother had a stroke a couple of months ago.”

  Shit, that’s right. How had he forgotten?

  “She’s doing his rehab, or I would have brought her out here. Anyway, she has this client who’s handicapped. He and his wife go south every winter, and they’ve agreed to let you use their place. The house is already wheelchair accessible, so it’s perfect. Katie will work with you until they get back in April. I’m willing to bet that not only will she get you on your feet again, but she’ll have you well on your way to cage-ready.”

  He wasn’t so sure, but what the hell did he have to lose?

  “Trust me on this, Cole, it’s for the best. We’ll leak it to the press that you’re in Maui or something. Get them off your back for a little while. Just keep a low profile while you’re there, all right? Katie’s a very quiet, very private person.”

  Great . . . She sounded like loads of fun. “What about Under Armour and Tapout?”

  “Don’t worry about your sponsors—I’ll handle them. You just focus on getting better so you can get back in the cage.”

  Cole wanted to tell Marcus to wake up. He’d be lucky if he ever walked on his own again, let alone set foot into that octagon. He was sick as hell of everyone lying to him, telling him what they thought he wanted to hear
because they didn’t believe he could handle the truth.

  “When do I leave?”

  “Now. Your flight from McCarran leaves in three hours.”

  Three hours? “Dammit, Marcus, a little warning would have been nice.” In the fourteen years Marcus had been his manager, Cole knew just how far he could push the man who was more like a father to him than his own piece-of-shit dad had ever been.

  “I didn’t want to take the risk of you changing your mind. Come on.” He stepped into the hall and gestured for Cole to follow. “The aide will pack up your bag and bring it down. There’s a private exit in the back. We’ll go out that way.”

  He let Marcus lead the way. They traveled down the elevator and through a back hall that led to an underground parking garage. His manager wasted no time ushering him inside like they were freaking Cloak and Dagger or something. Minutes later, someone was tossing his bag into the backseat and wishing him fare-thee-well. Before he knew it, Cole was in the air and headed toward the land of the Cheese Heads—whatever the fuck that meant.

  What in the hell was she thinking? Clearly, she wasn’t, and that was the problem. For the thousandth time she kicked herself for telling her uncle yes when he called her, pleading for help. Please, Katie. He needs you. I need you. No one does this job better than you do. You’re a modern-day Christ. So okay, that had been a little over the top, and that probably should have been her first clue that Uncle Marcus was blowing smoke up her ass. She was a good PT, but she wasn’t a damn miracle worker.

  In fact, most of her clients probably thought she was the devil for as hard as she worked them. Come to think about it, she’d been called as much a time or two. She wasn’t looking to take on any new clients right now. Between working part-time in the physical therapy department at the hospital, and devoting the rest of her time to her father, who was just now regaining adequate use of his right side, Katie had no interest in taking on another patient—especially one called the Beast of the East.

  She’d tried to tell Uncle Marcus no. Now just wasn’t a good time, blah, blah, blah . . . but when had the guy ever taken no for an answer? It was what she loved and hated the most about him. She supposed she should just count herself lucky he hadn’t tried to force her to come down there. In all fairness, she did owe him—big. It was just that when the phone rang last week Katie never expected he’d be calling to collect. So, in a regretful moment of weakness, and temporary insanity, she’d agreed to help this Beast of the East, and in doing so, broke the number one rule she now lived by: no athletes—never again.