It was longer and harder, three full rounds of violence that left both fighters bleeding and exhausted.
Declan's opponent was older and more experienced, moved like someone who'd learned patience the hard way. He didn't give easy openings. He just worked methodically, testing Declan's defense, looking for patterns in the way he moved.
They went back and forth. Declan landed more and controlled the pace, but he took damage doing it. He got cut above his eye in the second round. He moved slower by the third, the accumulation of body shots taking their toll.
By the time it ended, I was gripping the wall hard enough to hurt my hands, every muscle in my body tense like I'd been the one fighting. My heart was pounding. My cock was half-hard in my jeans from watching Declan move and sweat and bleed and keep going anyway.
Declan won on decision. The judges saw what mattered. But it hadn't been clean.
When Declan left the cage, I slipped out ahead of the crowd. I found a spot near the back exit where I could see the hallway leading to the locker rooms.
I waited, telling myself I just needed to see that he was okay. That this had nothing to do with the heat still pooling in my stomach or the way my body was responding to the image of him covered in sweat and blood.
Five minutes later, Declan emerged. He was still shirtless, still sweaty, with blood crusted at his eyebrow. He was moving carefully, favoring his ribs.
Then Rafael appeared.
He just walked up to Declan like it was the most natural thing in the world. He said words that made Declan's mouth curve slightly. Not quite a smile but close.
Rafael disappeared into a side room and emerged seconds later with a first aid kit.
So Rafael didn't just come to watch. He helped after. He patched Declan up. He was part of this world in ways I'd never been invited into.
The jealousy twisted in my chest, hot and unforgiving.
Rafael knew this side of Declan. He had seen him fight. He had patched him up after. He had probably been there for wins and losses and everything in between.
While I'd known nothing.
I left before they could spot me. I got on my bike and headed home with anger and want and jealousy all burning hot in my chest.
I made it three blocks before I realized I was being followed.
The feeling hit me the same way it had the first time. The rhythm was wrong. Someone was matching my pace too precisely. The instinct came from years of being alert to threats.
I opened the throttle, weaving through sparse late-night traffic, checking my mirrors every few seconds. The tail stayed with me.
I took a turn down a side street. The tail followed. I gunned it, putting distance between us, then cut into an alley and killed my lights.
I waited in the darkness, engine ticking as it cooled, adrenaline already flooding my system.
The motorcycle appeared seconds later. The rider slowed down, looking for me.
I came out fast and clipped their back wheel with my front tire. They went down hard, their bike skidding across pavement in a shower of sparks.
I was off my bike and on them before they could recover.
I grabbed their jacket, yanked them up, and threw a punch aimed at their masked face.
They blocked it and countered with an elbow that caught me on the temple. Stars exploded in my vision.
We scrambled apart. We both got to our feet and started circling in the narrow alley.
Same build as the first attacker. Same controlled movement. Maybe even the same person, hard to tell with the mask covering their features.
They came at me fast and threw a combination that I mostly blocked, then drove a knee into my still-healing ribs.
White heat tore through me. I gasped, staggered back, and barely got my guard up in time to block their follow-up.
