"Blair," I say. "She’s with me."
The distinction is important.With memeans she’s off-limits.With memeans look, don't touch unless you want to lose a hand, don't even think about speaking to her unless I give permission.
Romeo nods. "Ms. Blair. Welcome to the slaughterhouse."
"Who's fighting?" I ask, turning my attention to the ring where a crew mops up blood from the previous match.
"Ashwell," Romeo says, gesturing to the corner. "He’s in a mood. I’d bet heavy if I were you."
Tristen Ashwell paces in the corner. He looks like a caged animal. That look in his eye—the one that says he doesn’t give a fuck about winning; he’s here to hurt something—is familiar.
I see it in the mirror every morning.
"Ten grand," I tell Romeo.
"Done."
I guide Blair to the VIP section—a roped-off area with leather couches offering an unobstructed view of the violence. She settles next to me, her knees pressed together, her coat still buttoned to her chin.
"What is this place?" she whispers, her eyes locked on the bloodstain on the concrete.
"This is where the civilized world ends," I tell her, resting my arm on the back of the couch behind her head and playing with the ends of her hair. "Up in the Hills, we pretend. We wear suits, we use lawyers, we destroy lives with signatures and mergers. Down here... down here, it’s primal."
"Primal?" She looks at me, incredulous.
"Violence is the only universal language. It’s the only thing that everyone understands."
A bell rings.
The crowd roars.
Tristen steps into the light. His opponent is a massive wall of muscle, covered in tattoos, looking like he chews rocks for fun.
Blair flinches as the first punch lands. A sickeningthwackof meat on meat.
She turns her face into my shoulder.
"Don't look away," I command, my voice low.
She freezes.
"Look at it, Blair," I say, gripping her chin and turning her face back toward the ring. "You wanted revenge? You wanted to hurt Ryder? This is what hurt looks like. Watch."
She trembles, but her eyes open.
Tristen dismantles the other man. It’s not a fight; it’s an execution. He moves with a brutality that’s terrifying to witness. He breaks the man’s nose and blood sprays across the cement, bright red under the lights.
I don't give a shit about the fight. I've seen a thousand of them. She’s the only thing worth watching.
Her pupils dilate, swallowing the blue until her eyes are black pools. Her breath hitches, matching the rhythm of the violence.
I move my hand.
Under the cover of her coat, my fingers slide up her thigh. She jumps, her eyes snapping to mine, but I don't stop. I find the hem of the silk slip and push past it.
"Gabriel," she hisses, glancing around at the screaming crowd. "We're in public."
"No one’s looking at us," I whisper, brushing the bare skin of her inner thigh. "They're watching the blood. But I'm watching you."
