Pain & Redemption: Blood & Iron Warriors, #2

By Kat Kenyon

Tyler:
Rayne won't look at me and it's my fault. I let the monsters in my life turn me into one and blew my love apart... and now there's no way to undo it. The rest of my world is gray without her, but it's not her job to color it in for me. But the fact remains. You get one forever girl and she's mine

Rayne:
I miss him in my bones, but I'm not my mother. I won't crawl back to someone who doesn't respect me, and I've got real terrors stalking me in broad daylight. I'll keep my head down and power through. I have to. Even if the fact remains. Everyone has a weakness, and he's mine.

Love teaches through pain, and through effort, the worthy can earn redemption.
Can Rayne and Tyler find their way back to one another or will another monster set off another bomb?




High-steam romance series about the same couple. For 18+
TW. *issues related to abuse, violence, SA.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kat Kenyon
• Release date: Jan 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781732970144

Book preview

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Blood and Iron Entertainment, LLC

12421 Pearl Road #1079

Strongsville, OH 44136

United States

www.KatKenyon.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places, are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2019 by Katrina Kenyon, TXu002132858

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All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Printed in the United States of America

No AI was used in the production of any part of this book. Nor may any part of this book or cover be used for training any AI project.

Second Edition, 2020

ISBN 13: 978-1-7329701-3-7

ISBN 978-1-7329701-4-4

Editing by: Taryn Lawson

Proofing by: Marla Selkow Esposito

Cover by: Shanoff Designs

Formatting by: Cherie Varian

Logo by: Shanoff Designs

Photography by: Shelly Duncan Photography

Publisher: Bood and Iron Entertainment, LL

Contents

Preface

Dedication

Chapter

November

1.Tyler Blackman

2.Rayne Mathews

3.Tyler Blackman

4.Rayne Mathews

5.Tyler Blackman

6.Rayne Mathews

7.Tyler Blackman

8.Rayne Mathews

9.Tyler Blackman

10.Rayne Mathews

11.Tyler Blackman

12.Rayne Mathews

13.Tyler Blackman

December

14.Rayne Mathews

15.Tyler Blackman

16.Rayne Mathews

17.Tyler Blackman

18.Rayne Mathews

19.Tyler Blackman

20.Rayne Mathews

21.Tyler Blackman

22.Rayne Mathews

23.Tyler Blackman

24.Rayne Mathews

25.Tyler Blackman

26.Rayne Mathews

27.Tyler Blackman

28.Rayne Mathews

29.Tyler Blackman

30.Rayne Mathews

31.Tyler Blackman

32.January

33.Rayne Mathews

34.Tyler Blackman

35.Rayne Mathews

36.Tyler Blackman

37.Rayne Mathews

38.Tyler Blackman

39.Rayne Mathews

40.Tyler Blackman

41.Rayne Mathews

42.Tyler Blackman

43.Rayne Mathews

Afterword

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Preface

Forgiveness isn’t a sign of weakness.

Tears aren’t a flaw.

And sometimes life requires both from us before we can heal enough to hold on to our futures.

This book is fiction, but there are realities here that I know personally. Too many women and men find themselves a survivor of domestic and sexual assault. If you or someone you know has been a victim of sexual assault, please reach out.

There are many organizations waiting to help, RAINN is just one.

Call 800-656-HOPE (4673)

www.rainn.org

Please be aware that this book contains adult content suitable for readers eighteen and older. Topics discussed include sexual assault, violence, and high-stress situations.

This is Book 2 in a planned series and expanding Universe.

Dedication

To all the victims who never find a way out.

To all the people who love them, who would trade places in a heartbeat.

To all the survivors who hold on.

You are not alone.

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Chapter one

Tyler Blackman

That’s not gonna work, you know.

Ethan’s low warning as he drops his ass onto the couch next to me pisses me off in more ways than one. I’m not tanked enough to put up with myself, let alone him. There’s a reason I’m in the corner in the dark. I don’t want to talk.

Did I ask? I mutter, swirling the drink I’ve been draining.

Listen, upset or not, getting wasted every night is a shit idea, and passing out on your face down here can’t be comfortable. And what’s up with that? Why you sleeping here?

He relaxes back, propping his elbow on the back of the couch, swinging the long-necked green bottle between his fingers as he nods at the small group playing a round of cards. He keeps his eyes on the action in the room, giving me a moment to get my mind moving, or at least try to. It’s harder than you’d think. I’ve downed several rounds trying to put my brain in neutral, but it’s only partly worked…and not the right one.

