I don’t smile. I just hold her gaze for one long second—letting her sink into my stare.
The other matches blur past in quick cuts. Zayne overpowers Trevor with raw, working-man force—grunts and thuds—until Trevor taps out fast. But Damon? Damon is different. He moves like water. Patient, precise, every motion economical. When Nick charges, Damon sidesteps, catches him mid-stride, and drops him with a clean, textbook takedown. Nothing about this shows energy wasted, much less showboating. Only control.
Our eyes meet across the churned sand. No words need to be said for both of us to know what happens next.
"Semifinals! Zayne, Damon, and Scott will compete for the finals. The last two left standing will advance!"
Moments after the three of us take our positions in the sand, the whistle blows again.
Immediately, chaos erupts. Zayne goes straight for Damon. It’s a smart move. Target the biggest threat first.
They grapple near the center, Zayne’s raw power against Damon’s slippery patience.
I stay back, watching angles, breathing steady, and preserving what energy I have left.
When Zayne overextends minutes later, I strike.
Closing in fast, I drop low, and hook Zayne’s legs from the side while Damon keeps him pinned. Together we shove him over the rope.
“Final round!” Miranda’s voice carries over the crowd. “Scott versus Damon!”
Now it’s just us.
Damon and I circle once—slow, measuring. The sand is hot under my feet, sun beating down on bare skin. Sweat stings my eyes. Every muscle in my body coils, ready.
When the whistle blows, Damon lunges first. Feigning left, he moves right. I’m quick to block, counter, and lock forearms with him. We strain chest to chest. Sand kicking up with every shift of weight.
He’s good. Better than good. He slips a choke attempt; I break it with an elbow, turn in, and drive my shoulder into his ribs.
He grunts but doesn’t fold.
We break apart for a heartbeat before locking again. This time harder, faster, desperate. His arm snakes around my neck, pressure building fast.
Layla’s sharp gasp cuts through the noise, and something primal ignites within me.
No. Not while she’s watching. Not after every promise I made.
Dropping my hips, I move my body upward, and break the hold. I then turn inside his guard. We’re chest to chest again. He looks just as tired as I feel. We’re both shaking with exhaustion, sand caked to sweat.
“She’s not yours,” I growl, low enough that only he hears.
“Not yours either,” he rasps back. “Not anymore.”
“Fuck you.”
I hook his leg, lift with everything I have left, and slam him down. The impact rattles through us both. Sand explodes outward as he hits the ground hard. I’m quick to recover, clamp his shoulders, and shove him across the boundary with one final, relentless surge.
His heel crosses the rope, and that’s all I need.
“Winner: Scott Bennett!”
I drop to my knees in the sand, chest heaving, ears ringing. The crowd roars, but all I hear is my pulse.
When I look up, Lyla’s at the circle’s edge, her eyes wide, lips parted. Something between fear and raw hunger flickers across her face.
I stand slowly, walking toward her. Tower over her as she looks up at me, breath shallow.
“I told you I’d fight for us.”
