Goddamn.
She’s poetry written in bone-breaking blows.
The guys next to me are talking too loud, all chest-puffing and awe. One’s got a beer sloshing over his hand as he brags to his buddy. “This is her third match. She’s a fucking killer. They’ve barely even touched her.”
No shit.
I could’ve told them that.
But I don’t.
I just stare, because she’s not just winning—she’s owning the space like she’s carved for this. And every time she lands a punch, something in my chest cracks open a little wider, but no matter how I angle myself or where I stand, I still can’t get a clear look at her.
She’s a blur of movement—fast, lethal, electric. But it’s not just her fists or the way she fights that’s got my skin crawling and my jaw clenched.
It’s herpresence.
The air around her crackles, alive with something I haven’t felt in years.
And I’m not the only one who notices—hell, the whole damn crowd is buzzing.
They feel it too.
But there’s something else. Somethingwrongandrightat the same time because just watching her, just tracking the way her body moves across that ring, has me hard as fucking steel.
Which…
Let’s be honest, hasn’t happened since her.
My angel.
The girl I’ve mourned, dreamed about, screamed for in the dark.
The one they claimed died in the fire.
And yet here I am, with a heart pounding like a war drum and a dick that’s damn near making decisions without me.
What the hell is happening?
Could this be the moment I finally lose it? My cheese sliding clean off the damn cracker? Wouldn’t be the first time I teetered too close to the edge… but this?
This feels different.
Real.
My brothers are going to be furious, confused, and probably one sentence away from throwing punches the moment I open my mouth.
But theymoved on.
I never did.
Not really.
I never bought the story.
Never believed Berkley was gone.
Her body was never found. Just ash and a few charred bones that were her father’s.
