Knot Without You: An Omegaverse Romance

Chapter 26

Chapter

Twenty-Six

If Rex hadn’t called this morning to say he and half the club were heading down south to see El Demonio’s for a few weeks, there is no way in hell I would have messaged Tristan.

No ifs or buts about it, I refuse to draw her into that shitty side of my life, but the fight is a good opportunity for us to meet up. Well sort of, it’s not like we’re going to be able to sit down and have the long overdue chat I owe her, but I am hoping tonight at least gives me a chance to look in her big blue eyes and say sorry. Although after the photo she sent my head is not exactly full of apology anymore, instead it’s cramped with ideas about what I want to do to that lush mouth of hers.

The call from Steel earlier probably pushed me into reaching out to Tristan too. I wasn’t fucking joking about being done with this club shit but when Steel told me of the shit he had to do with Rex for some dipshit called Reid, it was the proverbial nail in the coffin for me.

I get living the MC life is about an eye for an eye, but I’m not putting my life on the line for Rex anymore. I’m worth more than that and I hope Steel sees he is too.

The other reason I reached out to Tristan was because after tonight, Steel, Tyson, and I are going on a vacay for a while, and I need her to know I’m not avoiding her but I’m not around. I guess vacay ain’t right, it’s more like a last-ditch attempt at sorting this pack shit out once and for all.

It’s fucking daunting. I never thought our pack wouldn’t work, but we’re at the point now where unless we spend time trying to fix the huge holes in our future, our pack bonds are going to turn to dust.

And it looks like Tyson’s got the same mindset because he’s the one who booked a cabin on a lake in the middle of bumfuck nowhere forcing us to spend time together talking and reconnecting.

“Thirty minutes until show time,” Matty, the organiser yells as he slaps on the door of the change room I’m using.

The reminder he brings acts like a bear trap on all my thoughts and emotions. I’ve always had the ability to flip switches abruptly. It still throws Steel when I do it too. But this is how I make money which means I need the attitude to match.

Sitting on the bench in the corner of the room I open the energy drink, along with a packet of protein balls. I alternate between eating and drinking until both are finished, giving my body a last blast of sugar. The next part of my pre-fight ritual was suggested by an old fella who trained me. I paint my nails. Pretty fucking funny for a fighter to paint his nails before a fight, but like he promised, it works like a charm. Each and every time my opponent sees them, they get so caught up calling me every colourful name under the rainbow they lose their focus, and then I don’t allow them to get it back. It’s seriously just fucking nail polish and if they’re so weak minded not to be able to see that, then I pounce and belt the judgement out of them. Every. Goddamn. Time. Too.

I shift my pre-fight tradition to rhythmic breathing. Inhaling for four, holding for seven, breathing out for eight. I do it in a continual loop until I get another knock on my door letting me know I’m on in ten minutes.

Standing up and taking a final piss and splashing water on my face, I make my way past all the other trainers and fighters until I am standing on the floor watching the last match up play out. Both fighters are in the same division as me. I’ve fought them both, won a couple, lost a few. Tonight’s fight will be a challenge considering my opponent and I have similar fighting stats.

The current match up finishes with a knock-out and as the promoter starts listing off the details for me and my opponent, the cleaning crew rush in to get the cage cleaned up. A round of jeers proceeds the ring girls as they strut through the hyped-up crowd.

Letting my opponent take the stairs in front of me, I take one final steadying breath to lock down any last-minute nerves, and I swear to God I get the smallest tease of bubble-gum. I want to look for her, but I want to win this for her more.

My foot on the landing to the cage is like firmly shutting a door on all the external stimulants; noises fade and the constant movement all around settles into a stillness. Inside me is nothing but a void and a burning desire to win.

Turning as one, my opponent and I bow to the referee. He drops his arm signalling the start of the first round and the other fighter is like a bull out of the gate.

He comes rushing at me with a rear side, double jab power strike combo, and I manage to block him before he southpaws my open side. But I was already prepared as I knew he could fight with both hands equally.

Dipping down low, I block him as I spin wide and strike with a kick in the side he left vulnerable when he tried his flashy move. My heel clips but barely touches and he doesn’t seem to react until I shrug at him, insinuating he’s a fucking beginner. He amps up even more when I wiggle my fingers and he sees my mani.

