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Micah reaches across the gap. His rough, calloused fingers find my hand in the dark. The heat of his skin sears straight through my palm, sending a jolt of electricity up my forearm. He laces our fingers together.
“The fight ends. One of us wins, one of us loses. And then, before they can separate us, before the cameras move on—” Micah pauses, letting the image hang in the humid air. “We show them.”
“Show them what?”
“That you’re mine.” Micah squeezes my hand, his grip unyielding. “That I’m yours. That whatever they thought they knew about us, they were wrong.”
My breath catches. The vision hits my brain, stark and terrifying. Twenty thousand screaming fans. The blinding glare of arena lights. The confusion morphing into shock as the undefeated king of Ironside MMA crosses the canvas to claim a man.
“Dan will lose his mind.”
“Probably.”
“Jason will pull his funding. Ironside will drop me.”
“Probably.” Micah does not offer false reassurances.
“My whole career—”
“Will change.” He finishes the thought, his tone dropping an octave, anchoring the chaos. “Not end. Change. And you won’t be facing it alone.”
I remain quiet for a long time. The ticking fan blade fills the void. Every choice I ever made filters through the lens of Richard Butler’s approval. The way I stand. The way I speak to the press. The sterile, unyielding discipline that defined my twenties. I sacrificed my youth to a bronze plaque in a lobby. I gave up the right to love, to touch, to breathe freely, all to keep the title of Undefeated clean of any perceived stain.
The sports network commentators call me a machine. They praise my icy detachment. They don’t know how much of it is fear. Fear of failing. Fear of exposure. Fear of looking in the mirror and seeing a fraud.
“I’m terrified.” The admission leaves my throat raw, devoid of any protective gloss.
“I know.” Micah shifts his weight, sliding across the mattress. He pulls me closer, eliminating the space between us. His bare chest presses flush against my side. “Be terrified. It’s okay. Just don’t let it stop you.”
I turn fully onto my side. I bury my face in the curve of his neck, breathing him in. Cedar, salt, and the lingering musk of sex. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, drawing me flush against the solid wall of his chest.
I let the fear wash over me. I don’t fight the rising tide of panic. I’m scared of what it means to leave Ironside, and I’m done pretending otherwise. Ironside molded me. They fed me a steady diet of arrogance and isolation. They told me absolute dominance required absolute solitude.
They lied.
The man holding me on this cheap mattress offers more strength than every heavy bag and sparring partner in Jason Ortega’s empire. His heart thuds against his ribs, a steady, rhythmic drumbeat anchoring my erratic pulse.
“I spent my entire life building a monument to a man who never wanted the real version of his son,” I murmur against Micah’s collarbone. “I memorized his prejudices. I swallowed his expectations. I let them carve his initials into my skin.”
I lift my left hand, staring at the faded black marker on my wrist in the dim light. R.B. A brand of ownership. A shackle.
Micah reaches up and covers my wrist with his large hand, hiding the letters from view. He drags his thumb across my pulse point, soothing the frantic jump of my blood.
“You survived him.” Micah rests his cheek against my temple. “You survived Dan. You survived all of them. But survival is just existing. We have to actually live.”
“Live.” I test the word. It feels heavy and foreign on my tongue. “I don’t know the first step.”
“Step one is tomorrow night. We step into the light.”
A shudder wracks my frame. The adrenaline mixes with a bone-deep exhaustion. We’re still recovering from the cut, drinking between conversations and picking at the food we brought back. We’re two exhausted fighters on the eve of the biggest bout of our careers, holding onto each other to keep from floating away into the dark.
I tilt my head back, meeting his dark gaze. The amber glow from the alleyway catches the fierce devotion burning in his eyes.
“What if they try to strip the belt from me?” I ask, voicing the worst scenario Jason Ortega laid out in previous threats. “What if they cite a morality clause? Claim the rivalry was a staged work? They will try to invalidate the fight. They will drag the commission into it.”
“Let them try.” Micah tangles his fingers in my hair. “They can rewrite the narrative all they want. They cannot rewrite the tape. When you hit me tomorrow, the whole world will see it is real. When I drop you, they will know I earned it.”
A sharp laugh punches its way out of my chest. “You really think you can drop me.”
