Steel Rain: Iron & Steel

By Molly Briar

Ajax. My world as an MMA trainer for the Irish mob was supposed to be temporary. Just a debt I needed to pay when the big boss saved my life. Then I watched her fight, and she was brought into my gym. I unravelled her secrets, bit by bit, as we laid it bare on the mat. Now I'm joining a war I wanted no part of, because she needed me in her corner.

Sin. My mission was simple. Get my sister out of foster care. I had a plan. But the sins of our father came knocking at the locker door and offered a smooth path to reuniting my family. But can I get through the vipers den with my soul and secrets intact?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Molly Briar
• Release date: Dec 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798224183593

Book preview

Chapter 1

Ajax

I’m Ajax, I whispered against her smirking lips.

Good for you. Her pale fingers against my black skin felt glorious. She was the moon, and I was the night sky. Yin and yang, intertwined.

She unbuckled my belt, and opened my trousers, reaching down to pull out my eager length.

Her cold, and surprisingly strong, hand encircled my throbbing cock. Her eyes grew wide as she gazed up at me, seeming to marvel at my size. There was something about her that made me hard, despite being in a cold, damp back alley of a New York City bar.

It wasn’t an ideal setting, and I’m not usually this kind of guy but there was something irresistible about this woman. I knew it the moment I laid eyes on her.

"Very good for you." As if to make sure I knew what she was talking about, she wrapped her fingers around my cock and pumped it to life. I sucked in the cold air through my teeth, as the throbbing ache made my head swim.

Jesus, this woman was intoxicating.

I do my best work in a bed, I told her. What are you doing tonight?

I’m busy tonight. She lay her head back against the redbrick wall. She looked up and down the frigid alleyway. There was no one else in sight. She tilted her head; her short black hair perfectly framed her heart-shaped face. And fucking is best done in the dirt, where it belongs.

When will I see you again? I wanted to get her number. My cock, of course, was a little more single-minded, but I am not a wham, bam, thank you, ma’am type of person.

Never, she said with a throaty laugh. Why can’t we just have it right now?

Because I think I’m going to need a lot more than a quickie in the back of a bar.

I’m not above a quick fuck in a side street. I’m a man. My cock will do what it needs to do. But there was something about this woman that made me want more.

I don’t know what made me offer her a drink as she walked up to the bar, looking like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. Something about her burdens looked like my own. Like we were kindred spirits, trudging through our life.

When she offered a fuck in the alley, I wondered if she was a hooker. But no, she said she just wanted to feel something. Anything!

It was an ache that matched my own.

She was exciting. Like an exotic serpent, she was both beautiful and terrifying. Lethal and alluring. She made my otherwise dormant heart race. That was more than what I had felt in months.

The fact that she was so elusive, and guarded? Well, that just made the hunt that much sweeter.

With her other hand, she undid the top button of her jeans. It opened with a satisfying pop. My forearms rested on the rough brick wall, boxing her in. She smelled like a forest rain, when the petals are in bloom. Light, and cold.

Tell me when I’ll see you next. I wasn’t going to give up too easily. I grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around.

Never, she said again. I could hear the smile in her voice.

Hands on the wall, I told her, and she obeyed. Placing them up near her face as she leaned her cheek down on the cold brick.

I looked down the gorgeous silhouette of her body. Broad, defined shoulders, slim, but strong arms, and a waist so tight that I could encircle it with two hands. Her ass was rounded and perfect. More than a lush handful, as I smacked my hand down hard and grabbed a gorgeous cheek.

She gasped, but didn’t protest, as I roughly pulled down her jeans, just to the middle of her thighs. Her legs stayed closed, but I got a great view of two muscular flanks that were my own personal aphrodisiac. I adore a women with strong legs. I always have. I don’t mean those thin, Pilates legs. I mean thick, sprinter’s legs. Deadlifting legs. The kind made under tons and tons of iron.

