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I stand up. I roll my shoulders. The cage door locks us inside. The point of no return approaches.

Round five.

We step forward. Both exhausted. Both refusing to quit.

We abandon defense. Technique gives way to unyielding grit. We stand in the center of the octagon and trade blows, two gladiators fighting for survival.

Zane catches me with a straight right as I step in. His glove clips the ridge above my left eye.

Skin splits open. Hot blood pours down the side of my face, stinging my eye, blurring the edge of my vision. The metallic tang of copper fills my mouth. The crowd roars at the sight of the crimson spray.

I blink hard and circle away. He expects me to charge back in. Instead, I feint the shot Victor called for and throw a short right over his lowered guard.

The punch connects flush with his jaw.

Zane staggers backward. His knees buckle. He hits the fence hard. The chain-link rattles under his heavy frame.

I swarm him. I land two hooks to the body. He wraps his arms around my waist, tying me up to survive the onslaught.

The final minute ticks away.

He turns me against the fence. I fight for an underhook, cheek against his shoulder. His chest heaves against mine. There’s less than a minute left, and neither of us can afford to rest here.

I can hear his breathing over the crowd.

I stare into his amber eyes. The fear vanishes. The pressure of the legacy dissolves. Only Zane remains.

“I love you,” I breathe. The words hang in the microscopic space between our mouths, too quiet for the microphones to catch.

His pupils blow wide. A fierce, desperate devotion softens the hard lines of his bruised face.

“Love you too.”

Zane drives his knee upward. The bone crashes directly into my injured ribs. Pain flares bright and white behind my eyes.

“Now fight.”

He demands my best. He refuses to let me soften the blow. He honors the pact we made in the dark.

I fight.

I break the clinch. I throw a flurry of punches. Jab, cross, hook. He answers with a spinning backfist that grazes my temple. We swing wildly, giving every last drop of energy to the canvas.

The ten-second clapper echoes through the arena.

We refuse to step back. We stand toe-to-toe, trading heavy strikes. The final horn blares, a long, sustained blast ending the war.

The referee dives between us, shoving us apart.

We stagger backward. My chest heaves. My lungs burn for oxygen. Blood drips from my chin, splashing onto the white canvas. The swelling around my eye tightens. My ribs ache with every single breath I drag through my teeth.

I’ve never felt more alive.

We stand at the center of the cage. The referee grips our wrists.

The arena holds its collective breath. Twenty thousand fans wait in agonizing silence.

My body screams in protest. The adrenaline bleeds away, leaving pure agony in its wake. The cut over my eye throbs with a dull, heavy pulse. My knuckles swell against the tight athletic tape.