“You’re working too late again,” she says when I open the door a crack. “Boss wants to see you at the club. Says it’s urgent.”
“I wasn’t told about a session tonight.”
“I know,” she says quickly. “Just come with me. Please. Don’t bring anything.”
It’s the please that sets me on edge. Pilar doesn’t do polite.
“I can drive myself.”
Her eyes flicker. “No. We’re taking the van.”
I should have shut the door right then. Should have called someone. But before the thought even finishes forming, I feel the cold ring of metal at the base of my neck. Another man, taller, steps into view from the stairwell, his face hidden by a baseball cap pulled low. His voice is low, Spanish-accented, rough.
“Hands where I can see them, doctor.”
My heart spikes but I raise my hands slowly, palms outward, fingers trembling only a little.
“What is this?” I manage, voice steady because my training lives in my bones even when fear crawls under my skin.
“Just a ride,” Pilar says, eyes flicking away from mine. “Do what they say.”
A black cloth bag goes over my head. A sharp shove between my shoulders. Hands guide me down the stairs, into the street, the smell of diesel and sweat closing in. I stumble once but keep moving, counting steps, cataloguing scents, angles, distance. Always keep a mental map. Always know the exits. But my mind is already spiraling toward one name.
Rafe.
They push me into a van, the metal floor rattling under my knees as the doors slam. The engine starts. I hear Spanish muttered between the men, something about “la doctora” and “el toro.” The bag stinks of old oil and disinfectant. I slow my breathing, find the rhythm, and force myself to listen.
When they yank the bag off, we’re no longer in the city. The smell of salt and gasoline is stronger now, mixed with sweat and something older. The van’s parked inside a cavernous space, a warehouse maybe, but it’s dressed differently tonight. The ringis back: bigger, lit with harsh white lights that slice across the concrete like blades. Metal bleachers ring the pit. Figures lean against the railings, smoking, watching. The air buzzes with anticipation, a predator’s hum.
They march me forward, one hand gripping my arm hard enough to bruise. My shoes scuff against the floor. My mind catalogues faces, tattoos, accents. None of it matters because at the center of the ring, under the lights, is him.
Rafe.
He’s pacing like a caged animal, shoulders hunched, fists flexing and unflexing. His shirt is gone, skin gleaming with sweat, every line of his body tight with a coiled energy that doesn’t feel human. His eyes flick up when he sees me and for a heartbeat the whole room stills.
“Why is she here?” His voice is low but it cuts through the noise like a blade.
“Showtime,” someone answers. A new man steps forward from the crowd, tall and wiry with a snake tattoo winding up his throat. He’s grinning, but it’s the kind of grin that hides a dare. “Boss wants her to see what you really are.”
Rafe’s eyes darken. “Get her out.”
The snake-tattoo man chuckles. “She’s not going anywhere until you give them a show.”
They shove me closer to the ring. My knees scrape against the edge of the mat. The lights are too bright now, bleaching the edges of everything.
“Rafe,” I say, my voice softer than I expect. “Don’t?—”
But I don’t know what I’m asking him not to do.
Something shifts in him even as I speak. He’s still standing, but his breathing changes, deeper, faster, like a drumbeat starting under his ribs. The muscles along his back bunch and roll. His hands curl into fists, nails biting into his palms.
“Move back,” he growls, but his voice is already warping, lower, thicker, like it’s being pulled from another chest.
The men around me laugh, jeer, start chanting “Toro” like they’re calling a bull out of a gate.
I take a step back but my feet hit a barrier. One of them’s holding me there, fingers clamped around my arm.
Then it happens.
