Wild Bastard

Epilogue

ONE YEAR LATER

Marina

"So, Matthew, am I going to be without personal training now?"

I sip my wine straight from the bottle and hand it to him. He ignores it and stares at my mouth with a meaningful look. Oh, right, how could I forget.

I wrap my fingers around the collar of his black T-shirt and pull my boyfriend close to me to let his cheeky lips rest against mine and pour the wine into his mouth.

Today we're celebrating the imminent opening of his own sports club, where anyone who wants to will be able to learn the techniques of several types of fighting. And my bastard will be teaching Ultimate Fighting.

"Why not? Your daily training isn't going anywhere!"

With a wide grin, Matthew runs his tongue down my cheekbone and bites my earlobe sensibly. The man's hands squeeze hard around my waist, and his thumbs dive under my tank top and tease the skin of my belly.

"Are we talking about sports training now?"

"Oh, you mean them?"

A guttural laugh, with warm waves pouring down my forearm, causes goosebumps to swarm across my skin and a lingering desire in my lower abdomen. Matthew spreads my legs and gets between them. We are alone in the huge gym, with hanging weights under the ceiling, rings, and muscle-pumping equipment, but soon it will be overrun with people who wish to become physically fitter and stronger.

"Yes! Because if you think that now because I'm going to study I won't be able to watch the bitches twisting their asses in front of your nose, you're very wrong."

" Is my savage jealous?" Growls the contented cat, tightening my ponytail in a fist at the back of my head and forcing me to look into piercing blue eyes.

"Savage just rips you apart."

I state the fact and immediately receive a deep kiss instead of an answer. Of course, I believe that not even a hundred tight, sweatpants-wearing asses could get his attention, but it was still worth drawing boundaries.

In the year of our relationship, we went through a lot. A lot of broken dishes, and arguments on the basis of completely different events. We must have yelled at each other a thousand times, because neither he nor I can keep our emotions in check. But we learn. And most importantly, not once this year have we slept in separate beds. No matter what happened, no matter how much we hurt each other, I still, one way or another, find myself in the arms of my psycho.

It was thanks to him that I got into medical school. Now I had the money to study and even to live quite comfortably. I don't know how Matthew managed to get my father to open an account for me and put a large sum of money into it, but I am grateful. At first I refused and even flipped out when the bank called me for the first time, but once again Matthew managed to convince me that if a "carrier of the same genetic material" could not give me parental love, then he at least owed me a life. A normal life, which I never had.

I don't spend that money for nothing. So far I'm only going to pay for the first year of school, and I'm earning the rest on my own. I'm gonna keep it in my account. You never know when you might need it.

Matthew deepens the kiss, and, picking me up under my buttocks, rests me against the wall.

" I think it's time to start our training, Riiee!"

Smiling, I impatiently rid Matthew of his unnecessary T-shirt. We've been together so long and I still want him wildly. Like the first time I decided to give myself to this crazy guy, and I never regretted it. Our desire is every time sharp, bright, on the verge of exploding. I guess we can never live a measured existence, and maybe we'll learn later. That's not the main thing. The main thing is that I no longer feel alone, and neither does Matthew. As of late, he doesn't have the same icy rage, cynicism, and cold-heartedness toward those around him.

No, my bastard is still an intemperate psycho, and sometimes some desperate idiots get their asses kicked. But I love him for what he is. One of a kind. Impulsive. Not perfect. Mine.

I run my palms greedily over the hard muscles of his arms, his forearms, my fingers tracing the prickly cheekbones, and my pads over the small scar on his broad brow that cuts through it with a jagged lightning bolt. A reminder of his last fight. At that moment, Matthew presses a similar lightning bolt tattooed on my ribs.

I glance at the cameras in the corners of the hall and bite my lip in anticipation. The recording is already going on. We'll watch a very entertaining film later.

"Go ahead, Mr. Coach!"