"Your brothers aren't here. Your journalist friend is still recovering from getting shot. That leaves you." He finishes wrapping his hands and moves to the center of the mats. "Unless you're worried you can't take me."
I stop hitting the bag. Turn to face him.
He's standing loose, weight balanced, hands raised in a lazy guard. The scars on his torso catch the light, making him look every bit the dangerous beast he is. And underneath all that damage, muscle built from years of violence, a body designed to take punishment and keep moving.
"I put you down three times in the pit," I remind him. "You couldn't touch me."
"That was six years ago. I've learned some new tricks."
"So have I."
"Prove it."
I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. But he's standing there with that smug fucking smile, and my blood is already up, and maybe if I beat him badly enough, he'll finally leave me alone.
I step onto the mats.
We circle each other. Testing. Measuring. He moves differently than he did in the pit, less wild, more controlled. The desperation is gone, replaced by patience and focus.
He throws the first punch.
I slip it, counter with an elbow he barely blocks. We trade shots, feeling each other out. He's faster than I remember. Stronger too. But I'm still bigger, still meaner, still the weapon the Foundry spent years perfecting.
I land a hook to his ribs. He grunts, retaliates with a knee that I catch on my thigh. We clinch, grappling for position, and I can feel the heat of him through our clothes, can smell his sweat and underneath that, skin and musk and him.
"That all you got?" he breathes in my ear.
I throw him. He hits the mat hard, rolls, comes back up swinging. I duck under his fist and drive my shoulder into his gut, take him down again. This time I follow, pinning him with my weight, hands on his wrists.
"Yield."
"Fuck no."
He bucks his hips, trying to throw me off. I hold firm. We're chest to chest now, both breathing hard, and I can feel his heart pounding against mine.
"Yield," I repeat.
"Make me."
His legs wrap around my waist. He twists, uses leverage I wasn't expecting, and suddenly I'm the one on my back with his weight pressing me into the mat. His thighs are clamped around my hips. His hands pin my wrists above my head.
"Better," he says. "But not good enough."
I surge up, throwing him off balance. We roll across the mat, fighting for control, and somewhere in the chaos the fight turns into grinding. His thigh slides between mine. My hand grips his hip instead of his wrist. We're rutting against each other, and he's hard, I can feel it through our clothes, and so am I.
He freezes.
I freeze.
We stare at each other, panting, tangled together on the mats.
"Jinx—"
I shove him off and scramble to my feet. My cock is straining against my pants, obvious, undeniable. He's still on the mat, propped on his elbows, looking up at me with dark eyes that see too much.
"Don't." My voice cracks. "Don't say a fucking word."
"I wasn't going to say anything."