Good for you, I said, mimicking her earlier tone as I admired the heart shaped, naked beauties, and every line of those perfect thighs. With my thumbs, I pressed her cheeks apart and pulled her panties aside.

I wanted to rip that scrap of cloth off her body and stick it in my pocket as a fucking souvenir. A reminder. A totem. But that was a level of insanity that I wasn’t ready to show to a stranger.

I positioned myself at her entrance, my eager cock bobbing out in the frigid air. With a smooth thrust, I was in her wet heat, my hips flush against her ass. I could feel her body even through our clothes. The heat of it. The warmth of the flush that colored her pale, white flesh.

Snow White, I said with a small gasp, as I leaned down, pressing my chest against her back, pushing her against the cold stones. You’re going to need to tell me a real name.

I bit down on the shell of her ear.

I’m going to need more of this. I thrust hard, my body slamming into hers as the wall kept her from escaping my thrust.

She moaned, then let out a deep breath. I pulled out, just enough for the frigid January air to hit our skin before I pushed deep inside again.

Her sweet little whimpers made my cock bounce. I was afraid I wasn’t going to last long enough.

What was this little viper doing to me? This cold, frigid Amazon with her warm, wet cunt. So perfect.

Feels like you were built just for me. I pulled the neck of her shirt aside, exposing the tender flesh of a graceful shoulder and I bit down hard against it. I wanted to mark her skin. I wanted to leave a bit of myself on her flesh for others to see.

It was as if I could tag her, release her into the wild, and chase her down for sport. I could pin her like a wild animal, bite down on her throat as I had my violent way with her in a forest.

Maybe my thoughts were wild because I had been so dead inside for so long. I was clinging to anything that made me feel alive.

You’re so sentimental, she said between gasps.

I pistoned faster and faster into her heat, feeling her walls contract at the friction. The sound of our bodies rhythmically crashing together was so addicting. So intoxicating.

My balls tightened, ready to release. I bit down on the back of her neck, sucking the flesh between my teeth as she screamed. She took her hand off the wall and covered her mouth to stifle her sounds. I didn’t care if she screamed the whole neighborhood down. They could come and watch.

I wrapped my hand up her shirt, cupping a plump breast just as I released deep inside her. My seed coated her insides, on and on as I groaned in pleasure. I bit down on her shoulder again, pulling her body flush against me, knowing that I’d be spilling out of her as soon as our bodies separated.

I enjoyed the feel of our combined fluids on my cock. I righted those panties onto her ass, and helped her pull up her jeans, all while I admired the blue bruise forming on the back of her neck - leaving the perfect imprint of my teeth marks.

She straightened from the wall, buttoning her jeans.

She turned to me and gave me a slight smile.

Thanks, sailor, she said with a wink.

Then walked with the dignity of a fucking queen out of the alley.

When do I see you again, Snow White? I called out to her.

Not in this lifetime, she said with a two-finger wave from over her shoulder, not even sparing me a second glance.

Was that meant to deter me? Because it wouldn’t work. Everything she was doing just made me want to own her more.

Chapter 2

Ajax

The familiar scent of human struggle tickled my nose. The two fighters in the octagon circled like roosters scratching around a hen house. Sweat, blood and exertion clung to the air, electrifying my senses, and sharpening my mind.

I looked longingly at the far corner of the octagon, where the coaches bellowed commands at their fighters.

I should be there right now. I should be up against the chains, watching one of my fighters. I did not belong here, in the fucking audience, with the suit and tie pricks.

It was in that corner, in this exact arena, when my life was yanked from me. When the Russian Mafia attacked my fighter, I had backed her play and fought beside her. I felt the ache in my stomach of where the bratva bullet took me down. I almost died. Hell, maybe I should have died.

On my worst days, I wish that I could go back and tell the Irish Mob to fuck off as they hauled me out of there, saving my life. Indebted, I agreed to train the Irish soldiers for a coming war.

I wish I had never made that bargain with the devil. I wish I had never shaken Eoghan Green’s hand. That was the moment the fire inside me flickered into nothingness.

