Yeah. There it is.
Heat flashes through me, sharp and bright. I straighten slowly, jaw ticking, and he backs off a half step, because he knows that look.
“Hit ya good?” he asks.
I roll my neck. It pops. “You wish.”
I crowd into his space, tap his guard twice, then sink a jab into his ribs hard enough that he grunts. He recovers fast, but I’m already moving, feet light on the mat. This is better than thinking. Better than seeing Mara in my head for the thousandth time.
Mara on that stage.
Mara in Chase’s grip.
Mara in every fucking headline.
I swing high, but he blocks it, so I go low. It’s all muscle and motion. Sweat stings my eyes, and my lungs burn in a good way.
Behind us, Dredyn slams someone into the cage wall with a bone-shaking crash. The metal rattles, and the pledge he’s manhandling makes a sound like a dying animal.
“Guard up,” Dredyn growls. “You drop your hands like that in a fight, you lose them.”
He’s not wrong, but he’s also not talking to the kid. He’s talking to himself.
Jasper’s on the other side of the room, bare back slick with sweat, pounding a heavy bag. He’s all lean muscle and controlled wrath, like someone took the word “rage” and carved it outof marble. Every time the bag swings back at him, he drives another strike into it.
Beck’s parked at the folding table against the wall, laptop open, blue light washing out his face, one earbud in, Monster can in his hand.
“You know,” he calls over the music with a grunt, not looking up, “most people just go to therapy.”
“Most people haven’t met your therapist,” I shoot back. Beck’s therapist is hot, and the videos he’s shown us of her sucking his dick during sessions are even hotter.
Rook takes advantage of my distraction and snaps a jab into my shoulder. Pain lances down my arm.
“Focus, Reed,” he warns.
He’s right. My head’s not here, it’s in that ballroom, a month ago. Confetti falling like ash while Clark Black smiles for the cameras and announces he’s giving his daughter away like a prized cow.
It’s Mara’s face when she looked at us.
Yeah. Focus.
I bare my teeth, wipe the smear of blood from my lip with my thumb, and lunge. We trade blows. He’s heavier, stronger, but I’m quicker, meaner. I use the edge of the mat, the cage, his momentum. He overcommits on a right cross, so I step inside his guard and drive an uppercut up under his chin.
His head snaps back and he staggers. But I don’t stop, following with a hook that crashes into his jaw. He goes down to one knee, palms catching him on the mat before he face-plants.
I shove my mouthguard out with my tongue and spit a little blood onto the mat next to him.
Before I can give him my victory screech, there’s a loud, wet crack across the room. We both look over as Dredyn knocks the pledge flat with a clean cross, then just … keeps going. One morepunch. Two. The kid’s out but Dre’s still swinging, fist rising and falling like he can’t feel the difference.
Jasper abandons the bag, strides forward, and snaps a hand between them.“Enough.”
Dre freezes mid-swing.
His chest heaves, eyes wild, then they flick to the kid, currently limp on the mat, and some of the madness slides off his face. He steps back, flexing his taped hands.
They’re red.
So is the mat.
