Taking a hit isn’t that bad. Good for the spectator, good for the house, good for my standing here. It’s not about the money—it’s about the freedom of it all.
What the fuck is she doing here?
The thought hits hard and immediate, followed just as fast by another one, meaner around the edges.
Which one of my dumbass brothers followed me tonight?
My gaze cuts to the space beside her before I decided to let it. Already expecting one of them—Gage, maybe, Rafe if he’s trying to fuck with me, or Cruz if he decided to fuck with Gage.
Instead I find some random asshole leaning close enough to her ear that I can’t tell if he’s talking to her or tasting her. Looking too comfortable, like he’s earned the right to occupy her space.
Andshedoesn’t pull away. Like she’s used to this asshole touching her.
The irritation hits like a second fist—faster than the first and meaner. It just sits there, hot and demanding, looking for somewhere to go.
What, my brothers aren’t enough for her? She needed another fucking boyfriend?
My opponent steps into the opening I just handed him.
His fist catches my mouth—splits my lip clean against my teeth, drives a flash of pain across my tongue in a wave so sharp it whites out everything else for a full second. I spit blood onto the canvas. Stare at the smear. The crowd erupts like they’ve been starving for it.
I don’t give a shit about the crowd.
This motherfucker is already playing to them, shoulders back, chest puffed out, working the room like he earned it. I lethim have the half-second because there’s nothing I can do with it anyway.
I blink the blood out of my eye and reset, letting the cage snap back into place around me. My focus drags sideways anyway, like something with weight pulling it, like it was never really mine to begin with.
Back to her.
Goddamnit.
That asshole is still touching her. And she’s still looking at me. Like she’s waiting to see what I do with it.
For months now it’s been like this. I can’t go a single fucking day without one of my brothers talking about her, tracking her across the city, pulling her into something that used to be theirs.
She’s fuckingeverywhere.
She ruins every silence, every thought. She’s in every conversation he didn’t ask to have, in every room I didn’t invite her into.
And now she’s in this one.
But this ismine.
My opponent comes in again, swinging wide with the same sloppy aggression he’s been relying on since the start, but I don’t give him the same half-second this time. I block hard, drive forward, force him back a step, then another, cutting off the angle he’s been trying to use. He’s breathing heavier now, slower, more predictable.
My gaze cuts to her anyway. The corner of her mouth shifts—something between a smirk and a dare, her teeth catching her lower lip for a fraction of a second.
Like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
I’m done.
The decision drops through everything—the noise, the heat, the blood still tracking down the side of my face, the laugh that ruined everything—clean and final and absolute.
The fight snaps back into place.
He throws again, trying to capitalize on what he thinks is still there. I’m already inside his reach before it finishes leaving his shoulder, already past the line of his swing. My shoulder clips his chest—not hard, just enough—and I feel his footing go before he does.
There.