It was simple depression. I knew that. I knew that I had to find joy in the little things, to refill my spark as best I could. But it was becoming harder and harder. That’s why I accepted the little back-alley fuck. I took one look at her, saw that we were like twin flames, holding on for dear life, and I felt something other than this overwhelming heaviness in my limbs. Like I was always fighting a current, trying to make my way upstream.

For a second, the thought of not waking up tomorrow didn’t bring me a sense of exhausted acceptance.

Eoghan probably knew that. Taking me here today was some kind of peace offering. A reprieve from the daily grind of training soldiers for a mafia war that I didn’t believe in.

I longed for the octagon. It’s a place where the world is fair. The world makes sense. I could taste clarity in the acrid air. This was where I belonged. Ringside, looking through the chains at my fighter. That was my fate. That’s what I was made for!

The war couldn’t come soon enough. With that, I’d win my life back.

A burly Japanese man, Takahashi, stood tall and proud, his body rigid and muscular from years of martial arts training. His eyes were like dark stones hidden behind heavy lids, constantly scanning the space around him. He moved with the slow, deliberate grace of an ox ploughing a field, each movement delivering the most efficient amount of impact. If he was an ox, then his Irish opponent, Clyde Murphy, was a Tasmanian Devil.

His arms windmilled wildly, each kick and punch invested his entire being and within a minute, he was exhausted, his breaths labored. Takahashi just had to bide his time.

Come on, Murphy! Eoghan clutched the ticket with his bet in a fist, waving it with excitement and frustration. His old country accent got thicker as he screamed, "Don't quit now, you eejit!"

I grinned. The winner was a foregone conclusion. I could have called it before the bell even sounded the first round.

But Green was a loyal man. Irish to his core. And he'd support a Murphy over a Takahashi, even if it was idiotic.

As Murphy lumbered, his movements stalling, Takahashi snapped his leg high, taking the Irishman down with a well-placed shin to the ear.

He didn't even follow up his attack. He didn't need to. Murphy was down for the count. Total Knock Out.

The underground circuit was a favorite for those who liked their blood sports. It was flashier. Bloodier. The tickets cost more, and the bets were higher. The payouts were greater for the fighters, even if they lost. But there was less regulation, and they popped up anywhere at any time. You got an invitation on your phone, and once the fight started, the invite would vanish. The elusive figure that ran the ring was a closely guarded secret. He was a shadowy figure. A puppet master pulling all the strings.

It was my favorite circuit, by far. Just enough rules to keep it going, but primal and anarchic, as nature intended the sport to be.

Takahashi's restraint was refreshing as he stood as still as a crane in languid waters, waiting for the referee to intercede and call the match.

Rage and frustration bubbled up inside Eoghan Green like a cauldron of boiling acid until finally he let out an enraged yell, God DAMN IT!

With trembling hands, he crumpled the offending, losing betting slip before hurling it down onto the ground at his feet.

That's what you get for only supporting Irish, I chuckled. I could have told you he’d lose.

Green's black eyes turned to me; his gelled, blond, side-parted hair glinting under the fluorescents. He loosened his blue striped tie.

Yes, you're right. He shook his head. But my blood runs shamrock green. You wouldn't understand.

I shrugged. He was probably right about that.

Anyway, there's another Irish in the fights. Sin Grady. He leaned down and picked up the billet, and smoothed it out, trying to erase the marks of his lost temper.

You sure that's Irish? I asked.

Grady? Of course! Green almost looked offended that I'd question his Irish radar. "Grady is derived from the Irish word gráda, meaning ‘noble’ or ‘renowned’. Don’t quiz me on my Irish! So, let's hope Sin doesn't let me down."

You know him? I wondered because he was putting a lot of faith in this Grady fella.

No, never met the man, but I have faith that he'll redeem me. He waved the ticket up between his two fingers, putting a sly smile on his lips. Luck of the Irish. I've got it in spades.

How well did that work for Murphy?

