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The noise of the crowd swells, but it barely registers, fading into the background as I roll my shoulders once, loosening the tension still coiled in my muscles. A waste of a fight.
My gaze cuts across the cage immediately, searching and finding. Jaxon. Right where I left him. He’s watching me. I like his eyes on me. When his eyes meet mine, relief hits sharper than it should. He didn’t run or disappear while my back was turned. Something dark and possessive settles low in my chest at the sight, something I don’t bother questioning right now as I step toward the cage door. Good boy.
Chapter 7
Jaxon
The fight that probably would have either killed me or left me permanently broken is over before it even really begins. I’m still trying to wrap my head around how quickly it happened, how effortlessly he handled someone I know I wouldn’t have survived in my current state.
Conor doesn’t just fight. He controls everything. Every movement is deliberate, every shift of his weight calculated. None of his movements is wasted. He already knows how it’s going to end before it even starts, and I haven’t seen that kind of control since my time in the Marine Corps.
God. When he pulled his shirt off. When he took off his belt like it was nothing, like he wasn’t standing right in front of me, like I wasn’t sitting there trying not to stare. I thought I was going to combust on the spot. There’s no other way to describe it.
I’ve seen fit men before. Hell, I’ve been around them most of my life. But him? That’s something else entirely. Yeah, I looked. Of course I did. No one can blame me, fuck. But he caught me, too. For a split second, our eyes met, and I was sure I’d been called out without a single word being said, but his expression never changed. There wasn’t even a flicker, and I couldn’t tell if he was offended, amused, or if it didn’t even register to him at all. Which somehow makes it worse. Because in my defense, with a body like that on display? Anyone would look.
He’s making his way back to me, long strides eating up the distance between us as if the crowd pressing in around him doesn’t exist at all. People are shouting, cheering, calling out to him, trying to grab his attention now that they’ve seen what he can do, but he doesn’t so much as glance their way. His focus stays locked on me, steady and unbroken, until it feels as if the rest of the room has faded into nothing.
Those green eyes don’t leave mine. Not once. My pulse picks up without my permission. He reaches me faster than I expect, grabbing an empty folding chair as he passes and setting it down beside me with a sharp scrape of metal against concrete before dropping into it. His presence settles beside me, solid and undeniable.
He starts unwrapping his hands, his movements efficient and practiced, but then he pauses halfway through and looks at me, his gaze sharp and assessing in a way that makes my chest tighten.
“Get your wraps off and pack up.”
It isn’t a suggestion, it’s a command. There’s no room in his tone for argument, no space to question him or push back. And the worst part is that I don’t. I don’t argue, don’t hesitate. I don’t even think about telling him no. My hands move before my brain can catch up, my fingers already reaching for the tape around my knuckles as something heavy settles in my chest. Because for some reason, I want to do exactly what he tells me.
I make quick work of getting my shirt back on, my hands unwrapped, and everything packed away with more speed than care. My movements are automatic even as my thoughts lag behind, trying to make sense of everything that just happened. I’m not sure what he wants. None of this makes sense.
The whole situation feels surreal, like I stepped into something that doesn’t belong to me and haven’t quite found my way out of it yet. I noticed him before. At every fight.
Every time I stepped into that cage, I could feel his eyes on me, could pick him out of the crowd without even trying, but he never approached me, never spoke, never showed anything beyond that quiet, watchful presence. And now he’s beside me after he just fought for me, giving me orders.
As soon as I’m packed up, I push to my feet, my body heavy and aching, ready to be done with this night. All I want is to go back to my apartment, take a long hot shower, and sleep until everything stops hurting.
“Let’s go.”
Conor stands and starts walking toward the exit without waiting for me, not even checking if I follow. It’s like he already decided that I will. And I do. I’m like a confused little puppy. I fall in behind him, my bag slung over my shoulder as I try and fail to make sense of any of it.
The second we step outside, the warm night air hits me, and I take a deep breath, filling my lungs fully for the first time since I walked into that place. It almost feels like relief. But he doesn’t stop. He just keeps walking.
I hesitate for a second, watching him, realizing that if I don’t say something now, he might just walk away and disappear again. And I don’t want that.
“Thanks for helping me out,” I say, my voice rougher than I expect. “I really appreciate it.” It sounds small even to my own ears. It’s not enough, but it’s all I’ve got. He stops and turns toward me. Those green eyes lock onto mine again, steady and unreadable.
“We need to talk,” he says, his voice firm. “But not here.” He pauses just long enough for the words to settle. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” I ask. “I can’t leave my truck here, so I’ll have to follow you.”
I know this is an idiotic move. Yeah, sure, just agree to follow a stranger. A hot, sexy as fuck stranger, but still a stranger. I tell myself that over and over, trying to find some kind of solid ground in all of this, some reason to stop and walk away before I get pulled any deeper into something I already don’t understand.
I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to hurt me physically. If he did, he could have just let me take that last fight and watched me get destroyed. But physical pain isn’t the only way to hurt someone. And if anyone knows that, it’s me. Exhibit A: the lesson I learned from Trent.
“There’s a diner down the street on Oak,” he says, tilting his head slightly as he looks at me, like he’s expecting me to push back, like he’s waiting for me to argue or question him. I don’t.
The truth is, I want to talk to him. I need to. Because nothing in my life comes without a cost, and I know there’s going to be one for what he did tonight. There’s always a price. It’s better to know what it is now.
“Yeah, I know it,” I say, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. “I’ll meet you there.”
He studies me for a second, then gives a single nod before turning and walking in the opposite direction without another word. Just like that. I stand there for a moment, watching him go, before I finally turn and head for my truck.
