No one laid a finger on Christian. They didn’t have to, not with the pale-eyed one shadowing Dave’s every move like a predator about to strike. Raf, he was called, and he felt just as dangerous now as he had at the pack house.
Dave would fight if he had to. He’d picked up enough tricks over the years, mostly from Christian himself. But he was limping, his balance would be off. And he didn’t have the instinct—the one that made him attack first and not stop until the threat was gone.
So Christian got in the SUV, and got out again at the canning plant. He wasn’t expecting it to be this busy, with multiple cars pulling in and voices cutting through the morning air. It was early, but the place felt like a Friday night in full swing.
“Clock’s ticking, Taylor,” Tony said, as Christian paused, needing to see where they were taking Dave. “Australia’s already watching.”
Christian didn’t answer, but something turned in his stomach. A twenty-four-seven fight club. He’d always thought of fighting as something pure—honest, in its own brutal way, when the only thing that mattered was who fought hardest. This wasn’t that. This was exploitation for profit, and he was glad he wasn’t going to be part of it for long.
They pushed him toward the roped-off area, where Bear scowled like Christian had pissed in his cornflakes, and Ash bared his teeth in a snarl. He’d screwed them over, and they were going to make sure he bled for it.
He looked again for Dave. They’d been separated at the door, herded like cattle. Raf had let Dave limp along at his own pace from the SUV, but stayed so close he was breathing down his neck. Dave’s shoulders had been square, his spine straight, but Christian had seen the fear in his eyes.
He kept scanning until he found where they’d put him. At least they’d given him a chair. Raf stood behind it like a prison warden, arms folded, and when he caught Christian watching, he smiled.
Christian’s lip curled. If that fucker laid a single finger on Dave—
“Ten minutes,” Tony said.
Christian didn’t move. The world grew sharper as adrenaline kicked even higher at the familiar sounds—the slap of fists on pads, the low throb of bass from a speaker. But for the first time in his life, Christian didn’t feel like fighting.
Then he saw the way Raf was watching Dave. He wasn’t just standing guard—he was rehearsing something, counting down inside his head, and enjoying the wait.
Fear hit, fast and cold. There was too much space between them. He wouldn’t be able to get to Dave before…
He had to end this fast. He’d fight to win their freedom, and they’d both walk away from this. That was the bargain.
And then something shifted in the space around him. Conversations stopped mid-sentence, and as Christian looked, he saw people were standing a little straighter, looking a little tenser.
Barton had arrived. He stood at the edge of the floor, hands in his coat pockets as he looked around the place. When his gaze landed on Christian, he measured him for a moment, and then moved on, as if Christian wasn’t worth his time.
Christian’s breath fluttered in his chest. He couldn’t say why, but that calm, calculating gaze scared him more than anythingTony had threatened. The way Barton looked at him made him feel less like a fighter, and more like prey.
Chapter Twenty-nine
DAVE
He was still counting. Four fights now, four times they’d shoved Christian back into that cage, bleeding and increasingly wild-eyed, like some rabid animal existing only to be broken.
He didn’t know how Christian was staying on his feet. They weren’t giving him enough time to recover before sending him back in. And each time, Christian went not because he wanted to but because Dave was still in their hands.
He hated sitting and watching, being the reason Christian was still fighting. But he didn’t look away. Not once.
Christian was exhausted. Dave could see it in the economy with which he was moving. His arms and chest were streaked with blood and sweat, and his hair hung in wet strings around his face, but there was still savagery in his eyes, and the will—oh God, they might destroy his body but no one could ever take Christian’s will from him. He’d die snarling at them.
It hurt to watch. Dave was sure it hurt more than if he were the one taking the physical blows, but he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t abandon Christian like that.
With one last gargantuan effort, Christian locked in the armbar, tight and brutal. His opponent thrashed, then slapped the mat, tapping out. Christian released him and rose to his feet, victorious for a fourth time. He tossed his head back, his hair flicking in an arc picked out by the bright lights above the cage, and grinned defiantly into the closest camera, blood trickling down his chin from a split lip.
Dave was on his feet, but he hadn’t got more than five painful yards before a hand bit into his shoulder, pinning him in place. He breathed long and slow, trying to summon back some of those centering exercises he’d thought were part of him after all these years. He couldn’t. He couldn’t think of anything except the way Christian was standing, so defiant, but exhausted. Even he couldn’t keep going like this. Surely they’d see that and let him go.
Christian had accepted a towel he was passed and moved over toward the area that had been set aside for the fighters, with everything there they might need—water, food, and a massive first-aid kit. He upended one of the bottles of water over his face, then blotted it off with the towel before he raised his head and his eyes sought Dave’s across the room.
Dave nodded at him. He didn’t know what he was trying to say, other than that he was there and Christian had his support. Always.
It seemed to firm Christian’s resolve. He took the cap off another bottle of water with a single easy twist, gulped a few mouthfuls, and then strode across the room to where Tony was standing, not six feet away from Dave. They were close enough for Dave to hear every word.
“If one fight was worth ten grand, I just earned you forty. We’re leaving now.”
