Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
DELLA
He enters the cage like a gladiator walking into an arena, Brothers a step behind. Leland doesn’t go in until he’s firmly in his corner and they’re separated by the entire length of the pit. The referee starts walking to the upper end to check the gate.
I have no faith in his ability to monitor this fight. I’m so scared that once they start, it’s not going to end until someone is dead.
I think I might faint.
My nails dig into the post, keeping me upright. The referee comes to the middle of the pit. My breathing shallows. Never did I think this would end with my ex-husband and the man I love fighting in a cage. The world is upside down. Tonight is a blurred, bad dream.
I wonder if Leland has ever fought anyone outside of sparring partners at the gym. If I had to guess, he has, but I know he’s never fought anyone like Jensen.
My heart feels distant, a desperate patter, like it’s out there with him.
“Move in, move in,” the referee calls.
Leland goes, confidently, to the center.
Jensen takes two steps to the side, like he’s checking his vantage point, and then he starts walking in.
He’s just like he was that day in the swamp—calm, confident, focused.
The firelight catches the tattoo on his side, casting shadows down the ridges and scars of his body.
They stop, face to face, and Leland shakes out his shoulders. Jensen doesn’t move, but his eyes track Leland’s, his lips parted.
Leland says something.
Jensen laughs once, but he’s not amused.
They’re not a fair fight to the naked eye. Leland is broader and the audience notices. Money starts changing hands, moving in a wave toward the bucket with Leland’s number on it. My stomach roils with unease. They’re all here for a show, to win some cash. This is a game to them, but not to me.
My life depends on Jensen winning.
If I go home with Leland tonight, I’m done.
He might kill me, but I don’t think so. More likely, he’ll keep me alive, keep me sedated beneath his boot, and I’ll get to live knowing he got what he wanted.
Every day will be hell, my mind wearing thin from the stress of him on my body every night, his eyes following my every move, his relentless need to control everything I say and do.
He’s too proud to give me up.
Or too sadistic.
Someone is behind me. I glance over my shoulder, cowed by the two bodyguards standing with their arms crossed, their eyes straight ahead. Neck prickling, I turn to face the pit again.
The referee is speaking to them, gesturing. Leland jerks his head, but Jensen doesn’t move, eyes never leaving my ex-husband. Finally, he extends his hand. Leland hesitates before he shakes it, and Jensen leans in, his lips moving.
No, no, please don’t.
Lord, I know Jensen just rubbed salt in Leland’s wound.
Right on cue, Leland surges at him. I surge too, even though I don’t know what I’m doing. The bodyguards take a step to keep me from running. In the pit, the referee steps between them, palms up, and Leland backs off.
Jensen turns, a cocky little smile on his face, and starts walking back to his corner. There’s a swagger in his step that wasn’t there before.
My God, this man has a death wish.
The referee steps back to the gate, puts two fingers in his mouth, and whistles.
The crowd roars, moving in a wave to the edge of the cage.
I’ve never felt anything like this before.
My heart is in my mouth, off beat. Everything tastes like metal.
I think I’m biting my tongue. The energy is thicker than smoke, and it’s making me sick to my stomach.
I can’t pass out, not while Jensen is in the pit, fighting for our lives.
I can’t go and faint on him.
Desperate, I lean back to the bodyguard. “You got any whiskey on you?”
His jaw twitches, but to my surprise, he pulls a flask out of his pocket and hands it over. Grateful, I drain the little left and pass it back.
Leland starts moving in. Jensen goes sideways, a slow evasion. Why is he doing that? He didn’t fight like that back in Montana. Is it because Leland has the advantage? Or is there something I don’t see?
Leland comes a few yards in. Jensen starts heading his way, halfway between his corner and the gate. From the corner of my eye, I see Brothers standing by the platform, arms crossed. He looks like he just did a line of coke with his eyes blown out like that, wider than an owl.
Leland puts his fists up. Jensen mirrors him.
They circle for a half a beat. Then, Leland swings, and Jensen side steps. I don’t know a lot about fighting, but it seems to me, Leland is leaving too much of his body open. His defense is looser than Jensen’s, just from having watched him fight twice before.
Bam.
The crowd roars as Jensen catches Leland in the ribs, darting back before he can retaliate. His strategy is starting to make more sense now. He’s got the advantage of being quicker, and he’s leaning into it.