Are you kicking me out? I ask.

I brace for his answer because while Ethan may piss me off, going to my dorm will make me postal. Because last Wednesday, my life collapsed, and it’s my fault.

No. He takes a pull on his beer, then points a finger at my whiskey. But no more tonight, and you can’t stay until you tell me why you aren’t at your dorm.

You fucking dick! I. Don’t. Want. To. Talk.

You my dad? My eyes roll at the absurdity of him trying to control me right now.

If he wants to play daddy, maybe he’ll let me beat the shit out of him. That’s where Dad and I are heading, and I still owe Ethan for being a dick. I need to take my bile out on someone, and if he’s going to start nagging me, he can be the stand-in for all the people I hate right now. Besides, it’s too late to act like these fuckers are looking out for me.

My tone must hit home, because he glares at me, pale blue eyes way too bright in the dark of the basement as he snaps, No. Now answer the fucking question or get out.

His threat makes even my slow brain quick to decide. I don’t want to talk, but Ethan’s one of the players who live at the Carson, so all it takes is one word from him and I’m out. It’s not like I have a right to be here.

Fuck!

I almost killed Wyatt. If I go back right now, I’m pretty sure I’ll not only be off the team but also out of school and in jail.

The burn of the last of the whiskey going down my throat does nothing to erase the soreness in my right hand as I flex it, remembering the arc of my swing as I smashed Gabe Stevens’ face, then the jab and hard right cross I gave Wyatt later. The ache’s a reminder that if I get into any more trouble, I’m screwed.

He gives a tip of his chin. Fair enough. But, why him?

It’s not an unfair question, but seriously, where was all this interest Sunday when I was upset and drinking, so drunk I could barely stand? No one cared when I was self-destructing, but everyone’s in my business now.

It isn’t as if they don’t know everything. Everyone knows I fucked up, knows I hurt her. Everyone’s mad because she won’t talk to anyone but Bay and Dylan.

Not that I blame them or her. I can’t look at myself in the mirror, but there’s one catch. Listen, it’s my fault, but that bastard set me up. He let Shay into our room knowing I didn’t want her. There was no reason to do that except to see me fail.

Wyatt isn’t a friend, and he’s only a teammate by virtue of the roster list. I knew he was jealous and petty, but putting Shay in the room was another level of fucked up. I came close to killing him after Rayne walked away. He wanted fireworks, and he got ’em. Now, she’s not just out of my life, but everyone’s, and I’m not in a forgiving mood.

"I did not know that." Ethan draws out the words, cocking his head and tapping his finger on the glass of his bottle.

Yeah, well, he’s making like Casper and ghosting, which is good, ’cause I’d like to stay on the team. I’m hanging here until I can convince myself not to annihilate the scumbitch. It doesn’t make me right, I’m still… I choke on my tongue before the rest comes out. The air filling my lungs does the job of keeping me alive, but breathing isn’t easy. It hasn’t been since I opened the door and saw her face. But that punk bitch wanted—something.

Reaching for the Jameson on the coffee table in front of me requires significantly more focus than it did at the beginning of the night. The topping of my near-empty glass is a study in single-mindedness, but I’m still upright and coherent, which means I still remember her, still feel her skin and still know she’s gone…so the burning trail from my lips to my gut isn’t doing its job. The whiskey isn’t filling in the chest wound left over from my fucking stupidity. The pain’s a constant companion. None of my normal pressure outlets are working, and the one I used the most is out of bounds.

Even playing did nothing to help. We had a game today. Pounding into someone, running for the pass, the roar of the crowd…it’s usually a place I find a sense of joy, but now I’m just grist in a mill. Grinding pain into my body with other people’s muscle and mayhem. It’s what I deserve.

Ethan cuts into my mental whining. Have you asked him why he let the Wicked Red Bitch of the West in to play?

Not since I tried to break his jaw, no. I’m not really in a place to play nice and that fucker’s not sorry.

I could pretend that I got my shit together after she sobbed, stumbling away, but I didn’t. Bay clipped me on his way to catch up to her while I cried like a little fucking kid. I haven’t done that since grade school, and Wyatt had the guts to say, Not such a stadium god now, huh? Lookin’ like a pussy to me.

I don’t remember much after that. I just know I laid him out and wanted more; it took Mike and Kevin both to pull me off him.

Shit, he said that? Ethan jerks back, a combination of shock and disgust causing a sneer to warp his face, letting me know I said it out loud.

It’s not something I’ve shared widely, but judging from Ethan’s face, my safety’s opinion of the comments isn’t any better than mine. His normally clownish face is anything but, and he starts to nod slowly.

