"And I learned my lesson."
We drive to the gym separately. He needs to focus: him in his truck, me in my sedan. The same sedan he found that tracker on two years ago. Daniel never came back after that night. I don't know if it was Cole's threats or if he finally got the message, but he disappeared from my life completely. Last I heard, he moved to another state.
Good riddance.
The Pit has changed over the past two years. It's more organized now, more structured. There's an actual schedule of fights, actual rules about who can compete and when. The Savage Riders still provide security and take their cut, but now there's a waiting list of fighters wanting to compete, wanting their shot at the undefeated champion.
I park and head to the back entrance. Tank is there waiting, like he always is.
"Mrs. Steele," he says with a nod.
I still get a thrill hearing that name. Mrs. Steele. Chloe Steele.
"Hi, Tank. How's the crowd tonight?"
"Packed. Guy from fucking nowhere brought friends. Lots of money changing hands."
"They're betting against Cole?"
"Some of them." He grins. "Idiots."
I follow him down the stairs into the basement that's become so familiar over the past two years. The crowd is enormous tonight. Easily twice the usual size, and the energy is different. Higher. More electric.
Tank leads me to my usual spot in the back corner, the space Cole claimed for me that first night and has kept protected ever since. There's actually a chair here now, a comfortable one that Cole bought specifically for me after I complained once that standing for the entire fight made my feet hurt.
I sit down and scan the crowd until I find him.
He's near the ring, talking to Bruiser and Reckless, the three of them have become something like friends over the past two years, bonding over their shared love of violence. They're the only fighters besides Cole who've managed to stay consistently undefeated, though both of them have losses on their records from fighting him.
As if sensing my attention, Cole looks up.
Our eyes meet across the basement.
He nods once. I smile and nod back.
The opponent is already in the ring when Cole approaches. He's big, maybe Cole's height but built differently, more lean muscle than raw power. He's got the look of someone who's trained seriously, someone who thinks he's got a real shot.
He doesn't.
I've watched Cole fight dozens and dozens of times now. I know how he moves, how he thinks, how he reads an opponent. I've seen him take down fighters who were faster, stronger, more technically skilled. He wins because losing isn't an option for him. Because he fights like his life depends on it.
Because he promised me that he'd never lose while I was watching.
The bell rings.
The fight begins.
It's brutal from the start. The Ohio fighter comes out aggressive, throwing combinations that would put down most opponents. But Cole isn't most opponents. He blocks, slips, counters with devastating precision. Three minutes in, he lands a body shot that makes the other guy gasp for air.
Five minutes in, he opens a cut above the guy's eye. Seven minutes in, it's over. Cole's right hook connects with the guy's jaw and he goes down hard. Doesn't get back up. The crowd erupts. Half of them cheering, half of them groaning as they realize they just lost their money betting against Rampage.
Cole steps back, breathing hard, blood on his knuckles. And he looks at me. Always looks at me right after a fight ends. Like he needs to confirm I'm still there, still safe, still his. I smile at him. He doesn't smile back. He never does, not in the ring.
Twenty minutes later, after the crowd has started to disperse and the cleanup has begun, he finds me in the back corner.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey yourself, champion."
