His Dove on the Canvas

1. Jack

Jack

The oncoming headlights slash across the windscreen. I flinch and squint against the glare as the car tears past, breaking the quiet of the Nanaimo night.

I glance at the clock on the dash. Eight-ten. My fight is at ten. Plenty of time to check out the competition and get my head right before I climb between the ropes.

I pull into the deserted lot, and my stomach drops when the darkness closes around the car. I glance at the address in the text before checking it against the map glowing on my dashboard. They match.

I climb out of the car, my boots crunching over the loose gravel as I head towards the warehouse. The building sits silent and empty.

Then I hear it.

At first, it’s only a low hum carrying through the night. I take three more steps and the sound gets louder. Hundreds of voices, all shouting and swearing, calling for blood.

Walking in, I’m hit by a wall of heat from the packed bodies that circle the ring in the centre. Cheap cologne and perfume hang in the air, mixing with the musty scent of the old building.

Two fighters tear into each other in the dirt, both soaked in blood. Their faces are swollen and cut, their bodies running on whatever adrenaline they have left. I can already see that they’re past fighting to win. They’re now fighting because they know only one of them is walking out of there.

I know the stories about places like this, and it isn’t pretty. There have been men die in the ring, then their bodies get dumped outside whatever hospital was closest before anyone started asking questions.

This was underground fighting at its worst. There are no flyers or advertising with these places, just whispered invitations and people who know how to keep their mouths shut. I’d been around long enough to earn my place here, stepping into whatever pit I chose.

I can still taste the copper when I think about the first punch I ever threw. I was eight, and it landed on Finn.

I’d been terrified that day. School had been normal, and Mum and Dad were already screaming at each other in the kitchen when I got home—nothing unusual about that.

But then Dad grabbed me by the collar, dragged me outside, and shoved me into the back seat of the car.

The tyres squealed as he tore out of the driveway.

We had picked up Uncle Ray, who barked directions toward a sprawling Seattle house beside the ocean.

I didn’t know it then, but it turned out to be Finn’s house. He lived in a super-rich area.

I had stupidly argued back against Dad when he told me why I was there, and Uncle Ray answered with a backhand that snapped my head to the side. I froze, my cheek burning, unable to move. A heartbeat later the sting spread across my face, and the tears came before I could stop them.

Uncle Ray’s face had flushed red with anger as he growled at me, “You’ll do as you’re told, Jack. Your mother needs you to do this.”

Dad sat in the front seat silent, while Uncle Ray got out and hauled me from the car by my jacket.

Inside, I stood on the mat opposite Finn, my knees shaking so badly I thought they might give out. When Uncle Ray barked my name, I swung blind.

Somehow, my fist connected with Finn’s face.

After that, Finn’s father decided I had “potential.” That single word had chained me to the underground fight circuit before I’d even finished primary school.

* * *

I elbow my way through the crowd and find Frank. I slide in beside him, pulling my jacket tighter against the chill.

Frank tilts his head, eyes fixed on the fighters.

“You’re up in three.”

Three fights. “Good. Plenty of time to warm up. Bit stiff, it’s been a long drive.”

I stand there listening to the wet slap of flesh meeting bone as it echoes around the warehouse. My pulse kicks hard, and without thinking, I start bouncing on the balls of my feet.

Finn calls it weaponising, says I look like Henry Cavill loading up before a fight.

I stand there, looking at the floor for another minute, watching the guy in jeans.

He’s efficient, has no wasted movements, and he makes sure that each hit lands where he wants it.

He throws a fast, clean roundhouse, connecting with the other man’s head with a sickening crack.

His teeth scatter across the dirt before he drops to the ground.

The guy in jeans doesn’t stop there.

He drops an elbow onto the man’s skull, then follows with a barrage of hammering fists. Blood pours from the guy’s nose, mouth, and ears. One eye swells shut while the other disappears beneath the blood running down his face.

But the guy isn’t slowing down, and it’s as if the crowd smells death in the air as they surge closer, feeding off each hit. Their shouts grow louder, the air thick now with bloodlust.

