I nod, but my heartbeat answers differently, because something alreadyhasits pull on me.
I don’t know how to step away.
Chapter Eight - Simon
The underground shakes with noise the moment I step out of the locker room. The crowd roars for blood long before the fighters give it. Heat rolls off bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. Sweat, alcohol, and adrenaline mix into something raw and feral. Most men would be overwhelmed by it. I welcome it.
I wrap my hands as I walk, the tape pulling tight over bruised knuckles. This place is chaotic to everyone else, but to me, it’s controlled—my rules, my fighters, my schedule. The chaos bends around me, never the other way around.
When I climb into the ring, the shouting spikes, people slamming cash into the hands of bookies. Across from me, tonight’s opponent bounces impatiently, trying to look fearless. His eyes dart at the crowd, then at me. He’s already losing.
The bell cracks through the noise. I move fast. His first punch barely leaves his shoulder before I duck under it and slam my fist into his ribs. He gasps, stumbling, and the crowd roars. He recovers, throws a wild hook, and I sidestep cleanly.
Another strike—jaw, solar plexus, cheekbone. Precision. Calculation. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
He hits the mat before the first minute ends.
The referee raises my arm while people scream my name. I barely hear them. The fight burns through the tension in my muscles but does nothing for the rest of me. Restlessness crawls under my skin, sharp and insistent, refusing to settle.
I leave the ring and push through the crowd. Women lean in, trailing fingers along my arm, trying to pull me close. One laughs too loudly, tilting her chest forward. Another strokes my shoulder, voice sugary and bold. I give polite nods, empty smiles.None of them interest me. None of them stir even a flicker of heat.
My mind is already elsewhere.
I move into the back corridor, letting the noise fade behind me. The dim hall smells of rust and cleaning chemicals.
Ardaleon waits near the exit, arms crossed, Viktor beside him. My brother’s eyebrows lift when he sees me.
“Quick work,” he says. “Your mind wasn’t here.”
“I finished the fight.” I grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my neck. “That’s what matters.”
“Doesn’t look like it’s what’s bothering you.”
He’s not wrong. I toss the towel aside and head for the exit. “What’s the update?”
“The cartel is shifting again,” Viktor says. “Movement on the docks. Something about a new courier.”
“We’ll handle it after the drive,” I answer, but my thoughts drift again, unbidden.
Eden.
Her voice at the café. The tremble she tried to hide. The way she watched me like she wasn’t sure whether to step closer or run. It hits me in flashes—her hands wrapped around her notebook, her soft reply when I asked if she felt uneasy, the shift in her eyes when she let me see her guard slip for a second.
Ardaleon catches the distraction immediately. “See? You’re thinking about her.”
I open the exit door and breathe in the cold air. “I’m thinking about Rafael Cortez and his attempts at war.”
“You’re thinking about both,” Ardaleon says, following me out. “Only one of them is making you look like that.”
I stop at the curb, jaw tight. “Like what?”
“Focused,” he says simply. “But not on the right thing.”
I ignore him. The street is quiet, slick with earlier rain. Our car waits a few yards down, engine idling. I walk toward it, each step steady, deliberate.
Ardaleon keeps pace beside me. “You’ve watched her more in a week than some of our enemies in a year.”
“Observation is precaution.”
