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“I shouldn’t risk it.” I stare at the faint water stain above my head. “If Jason sends a handler to check my hotel room. If a fan spots the rental car parked nearby.”

“Keep parking away from the building. Use the rear fire escape next time.” Micah tightens his arm around my torso. “I refuse to let you drive back alone tonight. You look like a ghost.”

I know the strategic choice. I should argue the logistics. I should protect the massive secret we bleed to conceal. I should drive back to the hotel and stare at the ceiling tiles until dawn breaks.

I nod my head instead.

“Okay. I’ll stay.”

Micah shifts his weight on the mattress. He leans forward and presses a warm, lingering kiss against my forehead.

“Try to sleep. Tomorrow brings a new round.”

Another round of performing for the cameras. Another round of splintering under Dan’s relentless demands.

But tonight, I’m completely safe. I lie in this cramped studio apartment, anchored by the man I love. Oh shit. I love him. That realization crashes over me like a tidal wave.

Four more days follow this one.

I can survive four more days.

16

MICAH

The camera flashes detonate in rapid succession, turning the ballroom into a strobe-lit nightmare. I sit behind a black skirted table, my microphone positioned exactly four inches from my mouth. Two empty chairs separate me from Zane.

He wears a navy suit that likely costs more than my entire fight purse. The tailoring grips his broad shoulders, armor forged from wool and silk. He leans into his microphone and delivers a smile to the ESPN reporter in the third row.

A flawless, devastating smile.

It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“We trained for a war,” Zane tells the room. His voice rings smooth and level over the PA system. “Ironside demands excellence. I plan to deliver.”

The reporters eat it up. They furiously type his empty platitudes into their laptops.

I watch him from the corner of my vision. I see the fractures threatening to shatter his golden boy facade. The tension radiating off him vibrates through the wooden floorboards and travels straight up my spine.

Dan sits directly behind Zane, arms crossed over his chest, acting as the warden. Every time a reporter directs a question at the Ironside camp, Dan leans forward.

“Zane, your coach mentioned a shift in your training camp,” a journalist from a prominent MMA blog calls out. “He claims you rebuilt your entire striking defense.”

Zane’s hands rest flat on the table. I watch his knuckles turn bone-white. The tendons in his wrists pull taut.

Zane pauses. I know that pause. He’s finding an answer Dan won’t punish him for.

“We tightened the fundamentals.” Zane blinks, his amber eyes completely devoid of light. “You evolve or you lose. I don’t lose.”

It’s absolute torture.

We occupy the exact same stage, breathe the exact same recycled hotel air, and everybody is watching. I can’t reach out and brush my knuckles against his sleeve. I can’t whisper a grounding word into his ear. I can’t even let my gaze linger on his face for more than a passing second. The handlers watch us like hawks. The cameras record every twitch.

The moderator directs a question my way.

“Micah, you forced a draw in the first bout. Do you feel the pressure mounting now that Ironside has a target squarely on your back?”

I lean forward. “Pressure builds diamonds. I welcome the target. It means they finally respect the threat.”