“Not if I don’t have to.” The fight tonight? Some mouthy nobody I didn’t even care to remember. Lianne could handle it—she always did. Eight hundred bucks wasn’t worth the tape on my fists. I’d shoot her a message, take the hit when she got pissed, and promise a bigger, better fight in the future. End of story.
More frowning from Enzo. “What if youneedto fight?”
I knew what he was asking. He wasn’t talking about some cash fight in a backroom ring. He was talking about the itch under my skin—the violence in me that I didn’t know how to shut off. The part of me that enjoyed the hit, the rush, the control. The part of me that needed the burn of a fist on my jaw or the weight of someone collapsing at my feet. Fighting had been my outlet, my excuse, my high, long before the pills stopped doing the trick.
But this? Sitting here, watching a half-dead man try to stay alive? That was its own kind of addiction.
Why?
Why was I even here? Why the hell did I care? Was this about keeping him alive—or about proving something to myself? Was it about being the guy whocould kill with one hand, then patch up the broken, or drag someone back from the edge because I couldn’t live with another failure?
Or maybe it was just another fight. A new rush. Trading fists for fever, and swapping knockdowns for bedside vigils. Because stepping away meant losing, and I wasn’t built to lose.
And hell, maybe I wasn’t trying to save him at all.
Maybe I was still trying to save myself.
Enzo huffed as if he had more to say, but then, he shook his head and shut the door behind him.
I crossed the room and cracked open the window. The air that rushed in carried the bite of oil, rubber, and gas—the low hum of the garage seeping through along with the muted clang of tools, the distant whine of a drill, the bass thud of some rock song on the radio. The normal sounds of our world, all crashing into the quiet of this room.
I dipped a cloth into the jug, grabbed a few ice chips, and brushed them over Lyric’s lips. His skin felt dry and too hot, his breath shallow. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t react—but then, his lips twitched, and his tongue darted out, catching the melting ice. It was a small thing, automatic maybe, but it felt real. Something human.
I pressed in a little closer, heart thudding way tooloud in my chest. Even if he was a bad guy… Maybe, I could keep him for a while?
Lianne, as expected, lost her shit when I sent her a message saying I wasn’t fighting tonight.
I answered her call on the third ring, and her voice was strident and bristling with temper. “What the fuck, Villareal?”
“Something came up,” I said, keeping my tone even.
“Yeah? Well, unless it’s a bullet with your name on it, I don’t give a shit. You had a fight. Now, I’ll have a pissed-off crowd and no headliner.”
Lianne wasn’t only pissed—she was looking for blood. Bottle-blonde, hard as nails, with eyes that’d seen more backroom deals and bareknuckle brawls than most men alive, she was a dragon. There wasn’t a caring bone in her body, and I was another name on her roster that made her money.
“I’ll make it up to you,” I promised.
“Cortez is looking for a fight on Saturday.” She dropped it in like it was nothing.
I froze. “You want me against Cortez?” I asked.
“He’s got thirty pounds on you, undefeated. Good matchup. Big purse.”
Cortez. He was solid, dangerous, the kind of fighter people whispered about. But all I could thinkwas how a fight might burn away the tension boiling in my blood, bleed it out of me round by round. And the purse—hell, I needed that. On a good night, I could take him. I knew I could.
Her anger at me giving up tonight’s lesser fight had flipped to interest—the scent of a payday sweeter than any apology because I knew she’d be playing both sides at the Pit. Jamie was going to lose his damn mind when he heard what I was planning—but screw it. I wasn’t leaving tonight, not for anyone.
Robbie popped back every so often, slipping in with quiet footsteps and sharper eyes than I gave him credit for. After a couple of hours, he murmured that Lyric’s fever had broken—and that, apparently, was a good thing. Not that I stopped watching him. I kept at it, pushing fluids into him when I could, keeping that barrier up between him and the rest of the guys. I wasn’t taking any chances.
It was Robbie who brought me snacks and drinks, checking in every hour like some silent shadow. So, when the door cracked open at midnight, I figured it was him again—more supplies, maybe some medical assessment to go with it.
It wasn’t.
Jamie walked in first, Killian right behind him, and trailing them both was Caleb. I hadn’t met Calebmore than a handful of times, but I knew enough. He worked with Killian—their own little Scooby Gang for the criminal underworld, pulling monsters apart one encrypted file or hacked server at a time.
Jamie stopped at the bed.
He gave me a long look, then said to all of us: “Here’s the deal—Lyric’s in deeper than even he knew. We checked the server logs. The hits on him aren’t random. Someone’s been tracking him through every system he’s ever touched. Nine contracts have been issued since he left MIT—real contracts, not just threats—on dark web channels. And the data on the servers he had? It’s damning for Kessler. Logs, backdoors, coded triggers… and receipts. Proof he’s been hunted for years, whether he meant to be or not. And the worst part?”
