Chapter 12 Victor
VICTOR
Fight night always charges the air with a specific kind of electricity. The roar of the crowd, the smell of sweat and adrenaline, the primal energy that pulses through the space—it’s where I’ve always felt most at home. Most sure of who I am.
Tonight we’re packed to capacity. Nearly five hundred bodies crammed into the warehouse space, the ring lit like it’s the only place in the world that matters.
Marco’s handling the door while I make my rounds, checking in with security, making sure the bar is fully stocked.
This is my kingdom. The one place where everything makes perfect sense.
I’m halfway to the fighters’ area when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Probably Ray with an update on ticket sales or someone running late. I fish it out, tapping the screen without really looking at it.
My stomach drops when I see the name.
Theo.
“Fuck,” I mutter, glancing around quickly to make sure no one’s watching me. My thumb hovers over the notification, heart suddenly pounding harder than any pre-fight jitters I’ve ever had. I should delete it without looking. Block his number. Forget he exists.
Instead, I tap to open it.
Loved seeing Daddy earlier.
The message floors me before I can brace for it, and the image beneath it loads immediately.
Lacy black underwear stretched over lean hips—unmistakably male but delicate in a way that makes my mouth water.
The photo cuts off just below his waist, showing only the outline of what’s hidden beneath that thin fabric, the slight curve pressing against lace.
I groan, immediately looking up to make sure nobody heard me. A cold sweat breaks out across my back despite the heat of the crowded space.
“Everything okay, boss?” Marco appears at my side, a concerned look on his face.
I slam the phone screen against my chest. “Fine. What do you need?”
“Jenkins is asking for you. Says he’s got a question about his opponent.”
“Tell him I’ll be there in five,” I manage, my voice sounding strangled even to my own ears.
Marco nods and heads back toward the locker rooms. The moment he’s out of sight, I look down at my phone again, at those long legs and narrow hips I had gripped so tightly just days ago.
I stare at those black lace panties, my dick hardening against my will.
Fuck this. I’m so goddamn tired of having to hide erections like some horny teenager.
It’s been days of this—getting hard at the gym, hard during meetings, hard in the fucking shower while I try to wash the memory of his body from my skin.
And now, twenty minutes before the biggest underground bout of the month, here I am again, cock straining against my zipper because this man won’t leave me alone.
“Not now,” I growl, jabbing the power button on my phone. The screen goes dark, and I shove it deep into my pocket, adjusting myself with an angry tug. This is my world. He doesn’t belong here.
I push through the crowd toward the preparation area, nodding at regulars who’ve paid good money to be here tonight.
This isn’t some public event—these fights are invitation-only, high-stakes fights for serious players and wealthy spectators.
The kind of place where a man builds his reputation.
The kind of place where that reputation can be destroyed just as quickly.
Jenkins is wrapping his hands when I enter the back room, his eyes lighting up when he sees me. “Boss, wanted to ask about—”
“Later,” I cut him off, scanning the room. Something feels off. The energy’s shifted.
That’s when I see him—Rick fucking Dawson, standing by the water cooler like he belongs here, chatting up my fighters. My blood boils instantly, the tension in my body finding a target more acceptable than Theo.
“Who the fuck let him in?” I demand, loud enough that several heads turn. Dawson looks up, a smirk spreading across his face as he raises his water cup in a mock toast.
“Victor! Great setup you’ve got here. Classy operation.”
I move toward him, all thoughts of Theo and inappropriate erections replaced by pure rage. Dawson is the last person who should be in my space, eyeing my fighters, assessing my business.
“You’re not invited,” I say, standing close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne. “Get out before I have you thrown out.” My voice turns to a growl. “Now.”
Dawson just laughs, taking another sip of water. “Is that any way to treat a colleague? I’m just making small talk with some talent.”
“My talent.” I step closer, invading his space. “And we’re not colleagues.”
Jenkins and the others are watching now, the room gone silent. This is exactly what Dawson wants—to create a scene, to make me look unstable in front of my fighters.
I turn to Marco, who’s already moving toward us. “Show Mr. Dawson to his car.”
“I know where the door is,” Dawson says, but he doesn’t move.
“Apparently not.” I nod to Marco, who grabs Dawson’s arm.
“Take your hands off me,” Dawson snaps, but Marco’s already pulling him toward the exit.
“I’ll catch up with you boys later,” Dawson calls to my fighters as he’s being escorted out. “I pay better, and my venue doesn’t smell like piss.”