Using the same speed as before but with a new lack of finesse, his hands in a blur as he alternates between jabs and trying to grab me to pin. We tussle and dance, showing the judges our fancy footwork.

The moment he leans back onto his rear foot I read his next move so instead of waiting for him to stick, I rush making him think quick. Feinting high I spin under his guard before snapping my foot against his shoulders knocking him off his stance. The grunt lets me know I connected good, his growl that follows tells me I’m continuing to get under his skin. And that’s what I want, because if I see it, so will every fucking person here, including the judges.

The first-round whizzes past in a clash of fighting style and wit. He is good, I’ll give him that, but I know I’m better. Not my ego talking, my deep-seated belief backed up by endless hours training.

I’m not one of those fighters that has an entourage. I have a drink bottle, and a towel, and I use the sixty seconds break watching his team coach him down.

The next round runs similarly and I’m fine with that. I’m happy to fight the full five rounds because I know he’s going to be the one to get out of the cage disappointed. His lack of discipline is showing more with each sloppy punch and kick. We definitely trade blows and then I cop an elbow hard enough to the top of my forehead to bring ringing to my ears, but I return the favour sending him to his corner with a bloody lip.

In the third round he comes on stronger and harder than he’s shown me yet. He focuses on trying to repeat landing another blow on my forehead, and he sends me to my ass completely with fucking stars in my eyes just as the bell goes. My feet slide out as I try to climb to them and the ref checks me over, pulling my lids up to make sure my eyes are still dilating.

I sit on the stool in my corner, not dejected but not very fucking happy either.

“Maverick.”

Jesus, hearing her is like the clouds fucking parting in a hallelujah moment. And a rush of energy unfurls slowly starting at my feet.

I don’t look at her, but I turn slightly, letting her know I heard her, and Tristan passes an empty bottle of water, and my slow ass brain takes a second to register the meaning.

“Yeah, you like?” I finally look at her. The photo she sent did no damn justice to her in the flesh. She is sex on a stick, pure class in heels, and stands out like a sore fucking thumb in her ‘ex-squeeze me’ pants and red top. Her pants need to be fucking burnt, they’re that dangerous.

Drawing her sunnies down the bridge of her nose, her eyes are shot black, and this close I can scent her lust. Even her voice is deeper. “I might even forgive you for standing me up at breakfast if you hurry up and show this dickweed who he’s messing with.”

She spins on her skyscraper heels and purposely sashays her peachy ass as she walks away. My eyes track her until she’s back standing with her security guys. Once she’s back, a flip switches deep in the primitive part of my designation. Her words become a mantra while her scent is like smelling salts giving me razor sharp clarity.

The bell rings and this time I’m the aggressor. I keep it unemotional and clinical.I show him and the judges how well I know the moves he attempted previously. The only way to tell I’m getting through his defences is the buzz in my muscles as they start to strain after each sequence. In close range, I use my forearm and shins, and when we’ve got more space in our grapple, the ball of my foot snaps or the kiss of my knuckles keep him on the edge of sloppy fightback.

But he manages to land a vicious strike to my liver, and it’s textbook how quickly it drains my fucking energy. Just like that I get messy as my agility all but drains. He catches my legs together and we both fight to stay on our feet. Twisting around each other, I try to protect my liver, but it leaves me wide open on the other side and the next moment he’s squeezing the living fucking life out of me as he stands, my head dangling straight down. I repeatedly slam my knee against his shoulder, trying to escape his hold. The distance between us and the mat shifts as he kicks his legs out in front of him, dropping to his ass. And it’s fucking lucky we’re both covered in sweat and that I’d been belting against him, or he would have spiked my neck. Lucky for me, I hit the mat with my shoulder before kicking free of his armlock.

The buzzer sounds and I roll, staggering to my feet and putting some distance between us because now I am ready to kill him. I fucking despise fighters who resort to illegal moves when the going gets tough.

The referee gets in his face and points him back to his corner. Maybe the other fighter is too amped up on fucking juice or he’s just a cunt, but the roar of the crowd when he shoves the ref in his chest is the sound of my sweet victory.

I stand there and do the necessary, but I’m so far away from here too. Pretty much all of my attention is currently watching her leave.