He doesn’t say more. Just claps a rough hand to my shoulder and moves to find his spot.
Candace barely spoke on the way over. But now, standing just past the velvet rope, she resembles a woman trying not to fall apart. A drink in her hand she hasn’t touched. Fingers clenched white around the glass. Her eyes never leave me.
I catch her flinch when the first fighter hits the mat. See the tension ripple up her spine. She doesn’t want me to do this. But she doesn’t ask me not to. She knows I need it. Need to feel something.
My knuckles flex as I step into the cage. No gloves. No frills. Just flesh, sweat, and scars under sharp fluorescent light. Black shorts slung low on my hips. Tattoos slick with the promise of war.
The crowd roars, a guttural chant rising through the exposed rafters and steel beams. I catch snatches of whiskey breath, cheap cologne, perfume that burns with sugar fire. Heat presses in from every side.
Then I look up and I see him. The man from the auction. No mask this time, but I know it’s him. He stands across the ring floor, leaning casually against a column near the VIP balcony. Black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show the ink climbing his forearms. Hair swept back, jawline carved in stone. Still. Observing. Detached in a way that makes him feel larger than the room itself.
Gravity bends in his direction and everything else shifts to follow. One of the women beside him leans in to whisper something. He nods once, slowly, eyes never leaving me.
My pulse stutters, then slams hard in my chest. He’s not just watching. He’s measuring.
When the bell rings, everything else drops away. I don’t remember moving—I just am. A blur of muscle and breath. My opponent swings wide and fast, carrying something to prove. He’s taller. Heavier. Flashy. Doesn’t matter.
When I duck the first punch, I drive my fist straight into his ribs. Feel the crack beneath the skin. He wheezes, stumbles, then grins in a way that says he wanted it. Good. So do I.
I fight to chase shadows. Every hit a question I can’t stop asking. Every dodge a scream I haven’t let out. My fists move in a familiar rhythm. My feet are a pattern on the mat. I don’t hear the crowd anymore. Just the rush of blood in my ears. The smack of flesh. The hiss of air. My heart pounding in its cage.
I can feel Candace’s eyes on me. Always her.
My opponent comes at me wild and reckless now, bleeding from his mouth, rage in his fists. I wait. One breath. Two. Then I drop him with an uppercut that echoes loud enough to stop hearts. He hits the floor. Hard. The crowd explodes. But I don’t lift my hands. Don’t smile.
Just stand there, blood dripping from my knuckles, chest heaving, heat pulsing through me with the force of a second heartbeat.
I turn and the first thing I see is Candace. Wide eyes. Lips parted. Frozen between running toward me or screaming for me to stop. Her grip on the rope is white-knuckled, her drink forgotten.
Behind her is him. Still in place. Still unmoved. The man doesn’t clap. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches. Then he tilts his head a fraction, answering something I never asked out loud. A chill rolls over my skin despite the heat. I feel it in my teeth, in the hollow behind my ribs. That man knows me. He turns. Walks through a side door flanked by guards. One of the women follows, her heels striking the floor with sharp finality. Gone.
I step out of the ring the way someone wakes from a dream left unfinished. My skin still buzzes, but not from the fight. Not from adrenaline. From him. From whatever the hell that was. He has answers and I’m going to get them.
Candace meets me halfway, her hand catching my arm. Not to pull me. Just to feel me. Her fingers press to the back of my wrist, her eyes searching mine, trying to anchor me with nothing but her gaze.
“You saw him,” she says, voice low and tight.
I nod. My throat is raw. “He has answers.”
“I think so too,” she whispers, glancing toward the door he disappeared through. “I feel like I know him.”
My jaw clenches. I look back at the place he vanished, where the shadows still linger the way smoke clings to bone.
The locker room reeks of sweat, blood, and cheap disinfectant. My knuckles are raw. Shirt damp at the collar. But the adrenaline hasn’t let go of me yet. It crackles through my limbs, coiled and volatile, refusing to burn out.
Candace leans against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes tracking me in a way that says she’s still trying to piece together what just happened. Her cheeks are flushed, half from the heat, half from the fight. Maybe from me.
“You good?” I ask, pulling my hoodie over my head, the cotton sticking to the sweat on my back.
Her gaze drops to my hands. “You cracked that guy’s ribs.”
“He asked for it.”
“He was twice your size.”
I smirk. “I’m meaner.”
She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches. She’s still amped. So am I. But it’s not about the win. It’s about him. The man from the auction.
