ONE
CRESSIDA
Case Notes
Assess how he is in a place that is not work.
People are sweaty.Loud. Drunk. Disgusting, really. The air reeks of spilled beer and desperation as voices clash over who will win. Pushing through the crowd, I bump shoulders with a lot of men, even some women dressed in barely-there clothes as they scream at the two men fighting in the ring.
Something lands on my cheek, and I wipe it away, realizing it’s more than likely someone’s spit, and I instantly recoil in disgust. The air is muggy from so many people crammed together in such a tight space. The closer I get to the ring, the stronger the metallic scent of blood and stale alcohol becomes, mingling with the unmistakable tang of sex.
Clutching my phone in one hand and my keys in the other, I continue walking until I reach the center, which is roped off. I’m actually amazed that no one steps over it, as it’s not much of a barrier. One man, clearly knocked out and not able to walk,is being dragged away by two other men while the announcer, a woman dressed in leather, steps into the middle of the makeshift ring. She looks like she could be one of the wrestlers on television, the perfect mix of bulky and beautiful.
“Now, we all know our next fighter is a regular here,” she begins. “But his opponent is someone new, someone exciting. He’s been known to win a fight or two, and we are excited to have him.”
Everyone starts clapping, and I watch as people shift to make room for the two men who walk out toward either side of the ring. Loud cheers echo through the room as the newcomer, dressed only in boxing shorts and his hands wrapped with some type of material, steps into the ring. And then the cheers grow louder as the reason I’m here tonight comes into view. Soren Nixon. Screams erupt, more deafening than for his opponent.
I try to push closer to the front, only managing a spot just behind a couple with a ringside view. The woman looks over her shoulder at me, eyes me up and down, and with a raised brow, she asks, “You in the wrong place?”
I look down at my pants, which are part of a suit. I’d taken the jacket off to blend in, but clearly, I did a terrible job. I’d popped a few of the buttons on my white shirt to tease a little bit of cleavage, but that apparently hasn’t helped, and sweat is pooling between my breasts in the thick heat.
“I’m fucking the fighter,” I reply with a smile, hoping she won’t ask me anything more.
“Yeah, you and every other girl in here wishes.” She laughs as the man with her says something in her ear, to which she shrugs, then redirects her attention back to the two fighters.
I watch Soren bounce from one foot to the other. My eyes can’t help but scan over his thick arms, corded with muscles. His hair is a mess, but somehow fits him perfectly. He’s lethal-looking up there; there’s no point denying that. All I have to do isglance around the room—women and men all stare at him, their gazes hungry and riveted on him. He’s basically sin, wrapped in danger, cloaked in an enigma, and nothing fascinates me more than uncovering people’s secrets, and his I’m very interested in. I’ve been trying to get dirt on him for over a year, and other than the knowledge that he’s a part of some secret society, I don’t have much else. I’ve heard a lot of gossip and rumors, but I have no hard facts. It seems that if anyone talks, they disappear. And when I mentioned the words “the hunt” to him, his face constricted, and I knew he wanted me gone, like I had just touched on something I should not have. His silence says more than words ever could.
It’s not that easy to deter me, though.
I’m determined to find outallhis secrets.
Hence, why I’m here.
The crowd starts chanting his name, but he doesn’t seem to care. You can clearly see which fighters are here for the fame and which for the rush. Soren is all about the rush. He doesn’t glance into the crowd, doesn’t need the validation, while the other fighter can’t stop searching faces for approval. Soren has already gone somewhere else—locked in, waiting for the moment when blood and adrenaline will take over.
Someone rings a bell, and before another word is spoken, the two fighters move.
Soren glides along the floor as the other guy steps up to him, fists raised. He swings, and Soren ducks effortlessly. The other guy keeps throwing punches as the crowd chants Soren’s name and shouts for him to “end him.” The fight has barely started, but the other fighter is already missing his mark, growing sloppy and winded with every swing.
He grunts something at Soren that makes Soren tense before the guy swings at him, this time landing the blow. But Soren reacts quickly. He steps back and shakes it off before advancingon the other fighter, who’s smirking now because he finally got a hit in. Soren jabs him in the face, not once, not twice, but three times consecutively. And the other fighter falls straight onto his ass, the crowd cheering loudly.
“Knockout.”
It’s chanted over and over again.
Soren goes to leave the ring while the other guy struggles and fails to sit up. The woman in front of me screams Soren’s name, making him pause. His eyes flick in our direction before drifting across the room, sharp and searching.
Just when I think he’s about to leave, his attention shifts back in our direction, and his stormy gray eyes land directly on me. His lip curls up in disgust before he starts walking my way. I stay where I am, unable to move even if I wanted to. Having a man as powerful as he is stalking toward you after he just knocked someone out is somewhat intimidating, to say the least. I note a thin drip of blood on his lip as he climbs over the rope and pushes through until he’s standing right in front of me. The air between us thickens, heavy with adrenaline and something else I can’t quite name, and it feels like everything falls silent before his lips start to move.
“What are you doing here?” he hisses at me, his voice low, rough, smoky and spent—like someone who just finished fucking and lit a cigarette. He’s barely keeping his anger in check as his eyes narrow on me, and I blink to escape the trance his voice puts me in.
“I—” His demeanour makes me lose my words.
“She said she was fucking a fighter,” the woman from earlier shouts above the din of the crowd.
His gray gaze flicks to her, then comes back to me. “Fucking a fighter?” he asks, his lips quirking in amusement.Asshole.
“I was just leaving.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder.