Green grunted with a good-natured laugh as the medic entered the octagon to revive Murphy.

The audience members called out drink orders at passing wait staff. There was no food at the establishment, but there were plenty of drinks to be had, served by scantily clad girls in fetishized boxing robes. Slim. Pretty.

I admired them as any man would, but it all reminded me of my Snow White, the woman in the alleyway with rounded hips, and thighs that took a solid handful. When a beast mounts a strong female, we get one step closer to God. I swear, that woman brought me straight to heaven.

Eoghan was right, of course. Not about his fighters. He couldn't pick them for shit. But about his Irish luck. The man was one of the luckiest bastards I had ever seen. He could stroll through a firefight without getting hit. If Green stood out in the rain, the clouds would part above where he was standing and keep him dry.

It's good to have luck on your side, when you're the head of the Irish Mafia, I grinned, leaning back in my seat as they carted Murphy out of the octagon. Takahashi was declared the winner to the hoots and hollers of the guys around us.

I remember Rose, my last fighter. After her first victory, she had climbed over the fence and wrapped her arms around me. I picked her up on my shoulder as she lifted her fist in victory. If the bratva hadn’t gotten in the way, she and I would have swept the underground until she was the reigning champion. She had the skill, the heart, and the fucking audacity to do it. Plus, she had the looks, too. The girl could draw a crowd.

But even those memories were starting to fade. The feel of victory slipping from my hands as I fell deeper into the despair of my current state.

I'm the CEO of Four Green Field Enterprises, Eoghan said, pointing an agitated finger in front of my nose. We offer farming and construction equipment in the tri-state area. We are a legitimate business and have never heard of any of these mafia things you speak of.

Shit, what had we been talking about? I had drifted and now I had to find the traces of the conversation again. Oh, yes. I had said he was the head of the Irish Mafia, and he was giving me his PR blurb about how Four Green Fields Enterprises wasn’t just a front for his illegal activity. The very idea that Eoghan was just a CEO was as ludicrous as thinking that the F-22 Raptor was just a plane.

But that was his line. You could pull out his fingernails one by one, and he'd stick to the story. He’d swear he knew nothing about the mafia. He’d never even heard the word before in his life.

The announcer called out the reigning underground lightweight champion.

Welcome to the arena, the man's theatricality was a little grating as he waved his arms and sang out the next name, Harrison ‘Superman’ Guile!

Out stepped a boy with sandy hair and a crooked nose. Like Takahashi, he had a reserved elegance in his movements. He was like a robot - raising his arms, holding still, then putting them down in a fast movement.

That was his rhythm - move, hold. Then moving again like he was operated by remote control. I wouldn't be surprised if we peeled off his skin and found tubes and gears in place of veins and guts.

Yeah, I'm thinking your next Irishman's going to get crushed as well, I said with a chuckle.

Hush your mouth! Eoghan said with a grumble, knowing that I could usually smell a winner from a mile away.

And Challenger... the announcer said in that weird, loud, drawn-out singing speech, Sin ‘The She-Wolf’ Grady!

Rose Legaspi, my last fighter, had hated being straddled with the nickname The Vixen. If she knew that someone was called The She-Wolf, maybe she’d like her moniker better. That name was awful.

Who came up with these nicknames? Photographers. Influencers. Social Media types. They just threw spaghetti at the wall to figure out what stuck, and then they went with it. Truthfully, Mixed Martial Arts would probably do better if we just dispensed with the stupid monikers and just called people by their given names. The Vixen, The She-Wolf, Superman, Shogun, The Iceman, El Guapo … Jesus, just give it a rest already.

I turned my eyes when a figure walked out in a robe, the hood covering her face. The woman marched like she was walking the plank. There was no coach or entourage at her side as she came.

I smelled a wild card. That was something to get excited about. That little flame that was my soul was flickering back to life.