Yeah, no, don’t go back right now. I don’t think you can get by with manslaughter. It’s not even December and you’ve already popped two too many teammates. Time to leash your dragon, my man. His neck crack breaks his tension and raises mine. He takes the time to pop every joint in his body while staying focused on me, and even though he’s a jackass, he’s not being one now.

Stay in the guestroom instead of crashing face-first here. I’ll let the guys know you need time to chill. Wyatt’s a traitor, but you can’t kill him. We need you on the field. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re a douchebag, but him setting you up ain’t copacetic. Ethan stands and nods. Ty, you’ll figure this shit out. In the meantime, keep playing like you did today.

I watch him walk away, grateful to be left in my dark corner to drink my way to an oblivion that never comes.

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Mondays were good days. We were getting used to waking up together. Mornings were quick and easy, evenings long and hot. They were happy. Before I destroyed us.

It’s been a week. A week since I started blowing shit up left and right, succumbing to the doubts and pressures from Dad, and every small piece of bullshit I let pile on. A week since I failed.

Because I’m a bastard and a coward.

Watching Rayne Mathews walk away tore away every piece of armor I’d developed over years of getting the shit kicked out of me and left me with nothing. Like a machine stripped of all its protective coatings and barriers, its wires left open to the elements, every part of me is shorting out. I can’t function. Shit, I don’t want to. Dad called this morning, big surprise, and I didn’t hear a word. Or rather, I did, I just don’t give a fuck.

I still can’t find a fuck to give.

After this morning’s run, I let the water beat on my back. I’ve run my muscles to near failure and feel all the pain and none of the clarity I normally find working out. I shouldn’t be doing it, because while I need my cardio workout, I need to be able to walk. But this is my punishment. My offering to something to say I’m sorry.

Flipping off the water, I scrub my skin dry and walk to my locker to start the long process of pulling my shit together for the day.

Hey, my man.

Lark Wilson walks in behind me, fresh from lifting, and yanks off his shirt, revealing his tattoos a mix of Japanese samurai and African tribal designs, highlighting the perfection of the guy who owns the wide receiver position in a way that I’m still aiming for. He’s been good to me and I appreciate it. Though, as I shake out my hair, I can feel him watching me.

What’s up? I ask, stowing the last of my gear.

You were good this weekend.

Thanks.

But, you’re lookin’ a little Raggedy Andy for a premium player. His brows arch and the hard line of his mouth makes me stiffen, but he doesn’t look angry. Sympathy shows in his light brown eyes, and it’s harder to be irritated with him than some of my other teammates.

And he’s right. I’m ragged, pushing too hard, my pain feels irrelevant. The only thing I care about is how to take away her pain, and I have no clue how to do that.

Shrugging at him, I pull on my hoodie.

Yeah, see that right there. He drops his shorts to head into the shower, wrapping his towel around his waist and grabbing his shower caddy. "Ty, I’m gonna work with you to make sure you get the kinks outta the rest of your game, but you gotta bring it. And you lettin’ yourself get broken down won’t do it. These big boys’ll smell blood in the water. This isn’t the kiddie pool. You know this."

Grabbing the back of my neck, my position mentor drags me down to look him in the eye, the edges of his coiled twists brushing against my forehead, dark eyes looking at me like he gets it.

"They see you’re weak, they’ll hunt you worse than they did before. They’re sharks. Do not show weakness on the field. Not in practice or in a game. You can’t afford it and neither can the team. Lock it up, man. Tightening again on my neck, he smashes my forehead and then releases me. Never let them see you bleed, ever. You live up to your name whenever the lights are on. You can be genuine, but don’t you bleed."

Tipping his chin, Lark walks away, the same relaxed stride he always has, one of a carefree man. One I know is a deception. One I need to, but can’t, emulate. I’m not there yet.

It’s absurd the only person I can ask is my mom. I’m literally messaging Mommy on the way to class for advice after spending an entire life telling her nothing. It’s pathetic, but I need help.

It’s not easy for me. Mom didn’t back me up when I needed her, and I haven’t forgotten. Each time I call, there’s a moment when my chest locks up, waiting for her to pull a disappearing act on me and zen out into her absent self, or worse, tell me I need to smooth things over with Dad. But I need help, and she’s what I’ve got. I need someone to tell me how to take away the pain radiating from my girl every time I see her. Explain to me how I ruined something so good and let it get away from me. How do you undo the worst thing you’ve ever done?

