One year later
Pierro was pissed when he realized he had to fight on our anniversary. For the last two weeks, he's been grumbling about it, muttering dark curses under his breath, and no matter how many times I tell him I don't mind, he doesn't believe me.
But the thing is, I really don't mind. I love watching my new husband fight. I still wince sometimes, still peek between my fingers, but it's exhilarating. So powerful.
And slipping back to his dressing room, when he's pumped up with adrenaline and drenched with sweat, his knuckles scraped raw and his jaw tight... that's pretty great, too.
Pierro can take his excess energy out on me. I can take it. And not just that—I crave it. His inner animal speaks to mine.
But that's not why I've got butterflies tonight, hurrying through the hal