Leland surges, and Jensen parries him back using his palms. He’s light, swift, but more importantly, he’s in control of his emotions, and it’s working. He swings, hitting the same spot on Leland’s ribs. The rage, the tension, from Leland is palpable, and it scares me.
The referee holds up the chalk scorecard.
Two to zero.
Leland doesn’t like that, and he pulls back, circling. His eyes meet mine across the pit, and the look he gives me chills me to my core.
Just brutal rage.
I shrink back until I can’t go any further. The bodyguards are an iron wall behind me. There’s no way out of this but forward.
Leland circles back, and Jensen mirrors him again.
It’s impossible to tell if he’s playing with Leland or fighting in earnest. This time, they get close, but neither of them give up the defensive position.
They just circle, feigning a few times, then back up.
Nothing happens for a couple of agonizing minutes. Then, it all happens at once.
Leland comes in with a right hook. Jensen ducks, but not far enough. It catches him in the forehead, sending him stumbling.
No, God, please.
The crowd gasps then roars. They’re screaming, beating on the spiked fence. More money pours into Leland’s bucket on the betting table.
Jensen recovers fast. He’s not bleeding, but there’s a mark above his left brow.
He shakes his head once, and they circle again until the pressure gets too intense and they have to move in.
Every step they take, the crowd screams. It makes me sick, the way they’re eating this up, not knowing how much is on the line.
My vision goes hazy. I blink hard, trying to clear the tears.
Jensen moves in to meet Leland, but this time, Jensen swerves to the other side.
Leland’s right side is open for a fleeting second, and Jensen takes it, swinging and hitting with a crunch that echoes over the clearing.
Leland reels, but Jensen keeps going, raining down blows until my husband falls to his back with a thud, throwing up dust.
Jensen turns around, spitting into the dirt.
The crowd goes silent.
The referee starts counting with big, exaggerated gestures.
Leland scrambles to a crouch, eyes dark and narrowed.
Then, he’s up and coming at Jensen fast. Jensen stumbles, backing up, moving to the side to avoid being hit head on.
Leland’s fist catches him in the same place as before, but this time, the skin splits.
He lurches back, jaw rippling as he clenches his teeth.
Crimson trickles down his face and neck.
The crowd goes wild.
Hot tears pour from my eyes, soaking the red of my dress, turning it darker. God, I fucking hate this dress and this color.
But Jensen’s back on his feet, unfazed save for the blood.
A long, sharp whistle splits over the crowd, and both men relax, backing up to their corners.
Thank God, a moment to breathe. Jensen returns to his corner.
Brothers is waiting, holding out a crushed water bottle.
Jensen takes it, drinking then spattering the rest over his head.
He shakes like a dog, eyes squeezed shut.
That had to hurt.
Leland is doing a loop, pacing the side of the cage closest to me. Our eyes meet, and the corner of his mouth turns up.
Got him, he says without speaking.
My hands are cold, and I can’t move. Leland turns his back to me, running his hands over his face to clear the sweat. I look past him, watching Jensen talk with Brothers in the far corner. Brothers is touching his temple with a balled up rag, talking earnestly, while Jensen is listening, nodding.
The referee whistles, tapping his wrist. Jensen pulls back from Brothers and starts circling to the center of his side. Leland shakes his shoulders out again. They’re both glistening with sweat, but to my untrained eye, it seems like Jensen is less fatigued. Or maybe that’s just me hoping too much.
The whistle blows. Round two.
This time, Jensen goes right on defense. Leland, clearly bolstered by the sight of blood, is more aggressive. He’s moving in, swinging, darting back out, but Jensen is holding his own, battering him back while barely making contact.
They do this for what feels like forever.
What is Jensen doing?
Back in Montana, I saw him drop both those fighters like it was nothing. If he really wanted to, he could do some damage to Leland, but he’s doing everything he can to not take or throw a punch.
The whistle blows. They part, shoulders sagging.
This time, when Leland goes to his corner, he’s winded. Our eyes meet, and I still shrink back, but it’s a small victory that he’s struggling to catch his breath. Jensen has his back to me, tired but more collected than Leland.
The referee whistles. They walk back in.
Jensen cracks his neck. Leland’s fists go up fast. In a second, they’re back at it, sidestepping and sparring in the center. I lean closer, going as far as the first step. The bodyguards move in, encircling me, but I ignore them.
Leland is wearing down.