How do I undo the hurt? Because I want to. God, I want to.

Making it through Western Civ with her in the front row, surrounded by Bay and the wrestlers, and me surrounded by what’s left of our group in the back is a test in patience and willpower. Mike sits beside me now, with Kevin and Wyatt in front of us. It’s a minute-by-minute decision not to crack the turncoat in the head or race after Rayne after class.

The fuck toys who show up at the doors make my mood brittle as I walk out of class. The idiotic shirts they wear with my name bastardized on the back make me sick. They’re desperate and needy and don’t give a shit about the damage they do. They’ve always upset Rayne, and now that I see how ugly it is, each run-in with them makes me feel like I can’t breathe.

I don’t get a chance to be alone until lunch when I settle by myself at one of the sports cafeteria’s smaller tables by the window. The place is packed as usual, but people are staying away. An understanding that I’m in no mood for company keeps most of the male athletes away, something I’m grateful for. The females, I can tell a few want to invade my space, but mostly, they leave me alone.

That doesn’t mean I’m being allowed to work through this without people being on my ass. Beyond my dad’s endless calls that I now let go to voicemail oblivion, I’m still the most hated person on the team. Which works. I hate myself too.

After trying a liquor-remedy for days and not finding answers, I’m stuck with living with it. I’ve got no energy for bullshit, and the only people I can tolerate are Ethan and Mike. For whatever reason, the dick and the angry guy are the only ones I don’t want to put six feet under.

Interrupting my bite of forced fuel and further flagellation is the voice of the person who helped me grind Rayne’s heart into the ground. Hey, Cyborg.

If I never see her or any of the other jersey chasers again, it’ll be too soon. Rayne compared herself to them, which still makes me sick. Not responding is the nicest thing I can do, so I keep my head down, pretending she isn’t there.

She’s just as bad as Wyatt, and she needs to leave.

Get the fuck away from me.

Cyborg.

Shay, otherwise known as Wicked Red, slides into the chair next to me, rubbing her bare legs against mine as she stacks her hands on my shoulder, making me flinch.

Ty!

She doesn’t take the hint and reaches for me again like I’m at her disposal.

This…this is what happens all the time, and I should have cut this shit off from the beginning. Dropping my food, I start stuffing my books in my bag, snatching my hand out of the way when she tries to snag it again.

What’s your problem? she snaps, copping an attitude.

People are watching, but I don’t care. I deserve it. We both do whether she admits it or not. How many times did I tell her no? She knew…

I glare at her and stand. Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me. We aren’t friends. You’re a slut, just like me. The difference is, I feel bad. Now get the fuck away from me.

That’s such bullshit. Her perfectly painted face reddens as she sucks in her lips, her eyes narrowing and glancing side to side.

You knew how I felt. I told you what I wanted, what did you do, huh?

A moment passes as we stare at each other, her eyes glistening, and she looks at me as if I should feel guilty, and I do, but not about hurting her. The only person I have room to feel anything for is Rayne.

You weren’t drunk in your room, she whispers, sweeping her hands down her shirt to her mini-skirt. Smoothing it out, she straightens with all the dignity she can, glancing away again.

My life was already fucked by then. You knew that. I didn’t want you, so what were you doing there?

Go to hell. Grabbing her bag, she tries to slam my shoulder, but she can’t move me, not my shoulder or my conscience, because I’m already there.

Shay isn’t innocent. Neither is Valerie, or me, and I have to own that. But whether I’m with my girl or not, they don’t get a piece of me. They don’t get to stand near me, let alone touch me. I never want Rayne to see that. I don’t want to hurt her more than I already have.

It’s the least I can do for being so weak before.

Chapter two

Rayne Mathews

You gonna keep skipping cardio?

Ethan’s big chest is sprawled over my desk with his big hands pressed against his cheeks when I walk into Advanced Biology.

He’s sat next to me all semester, talking, getting my notes, studying together for midterms, and I thought we were friends, but I’m not big on trusting the team right now. Finding out my boyfriend cheated crushed me, and I don’t believe the team didn’t know, which means they aren’t my friends. Except for a tiny few people, I’m out. And he isn’t one of them.

Probably, I answer. It’s not his business where I run or who with.

As I take my seat and pull out my laptop, the melodramatic asshole sighs, practically rolling over on my desk like a wounded animal. You know the rest of us miss you? You’re our Little Sis. We care about you.

I’m so over it.

I try to shove him off my desk, but he doesn’t budge. Don’t give me that shit. You care about what I do for you.

Rayne, he’s miserable, he says, taking up my entire space,