I'm being ridiculous anyway. He pushed me away. *No.* That's what he'd said when I'd offered to help with his hands. Short. Harsh. Final.
A man like him would never notice a chubby single mom who smells like bleach and barely scrapes by.
I'm almost done with the floor when I feel it again, that awareness.
This time I don't look.
I keep my head down, my movements steady, my expression neutral. Just cleaning. Just doing my job. Just trying to get through the night so I can go home and crawl into bed next to my baby girl and forget that Danny Cross exists.
Except I won't forget. I know I won't. Because even now, with my eyes firmly on the bloodstained concrete, I can feel the weight of his gaze hovering over me.
And God help me, I don't entirely hate it.
Chapter 3 - Bruiser
I can't stop watching her.
I should. I know I should. Standing here in my corner like some kind of creep, tracking her movements across the warehouse floor. But every time I try to look away, my eyes drift back. Like they've got a mind of their own.
Joanna.
She's scrubbing the same spot she was five minutes ago. Working harder than she needs to. Putting her whole body into it, like if she just pushes hard enough she can erase what happened. Erase that asshole's hand on her arm. Erase the fear I saw in her eyes.
Erase me, probably.
The way I'd snapped at her when she offered to help with my hands. I'd seen her flinch, seen the walls go up. Good. Better that way. Better she keeps her distance.
Except I don't want her to keep her distance.
I want to know why her hands shake sometimes. Want to know what put that bone-deep exhaustion in her eyes. Want to know if she's safe when she leaves here, if she's got someone waiting for her at home, if she's okay.
I flex my fingers, feeling the sting of split skin. Blood's stopped dripping but my knuckles are swelling up nice. Nothing new. I'll wrap them when I get home, ice them if I remember. By tomorrow they'll be stiff and sore, and by next week's fight they'll be fine again.
This is the cycle. This is what I do.
The warehouse is almost empty now. Most of the crowd's cleared out. The Savage Riders are doing their final sweep, checking forstragglers, making sure no one's passed out drunk in a corner somewhere. One of them—big guy named Beast—catches my eye and nods.
I nod back.
They're good people, the Riders. They protect this place. Protect the people who work here. I'd heard them tell Joanna that on her first night. *Anyone bothers you, you come to us.* She'd nodded, looking overwhelmed and scared and like she was two seconds from bolting.
But she'd stayed.
She's still staying.
Marcus and Pete are finishing up the bleachers. They're good at their jobs. Quick, efficient, know better than to make small talk with the fighters. Pete's probably sixty, moves slow but thorough. Marcus is younger, maybe fifty, talks more but in that easy way that doesn't demand anything back.
Joanna's different from them. She's younger, for one. Mid-twenties, maybe. And there's something fragile about her that the other two don't have. Like she's held together with string and willpower and not much else.
Makes me want to stand between her and everything that could break her.
Which is insane, because I'm one of the things that could break her.
She's moving to a new section now, dragging that bucket behind her. It's heavy. I can tell by the way she's pulling it, using her whole body. The water's dark red. Mostly my blood, probably. Some from the guy I put down.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. Text from my sister, Erin.
**Erin:** *Did you win tonight?*
