That's the thought that follows me for the next three days. Through Tuesday afternoon after she leaves, through Wednesday and Thursday where I catch myself staring at the clock wondering what she's doing, through Friday morning when I wake up at four a.m. from the usual nightmare and my first coherent thought is *she'll be here tonight*.
I’ve had women watch my fights. Occasionally. Women who made it clear what they wanted, who saw the violence and got turned on by it, who thought sleeping with Rampage would be some kind of thrill. I never took them up on it. Never saw the point in complicating something that worked perfectly well on its own.
But Chloe is different.
She didn't ask to come to the fights. She didn't show up trying to get my attention. She came to learn how to protect herself from some asshole ex-boyfriend who won't leave her alone, and somehow that turned into me standing in the training room with my cock hard enough to hurt, pressing it against her back while teaching her how to break free from someone holding her, and then inviting her to watch me fight.
I don't know what I'm doing.
That's the problem. I always know what I'm doing. In the ring, in the gym, in every aspect of my life, I know exactly what I'm doing and why. But with her, I'm operating on pure instinct, and my instincts are telling me things that make absolutely no sense.
They're telling me she's mine.
Not in any way I can claim. Not in any way that makes logical sense. But some primitive part of my brain has decided thatChloe Marsh belongs to me, and now I'm arranging for her to have private access to the Pit, telling security to watch for her, making sure everyone down there knows she's under my protection.
I've never done this before.
By Friday evening, I'm wired in a way that has nothing to do with the upcoming fight. I go through my usual routine: eat at six, light meal, protein and carbs. Check the gym one last time, make sure everything's locked down upstairs. Head down to the basement at nine to help set up.
Tank is already there with two other members from the MC, moving equipment, checking the lights, setting up the cash box. He nods when he sees me.
"Got your message," he says. "About the girl."
"She's using the back entrance."
"I'll be there to let her in. What's her name?"
"Chloe," I say. "Brown hair, glasses, small. She comes in, you walk her to the back corner, away from the ring. You make sure she stays there."
"You got it."
"And Tank," I say, my voice dropping lower. "Anyone looks at her wrong, anyone gets too close, you deal with it immediately. Before I have to notice."
"Understood," he says.
I should feel ridiculous. I should feel like I'm overreacting, being possessive over a woman I've spent a total of three hours with. But I don't. I feel like I'm doing exactly what needs to be done.
The crowd starts arriving at ten. By ten-fifteen, the basement is half full. By ten-twenty-five, I'm standing near the ring watching the back entrance, waiting.
She arrives at ten-thirty-two.
I see the door open, see Tank step forward, see Chloe walk in wearing jeans and a dark sweater that somehow makes her look even smaller than usual. Her hair is down tonight, falling past her shoulders, and she's looking around the basement with wide eyes, taking it all in.
Tank says something to her. She nods. He starts walking toward the back corner, and she follows, and I watch every step she takes until she's exactly where I told Tank to put her. Back corner. Away from the crowd. Protected.
Our eyes meet across the basement.
She gives me a small smile.
Something in my chest tightens.
I nod once, acknowledging her presence, and then force myself to look away. I need to focus. Need to get my head in the right place. The fight starts in less than thirty minutes, and I cannot afford to be distracted.
The opponent tonight is someone I've never seen before.
That's becoming more common. Word about the Pit has spread beyond Blackwater Falls, and fighters from surrounding towns are starting to show up wanting to test themselves against the champion. This one is younger than me, mid-twenties probably, tall and lean with the kind of build that suggests speed over power.
His name is Travis.