I glance quickly at Frank, but there is no interest on his face; he doesn’t even blink. He’s seen all of this before. It’s what he pays his fighters for.

I’ve seen beatings like this before, but someone always stepped in.

“Is no one going to stop this?” I look at Frank, then back at the fighters.

Frank huffs, unfazed.

“Bouncers didn’t turn up, and I ain’t fucking going in there. What, you wanna stop it?”

I stare at him, jaw tightening. “I mean… I can if you want me to.”

Frank watches the man in jeans continue beating the unconscious fighter. He lets out a huff of frustration. “Yeah, ya better. Don’t need another one dead tonight.”

I should be shocked at his words, but I’m not, so I pull in a breath and push through the crowd.

I reach the guy handing out the beating before he knows I’m there. My arm hooks around his throat, and I drag him backwards into my chest, my legs locking around his waist.

I squeeze.

I can feel under my grip his breath catch, and then his hands start clawing at my forearm, fingers digging into my skin, but I hold on, feeling the blood bead on my arms. I can feel his strength start to disappear beneath me until he’s nothing but dead weight against me.

I shove him away and get to my feet.

As I stand there, I look at the two bodies lying in the dirt. One unconscious. The other bleeding badly, blood spreading beneath him.

Two men step forward, grabbing both fighters, and drag them out through the crowd.

* * *

I’m already bouncing on the balls of my feet in the middle of the ring, watching as my opponent steps through the ropes. He’s got close to a foot on me, broader through the shoulders and built like he could snap me in half.

Excellent.

The whistle cuts through the noise, and we move.

I close the distance before he can settle. His right hook comes exactly where I expect it. Wild and predictable.

I slip underneath it, drive my shoulder into his ribs, and dump him onto his back.

This won’t take long.

“You gave yourself away too early, fucker,” I mutter over the roar of the crowd.

As the crowd fades into the background, I drive elbow after elbow into his ribs, cutting off every chance he has to escape. All I hear is my breathing, the dull thud of bone meeting bone, and the air leaving his lungs every time another elbow lands.

His arms shoot up to protect his face.

Good.

I keep working his body instead, and then he gives me an opening. I pivot around him, trap one of his arms, and take his back in one smooth movement, pulling him against my chest. My forearm slides beneath his chin. I lock the choke exactly the way I did with the guy in the jeans.

Then I squeeze.

His nails rake across my forearm before catching my cheek, and warm blood trickles towards my jaw, but I don’t loosen my grip; I just tighten the choke another fraction.

His fight drains away, his arms fall limp, and he never gets the chance to tap out as his body goes dead weight in my arms.

The crowd roars when I climb to my feet, but I don’t acknowledge them. Fuck them. They would’ve been screaming for my head if things were reversed and I was the one passed out in the dirt.

I walk over to Frank, and he gives me a small smile. He pulls a thick wad of cash from his pocket and presses it into my hand.

“That was a little quick, Jack,” he says as I pocket the cash.

I shrug, not giving a shit. “I’ve got a long ride home,” I mumble.

He snickers before calling the next fight, and I watch as two young men walk towards the ring and climb inside. They can’t be much older than Finn and I were when we ran from his father.

Frank blows the whistle, and they start fighting. I stand there watching them for a minute. They’re good, really good. I can see the discipline, the speed, and the sharpness of each move, and I know it takes a lot of training to get that good.

A few minutes later, I’ve seen enough, and I nod my head to Frank and head for my truck.

The cash weighs heavy in my pocket, but it doesn’t come close to the weight of the memories this place dragged back to the surface.

* * *

The following night, I pull into Silas’s driveway. He’d asked me to stay over to watch Hale because he’s got an early start in the morning.

I let myself in and step into the living room.

Hale is sprawled across the armchair, eyes glued to the television while yelling at the screen, and I hear the slice of skates on ice rattling through the speakers.

Silas sits on the couch, his laptop balanced across his knees, fingers flying over the keyboard fast enough to make my eyes hurt.

