Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The chair scraped across the concrete.
One of the men dragged it forward at her gesture, setting it directly in front of me like I was about to be interrogated instead of murdered.
“Bring it closer,” she said mildly.
He did.
She lowered herself into it with deliberate grace, smoothing her skirt beneath her thighs before crossing her legs.
Black pencil skirt. Crimson silk blouse.
Black stockings—silk, I was pretty sure—because she made certain I saw the tops of them when she crossed her legs in a slow and deliberate manner.
Control wasn’t just something she exercised. It was something she enjoyed.
She folded her hands in her lap and smiled at me like we were meeting over cocktails instead of blood.
“Zarek,” she said. “We have very important guests here tonight.”
The locker room smelled like sweat and metal and something chemical I couldn’t quite place. Disinfectant, maybe. On top of fear. And here she was talking about important guests. The dichotomy was rich.
“Not just wealthy,” she continued. “But select. Men and women who sit at the top of society. Old families. Quiet power. They all have one thing in common.”
Her smile sharpened.
“They enjoy a very particular kind of entertainment.”
My stomach turned.
“And I know this,” she went on like she was talking about the weather. I know because each of them has been personally vetted by me. And they have paid handsomely for the privilege of watching tonight’s event.”
It wasn’t just the guests who liked this.
She liked it.
“Maurice told me you were in need of money,” she said, tilting her head. “Something about adoption. IVF. Is that correct?”
The words hit like a body shot straight to the ribs.
I sucked in a breath despite myself.
How in the fuck did she know that?
“Zarek?” she prompted lightly. “Isn’t that right?”
I didn’t trust my voice. So, I nodded.
Her smile widened.
“Maurice mentioned a number you would walk away with if you won,” she said. “He was… mistaken.”
She leaned forward slightly.
“It will be triple that amount.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Think about it,” she purred. “With that kind of money, you could practically buy a baby.”
Something ugly rose in my chest.
“Lady,” I said, my voice low and hard, “that’s not something my wife and I would ever think of doing.”
Her laugh slid down my spine like ice water.
“Oh, I was merely presenting options,” she said. “I might even be able to assist.”
“Look,” I snapped. “I just want to fight and go home. That’s it.”
She glanced over her shoulder and snapped her fingers.
One man stepped forward, opened a leather portfolio, and withdrew a stack of photographs.
“Please understand,” she said, “that while I do need to give you a slight push tonight, the payout remains unchanged.”
She thumbed through the photos slowly.
She pulled one free and held it up.
“This one is particularly nice,” she said. “Your wife is very attractive. She doesn’t dress well—but attractive nonetheless.”
My vision tunneled.
The photo was of Chloe—no, Zoe—getting out of the Miata.
“What the fuck are you doing with a picture of my wife?” I demanded.
“Oh, I have many pictures,” she replied calmly.
She flipped through them.
“I have different angles. Different days. Then there are the photos taken inside Chloe’s apartment.”
Even knowing it was Zoe in those shots, bile rose in my throat.
“I’ll ask you again,” I said through clenched teeth. “What are you doing with pictures of my wife?”
“I’m providing incentive,” she said. “For you to win.”
“You’re out of your goddamn mind,” I snarled. “I always fight to win.”
Her eyes gleamed.
“Ah,” she said. “But the rules are different tonight.”
My pulse thundered.
“Tonight,” she practically cooed, “only one man leaves the cage alive.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
She rose smoothly from the chair and walked toward me.
“Why, Zarek,” she said softly. “It’s a fight to the death.”
The world narrowed to a pinpoint. So, it was true.
“To ensure your pretty little wife stays pretty… and alive,” she continued, “you will need to kill your opponent.”
She smiled.
“Rest assured—he will be planning the same.”
I surged to my feet.
“You’re sick,” I said. “Twisted.”
“Sit down,” she snapped.
“I’m out of here.”
Her smile vanished.
“I have men in Jasper Creek right now,” she said coolly. “One call. One shot. Is that what you want?”
Logically, I knew Chloe and Zoe were protected.
Logically, I knew this couldn’t happen.
But logic meant nothing to the primitive animal roaring awake in my chest.
She turned to the men in the room.
“I believe we have his attention.”
She stepped two steps closer and patted my cheek.
“The fight starts in five minutes.”
There was no referee.
No ropes.
Just steel bars, and harsh overhead lights, and a crowd that smelled blood before it spilled.
She stood outside the cage with a microphone, her heels clicking softly against concrete.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she purred, “out of respect for your privacy—and mine—and theirs—our fighters will be known as Gentleman A and Gentleman B.”
A ripple of laughter.
“I would ask you to touch gloves,” she went on. “But you’re not wearing any.”
More sick laughter from the crowd.
I sized up the man across from me.
He had maybe twenty pounds on me, most of it packed into his shoulders and chest. His legs were thinner than mine. Wiry. Fast.
An advantage.
If I survived long enough to use it.
“When the bell rings,” she said, “the fight begins. Three-minute rounds. They will continue until one of you dies.”
The crowd leaned forward. I heard their collective intake of breath. Their anticipation.
“If one of you passes out,” she added, “the other man is still responsible for finishing the job.”
My hands curled into fists.
“Nod if you understand.”
The man across from me grinned. “I understand,” he said.
That smile told me everything. He’d done this before.
The bell rang.
He came at me like a missile.
I barely had time to brace before he was on me—fists flying, power and speed married to intent. He wasn’t probing. He wasn’t feeling me out.
He was trying to end it.
I blocked, ducked, took hits I felt down to my bones. My ribs screamed in protest. My lungs burned.
He drove me backward with short, brutal combinations—body, head, body—each strike meant to break structure, not score points.
My forearms numbed from absorbing blows, my footing faltered, and I tasted copper as my vision narrowed to nothing but motion and threat.
Every instinct screamed to survive, not strategize.
By the time the bell rang again, I was bent over, hands on my knees, breath coming in ragged pulls.
He straightened slowly.
Smiling.
Blood trickled from a split over his eyebrow.
He was hurt.
But he was enjoying it.
The bell rang again.
He launched into a high kick—sloppy. Too high. Left himself wide open.
I could have shattered his knee. Could have ended him.
The crowd sensed it.
When I didn’t take the shot, they booed.
Loudly.
His eyes flashed.
“That was a mistake,” he growled.
He slammed into me, driving me back into the bars. Fists hammered my body. My head snapped back. My ribs flared white-hot.
Then—
Shouts.
Footsteps.
Sirens.
Chaos.
The raid.
He froze, eyes darting.
I pushed him away and he fell to his knees, then got up again and lunged at me. His knuckles aimed for my throat.
The shot echoed through the space.
He collapsed.
Silence.
Then screaming.
I stood there, shaking, lungs burning, alive.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jase lowering his gun.
I gave him a grateful nod, and took just a moment to breathe.
That was when I knew.
I would never become them.
Not for money.
Not for fear.
Not even for survival.
And as the room exploded into motion, one thought anchored me:
Chloe.