When the hood came down, and short black hair glinted in the light, I almost forgot to breathe. My Snow White, the woman I had just been thinking of, slipped the large robe off her shoulders, her small blue gloves barely covering her knuckles. Just in case I thought I was dreaming, I looked at the back of her neck. Sure enough, a small blue circle of my teeth marks were still there.

Had I conjured her?

And where the hell were her people? No coach, no team … She was all alone. That didn’t bode well and put her at a distinct disadvantage.

I was seeing more of her skin now than when I was balls deep inside her, and I was very pleased with what I saw. Her face was pleasant enough. Under the fluorescents, and not the dim lighting of a bar sign, she looked a little different.

Those muscled shoulders were, indeed, as strong and taut as I remembered. But those legs …

They were fucking magical. Strong, defined, with every sinew flexed and moving with the slightest step or shift in weight. And that ass was something so rare that I wanted to grab it in my hands and lay a bite down right on its meatiest part.

So, she wasn’t just a weightlifter … she was a fighter. There was a definite function to that physique of hers. How interesting. What a beautiful new development in our little game of predator and prey.

I was starting to like my Snow White. I could almost taste her on my tongue again. Clean, and cold like a forest rain.

I may have spoken too soon, I said, turning my head to Eoghan. She’s a killer.

Maybe, Eoghan said, thoughtfully. But she’s not much of a looker.

I looked at the woman, surprised by his appraisal.

Her face was an inverted triangle, the nose was a little too sharp. She had thin lips that disappeared with the protrusion of her blue mouthguard. Her raven black hair was short, her eyes a strange, silver-grey, made even paler by the surrounding black lashes.

Maybe she wasn’t a looker. Not in the classical sense. Not like Rose had been. But she had a great wingspan, long arms that were lean, with every tendon flared to perfect definition. Whatever she lacked in her visage, she made up for in the perfect structure of her physicality.

I could appreciate the work she had put into that body. That would always grab my attention far more than any cute face.

Maybe that’s why I didn’t agree with his assessment.

I think I’ve seen her somewhere before, Eoghan said, bringing his finger to his thick lower lip and tapping it, deep in thought. Does she seem familiar, Dairo?He asked of his cousin, Dairo, and the current head of his guards. He was also the husband of my former fighter. In fact, he had been here when I was shot, and he got Rose out when I couldn’t.

That, on its own, made us allies of a sort.

It’s one of the great Irish mysteries that the name Alastair could turn into the nickname Dairo. But there it was. It must be like how William turned into Bill, or Richard into Dick. Alastair turned into Dairo.

No one but Eoghan ever called him that. Everyone else just referred to the Green cousins as Sir or Mr. Green.

Dairo shrugged. I’m sure you’ll place her soon enough.

The two cousins looked like twins except for two key differences. Dairo had a British accent and bright blue eyes that sparkled with humor. Eoghan had a deep Irish accent with black eyes that only sparkled with menace.

"She’s very familiar, in fact." Eoghan’s voice was heavy with hidden meaning.

That was him. He never said what he meant. It was always half-truths and mysterious mutterings.

They better not be familiar with her the same way I was. If that was the case, then my debts be damned. I might have to kill them both. Then again, if they knew her in the biblical sense, they would know it. Just as I had. No one could get in that heat and forget. No one could hold a body that taut and strong and not feel the amazing power of having it submit to the primal act of animalistic lust.

She had a back as smooth as a statue, and abs made of fucking steel. It was marred only by a star cluster of scars at her stomach, jagged and in a circular pattern. The scarring probably went right through her, opening larger and rougher on her back. It was a scar similar to my own.

Hell, it was even in the same place, just on the other side. Like we were two sides of the same fucked up coin.

Who are you, Sin Grady, and what are you doing in a place like this?

Chapter 3

Sin

I was going to lose this fight. Guile and I had sparred since our Combatives class when we were officer candidates at Fort Benning seven years ago. Two out of three times, he would kick my ass. I knew it.

Now, we were in a different arena. One with rules I only partially knew and hadn’t trained for.

He did his best to help me.