I follow them through the crowd, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth might crack. Once we reach the back exit that leads to the parking lot, I tell Marco, “I’ve got this.”
The cool night air hits me as the door closes behind us. Dawson straightens his expensive jacket, his face flushed with anger.
“Touch me again and I’ll sue your entire operation into the ground,” he spits.
I step closer, towering over him. “Try to poach another one of my fighters, and you won’t have fingers left to sign the paperwork.”
“Big man with your threats.” Dawson smirks. “But I’ve already signed Diaz. Rodriguez is next.”
My hand shoots out, grabbing his collar before I can stop myself. “You come into my house, drink my water, and brag about stealing my people?”
“Your house is a dump,” he hisses, not backing down. “And your fighters deserve better than your outdated training methods and pathetic payouts.”
I release him with a slight shove. “You think you understand this world because you’ve got money? You’re nothing but a tourist. These fighters need someone who’s been in the trenches, not some suit who saw UFC on TV and decided to play fight promoter.”
“Keep telling yourself that while your best talent walks out the door.” His eyes narrow. “Cross me again, and I’ll make sure every building owner in this city knows what really happens in your private events. The gambling. The lack of medical clearance.”
“Make another threat, and you’ll need medical clearance,” I say, my voice deadly calm. “This is your last warning. Stay away from my people.”
That rush of controlled anger courses through my veins. This—this is what I understand. Territory. Respect. Power.
Dawson scoffs, backing away with his hands raised. “You’re a dinosaur, Kaine.” He straightens his jacket, composure returning. “Your threats might work on gym rats, but this is business.”
“Get the fuck out of my sight,” I growl.
He walks backward toward his car, pointing at me. “This isn’t over.”
“It better be,” I call after him, watching until his taillights disappear around the corner.
I take a deep breath of cool night air before heading back inside. The heat and noise of the place wash over me as I push through the crowd. The first bout is about to begin, and I force myself to focus on what matters—my fighters, my gym, my reputation.
Jenkins dominates his match, technical and precise.
The crowd roars when he lands a devastating combination in the third round, his opponent dropping to the canvas.
Lowman follows with an impressive submission win.
By the end of the night, we’re five for six—only Mendez lost, and even that was a close decision.
The crowd thins gradually until just my inner circle remains. Ray counts the night’s take while Marco and the boys clean up. I nod as Ray gives me the final numbers—better than last month.
“Fuck Dawson,” I mutter. “Let him take whoever he wants. They’ll be back when they realize his fancy gym doesn’t teach real fighting.”
Ray nods. “That motherfucker doesn’t understand loyalty.”
When the last of them leaves, I find myself alone in the empty club. The lights above the ring still shine, casting long shadows across the floor. I climb through the ropes, standing in the center where it all happens. This is real. This makes sense.
I pull out my phone, telling myself I’m just checking messages. But my thumb moves on its own, finding Theo’s text, opening that photo again—black lace stretched tight, the promise of what lies beneath.
My body responds instantly, that heat moving through me again. I should delete it. Block his number. Instead, my resolve is weakening with every second.
Standing in the empty ring, I stare at Theo’s photo, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?
Nice panties. Where’d you buy them? I type, then delete immediately. Too casual, like this is normal.
I told you it was a mistake. Delete. Too defensive.
You need to stop texting me. Delete. Too desperate.
Meet me tonight. Delete. Fuck no. I’m not going down that road again.
My heart pounds as I finally type:
I don’t do this.
I hit send before I can change my mind, then watch the screen, both dreading and anticipating his response. The typing indicator appears almost instantly.
You already did. And it was the best night of your life.
My stomach drops because he’s right. It was. Nothing I’ve experienced before or since has come close to what happened between us. My cock stiffens painfully against my zipper just thinking about his body under mine, the sounds he made when I pushed inside him.
I type, fingers moving against my better judgment.
It was. And my cock is hard right now thinking about it. But I can’t do this. I can’t be this.
I add:
Stop texting me. Please.
The reply comes faster than I expected.
I can’t. Never had dick that good before. I want more. Need more.
I groan, dropping my head back to stare at the ceiling lights. I’m royally screwed. Everything I’ve built, everything I am—it all feels like it’s balancing on the edge of a knife. One wrong move and it all comes crashing down.
I sit with our conversation thread glowing on the screen, the evidence of my weakness.