His fingers never miss a beat as he glances up long enough to flash me a crooked grin before looking back at the screen.

Whatever he’s doing looks less like typing and more like speaking a language only he understands.

Hale flicks his eyes towards me in silent acknowledgment before turning straight back to the television.

Typical ten-year-old.

It still feels strange seeing him here.

A few months ago, Hale was sleeping on a filthy mattress beneath an underground fighting ring, waiting for grown men to decide whether he was worth keeping alive.

Now he’s arguing with the television over some hockey game while Silas tells him to keep the volume down.

Sometimes life changes that fast.

Somehow, Silas and Hale fit. Hale needed someone who wouldn’t give up on him, and Silas needed someone who reminded him there was still good left in the world.

Now and then, I catch Silas looking at Hale when the kid isn’t paying attention. There’s something in his expression I can’t quite name.

Like he’s already preparing himself for the day someone comes to take Hale away. And if that happened, I honestly don’t know which one of them that would break more.

Silas barely notices as I sink onto the couch next to him. His attention stays on the screen, jaw tight with concentration, broad shoulders filling half the couch.

Christ.

The man is unfair to look at.

He’s built like someone who could walk through a brick wall without slowing down. Most of the PalMerc boys are big, but Silas somehow makes the rest of them look average.

Silas doesn’t talk much, but it’s not that weird quiet some people have. He’s steady. Intentional. He speaks when he wants to, and when he does, it’s with that calm weight that makes you pay attention.

But most people never see the other side of him. Only his inner circle sees the prankster—the one who can talk a mile a minute with those he is comfortable around. I have been lucky to see this side of Silas.

From launching a paint grenade to wrapping every item in CJ’s office in neon pink paper, or smothering Deck’s truck in hundreds of Post-it notes.

Once Silas decides you’re his person, all that quiet disappears beneath a wicked sense of humour.

Silas and I have ended up in each other’s beds more than once. Not nearly as often as I’d like, because by God, that man makes my body sing.

But somewhere along the way, casual stopped feeling casual for me. I care deeply for Silas, but I’m not stupid enough to say that out loud. I know he doesn’t want anything serious.

I turn towards the television and prop my feet on the coffee table. I know better than to interrupt Silas when he’s working.

I had asked him once what he was doing.

Let’s just say his explanation was about as clear as whatever was on his screen. All I saw were letters, numbers, and lines of code that meant absolutely nothing to me.

Turning around with a sly smirk, he’d leaned in, whispering like it was a top-secret classified file: “Let’s just say the Pentagon’s cybersecurity isn’t quite as impenetrable as everyone believes.”

Okay then, message received. After that, I never asked again.

“Hey.” His fingers paused over his keyboard.

I look over at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Rough night at the cafe?” His gaze travels over me. “You look like you got caught in the knife drawer.”

His hand reaches out before I can stop him, and one fingertip brushes gently across my cheek.

The touch is barely there. It’s a touch so light I could almost pretend it didn’t happen, but I feel it, and my body freezes under his fingertip. I reach up, forcing him to move his fingers away, and my fingers brush over the sting of dried blood on my cheek.

Shit.

I drop my hand quickly.

“Just a stubborn oven rack,” I lie, keeping my voice level as I turn back towards the television.

Hale shifts in the armchair, grunting as he reaches for the bag of chips on the coffee table.

I feel his eyes on me and glance over. He’s watching us, a frown pulling between his eyebrows. That boy is a little too observant for a ten-year-old.

I raise an eyebrow, and he ignores the silent question, grabbing another handful of chips and turning his attention back to the television.

The room settles into comfortable silence as the television drones in the background, keys tap against plastic, and Hale crunches through another handful of chips.

It’s almost painfully ordinary.

After the noise, the blood, and the violence of last night, I hadn’t realised how badly I’d needed this.

Campbell River and the underground fights exist in two completely different worlds.

They must.

Because if those worlds ever collide, I’ll lose the only place that still feels remotely like home.