Chapter Fifty-One
Melissa
The air in the underground venue was thick with sweat, blood, and something darker I couldn’t name. It clung to my skin, making my lungs work harder with every breath. The crowd pressed in from all sides, a living, breathing thing that fed on violence and spectacle.
I sat rigid in my seat, my spine refusing to touch the backrest, as if staying upright might somehow keep me from drowning in this place.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the conductor’s voice boomed through the speakers, distorted and tinny. “Our final fight of the evening!”
The crowd erupted, a wave of sound that crashed over me. Beside me, Indie’s presence was the only anchor I had, her shoulder pressed against mine in silent solidarity.
Then Mimic moved.
I caught it from the corner of my eye. He rose from his seat with deliberate slowness, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look at us, didn’t acknowledge anyone. He simply melted into the crowd, disappearing between bodies like smoke.
My heart kicked against my ribs.
“Indie,” I whispered, but my voice was swallowed by the roar around us. She heard me anyway. Her hand found mine, fingers lacing tight, and I gripped back hard enough that my knuckles went white.
Please don’t let it be him. Please.
But I knew better. I’d known from the moment Sinclair brought me here, from the moment Rowen’s jaw had tightened in that particular way, that meant he was preparing himself for something terrible.
The conductor continued, his voice dripping with theatrical menace, “Entering the cage first, a man who needs no introduction in these circles. A fighter whose reputation precedes him, whose record speaks for itself...”
The crowd’s energy shifted, grew uglier.
“Jasper ‘Hawk’ Michaels!”
The name hit me like a fist to the sternum.
All the air left my lungs in a rush. The world tilted, narrowed to a pinpoint, then expanded too fast, too bright. My vision swam as a figure emerged from the opposite side of the venue, and even through the haze of bodies and smoke, I knew him. Would have known him anywhere.
Jasper Michaels.
The man who killed Travis.
He moved with the easy confidence of someone who’d never faced real consequences, his tattooed arms swinging loosely at his sides, a predator’s smile splitting his face. The crowd loved him. I could hear it in their cheers, see it in the way they reached out as he passed, trying to touch him like he was something holy instead of something monstrous.
My hand crushed Indie’s.
“Melissa—” she started, but I couldn’t hear her over the rushing in my ears.
Travis’ face flashed behind my eyes. The way he’d looked that last time, before everything went wrong. Before Michaels took him from me.
“And his opponent,” the conductor announced, drawing out the words, savoring them. “The masked challenger!”
Another figure appeared, this one from the shadows near our section. He wore black fighting shorts and a tight black long sleeve shirt that hugged his torso, along with the mask—a simple black covering that obscured his entire face.
“Breathe, Mellie.” Indie leaned close, her breath hot against my ear.
“I—” I choked out. “I can’t... I don’t know how.”
The two fighters entered the cage from opposite sides. The metal door clanged shut behind them with a finality that made my stomach drop.
This was real. This was happening.
The referee—if you could call him that—gave brief instructions I couldn’t hear. Michaels bounced on the balls of his feet, rolling his shoulders, that same sick smile never leaving his face. The masked fighter stood perfectly still, watching, waiting.
