After a long beat, he offers up his hand, palm open on the armrest, an invitation, quiet, but unmistakable. God knows how many eyes are on us right now. The entire balcony feels like it’s holding its breath, or maybe that’s just me.
“Yes?” I ask, licking my bottom lip. The word is loaded with everything I’m not saying.
“Sit, wife,” he grunts, voice low and rough behind the mask. His hand circles my wrist, firm with no hesitation, and guides me down onto the edge of his chair. I brace one hand on his shoulder for balance, feeling the hard muscle beneath the black fabric.
His body is fantastic. More mature than Damon and Hunter, but no less impressive. He treats his body like a temple, that much I learned from my time in the cage. He’s disciplined, and last night, standing in the bedroom doorway, I felt the power of his strength when I touched him. I feel it now, just sitting next to him.
“You think this is a game?” he asks quietly, so only I can hear.
“I think you confuse me,” I reply, stiff, the words clipped. “The rules change every time I’m near you.”
“There’s only one rule between us, Daughter,” he says, tone flat, controlled. “And that’s for you to serve at my will. Right now, you need to look like the sexy little vixen that I know you are and make everyone in this room wish you were in their bed tonight.”
I go still, heat flashing through me, anger and hurt.Shame. But I don’t argue. Not here. Not with everyone, including the other Royals, watching.
Below, the buzzer sounds, signaling that the next fight is about to start. I see Damon in the support role in the corner, and one of the girls, Pamela, who stayed behind to help with the dining hall clean-up. Pamela’s dressed in all black, tattoos snaking up her arms. When Mateo jumps in the ring, she leans in and gives him a good luck kiss. His fight is against a Prince named Livingston, who charges in swinging wildly from the first bell. Mateo is faster, leaner, all precision. He ducks a haymaker, slips inside, and lands two pummeling shots to the body that fold Livingston in half. A knee to the ribs, an uppercut, and it’s over in under a minute. Clean. Brutal.
Final.
We both stand, the King first, pulling me up with him as the crowd erupts. The Barons section roars loudest down on the floor. Mateo raises a fist, blood on his teeth, sweat shining under the lights. Damon gives him a high-five and a hug, and there’s just this feeling… a sense of belonging that grows with every day that passes with these men. An understanding of family.
When the noise dies, and it’s time to sit again, the King doesn’t let me slide back to the edge of the chair.
Instead, his hands grip my hips and reposition me until I’m settled across his lap, thighs draped over his, skirt riding high enough to show the tops of my tights. The shift is subtle enough to look casual to anyone glancing over, but there’s no mistaking the possession in it.
I feel him immediately, hard, thick, pressing up against me through the thin barrier of fabric. His arousal is undeniable. The King likes winners.Victory.He doesn’t speak. Just settles one arm around my waist, his strong fingers splayed low on my stomach, holding me in place. I shift, just a little, grinding down, testing. He stiffens beneath me, breath catching behind the mask.
I’m not willing to let him reject me again. Not tonight.
I lean back against his chest, letting my head rest near his shoulder, and roll my hips once more, in small, teasing circles that drag the seam of my skirt against him. His grip tightens. Damon appears at the top of the stairs with two beers in hand, scanning for us. He spots the empty chair meant for him, then me on the King’s lap, and something flickers across his face, amusement, maybe warning, before he hands the second beer to Hunter and then takes his seat.
I notice Killian and Story are gone from their section. Lavinia’s throne is empty, too. Sy texts someone on his phone and glances down at the ring. Down below, the lights dim to a blood-red haze, spotlights slicing through the sweat and smoke. The announcer snatches the mic like it’s a weapon, his voice booming over the speakers, amplified until it rattles the metal rafters.
“Ladies and gentlemen… the Thanksgiving Fury Main Event! Let me just tell you, Forsyth is in for one hell of a war tonight!”
The gym detonates, feet stomping, fists pounding the barriers, voices rising into a single, primal roar that makes the floor vibrate beneath us.
“First… fighting out of the red corner… the home-territory beast… the man who doesn’t need paw prints to prove he’s the best… but he’s looking to add one tonight!”
The bass drops hard, deep and pounding, syncing with thecrowd’s chant as the sea of bodies parts down the center aisle. Striding through like he owns every inch of concrete is Nick Bruin. Dark hair slicked back, eyes locked forward, every muscle rippling under warm tan skin covered in intricate ink that shifts and flexes with each powerful step. Shoulders rolling, fists taped, he moves like a predator finally off the leash. He reaches the ring and vaults over the top rope in one fluid, superhuman leap, no hands, just raw power, landing with a thud that silences the front row for half a heartbeat before the place absolutely erupts.
“PRETTY NIIIIIIIIIIIICK BRUUUUUUUINNNNNN!”
The noise is deafening. Even up here on the balcony the energy shifts, turning electric, contagious. The announcer waits for the chaos to crest, then rides the wave.
“And in the blue corner… a champion who’s brought more glory to Forsyth than any trophy case can hold… the man who’ll crack skulls and take names without breaking a sweat…”
A piercing scream cuts through the air, followed by a wave of whistles and catcalls.
“Ladies and gentlemen… the myth… the legend… the undisputed KING of the South… KILLLLLLLLLIAN PAYYYYYYYNE!”
Killian stalks out from the opposite tunnel, tattoos crawling up thick arms, torso carved and lethal from years of quarterback dominance turned pure violence. His stare is ice, jaw set, every step intentional. The crowd surges again, split down the middle now, half chanting for Nick, half for Killian, like the gym itself might tear in two.
Beside me, the King lets out a low, rumbling chuckle, genuine amusement laced with dark appreciation.
“This,” he murmurs, voice almost lost under the roar, “is going to be beautiful.”
Behind Killian, Story leans in to whisper in his ear. She changed and is now dressed in a metallic gold crop top with thin straps that hang over her shoulders. Tight leather shorts cling to her hips and show off her legs. He spins to look at her, big hands cinched around her waist. The kiss they share could melt iron.
