Chapter Two #3
The obsidian heat in my gaze locks on his, and he shifts uneasily, sweat beading along his brow. His nerves betray him before his body can react. I don’t have to land the first hit to know this one’s over. He’s prey. Caught. The only actual choice left is how long I want to play with him.
A flicker of something cold rolls through my veins as I take that first step forward.
The moment he flinches, I strike—my fist connects with the side of his face in a clean hook that bursts the skin under his eye and swells it instantly. He staggers but doesn’t fall. Not yet. They never fall right away.
That would be too merciful.
Rowen and I—we’re fast. Brutally fast. That’s why this gig is perfect. We’re identical, so when he swaps a fight with me now and then, no one notices. It’s a release. An outlet. We don’t fight because we want to win. We fight because it’s the only thing that still makes us feel something.
My opponent tries to retreat, staggering backward, like he might somehow slip past the cage, as if escape is even an option. It isn’t. Once you’re in the ring, you’re in until you win or they carry you out. There are no clean exits here. No tap outs that save face. Not in the Underground.
And from the way he gasps for breath, arms dropping lower in exhaustion, I can tell he knows it too.
His eyes dart around, scanning the crowd like someone’s going to save him.
They won’t.
I shift, letting him take a step. Let him think he’s gaining ground.
Then, I slam my knuckles into his exposed ribs on the left side—not hard enough to crack, but enough to make him feel it. A warning. A promise.
The way he stumbles to the side, wheezing like a punctured tire, tells me all I need to know. He’s barely hanging on. And worse, he realizes I’m pulling my punches. He knows I could end this in the blink of an eye… but I’m choosing not to.
Panic flickers in his eyes like a match struck in the dark.
Because now he understands—this isn’t a fight.
It’s punishment.
I want to break something. Not him specifically, just something. But unfortunately for him, he’s the one standing in front of me tonight while the weight of five years of loss gnaws at the edges of my restraint.
My girl. The fire. The unanswered questions. That text message from Berkley, jumbled and cut off, haunts me more than anything. And I can’t fucking talk about it. Not with Rowen. Not with Emerson. They act as if she’s gone and buried, like we should just accept what we were told.
But I can’t. I won’t.
That’s what I drag into the ring with me.
The blood on my hands isn’t his yet—but it will be.
Before this round is over, something is going to break.
And it won’t be just my mind.
I’m mid-swing when something catches my eye—just a glint, a flicker of unnatural color—but it’s enough. The rotating overhead lights slide like spotlights across the crowd, and for the briefest second, that familiar flash of purple cuts through the haze.
My fist sails just wide of its mark, grazing my opponent’s cheek instead of shattering his jaw.
The impact is still enough to stagger him, but it’s not what it should’ve been.
Because in that instant, nothing else in the ring matters.
The fucker in front of me becomes background noise, his wheezing breath and sloppy stance, nothing more than static.
My attention is elsewhere.
Locked. Hooked.
On her.
I jerk my head toward the crowd, scanning frantically, heart pounding harder than it ever has during a fight. My eyes rake over rows of faces, mostly a blur of sweat, booze, and bloodlust—until I find her. Pressed casually against the far wall like she’s untouchable. Unbothered.
And not alone.
Derk fucking Daniels stands beside her, leaning in too close, smirking with that lazy, predatory swagger I’ve hated since the moment I saw him. The bastard never knew how to keep his hands to himself, always chasing after barely legal girls with something to prove. My stomach turns.
My blood pressure spikes.
I should look away. I should finish this match. But I can’t. Because my eyes meet hers—and she’s already watching me.
No, laughing at me.
Not cruelly. Not mockingly. But there’s something in the way her eyes glint, like she’s playing a game I don’t know the rules to. Like she sees me—really sees me—while I stand center stage, breathing heavily and clenching my fists, completely and utterly disarmed.
My gut coils.
My upper lip pulls back, baring teeth in something that can’t be mistaken for anything but primal instinct. A warning. A challenge. A fucking claim.
And then the sound escapes me—low, guttural, and unfiltered. A growl vibrates through my chest and crawls up my throat, raw and unrestrained. It doesn’t matter that Derk’s too clueless to recognize it for what it is. Doesn’t matter that I don’t know this girl’s name.
My instincts react before my brain can catch up.
She’s mine—or she will be. I don’t know anymore. Everything’s wrong and right at the same time. And suddenly, I’m not fighting for sport. I’m fighting to remind myself I’m still alive.
Because whoever this girl is—Cupcake, Pixie, stranger—it doesn’t matter. She’s pulled me straight out of the grave I didn’t know I’d been buried in.
The soft widening of her eyes reminds me of where I stand and that I’m not alone. Extra senses rush through my body, predicting the lame attempt of a swing, allowing me to dodge it easily and return another hit to the ribs. This time with a crack.
There’s no time to fuck around now. Not when Pixie is out there up against a devil. The need to get there, to protect her, is instinctual. Between jabs and cracking bones, my attention continues to flash to her.
Finally, the asshole’s down, clutching his body, and moaning in pain. No longer of interest and tired of waiting for the announcer, I step over my opponent’s bloody body and exit the cage.
Emerson and Rowen are confused, searching the area for immediate threats. When they come up empty and I don’t fill the gaps, they trail behind me until we reach Derk.
But she’s gone.
Annoyed at her second disappearing act, I spin Derk around, only to be greeted with a crushed, bloody nose. His. Not mine.
A smirk tips my lips, knowing the purple-haired minx is responsible. Not good enough though. “Nice to see you’re getting along well with others.” My mocking words hit their target, as Derk turns red. “Where’d the purple-haired girl go?” Again, the growl rumbles the words from my lips.
“Fuck you.” Derk’s slips one of his shirts, trying to stop the bleeding. “Not my problem if your bitch is straying.” His pride is wounded, being bested by a chick, so he’s lashing out.
“Not mine… yet. But, since you’re already aware—” My fist slams into his kidney, dropping him to his knees, before I compound my pixies hit with a knee of my own.
He’s barely conscious, groaning on the floor, where no one is paying us any attention, I issue another warning.
“Stay the fuck away from her. You see her, you turn the other way. Got it?”
A small nod follows his groan.
I spit on his prone form before walking away with intent.
I’m going to find her.
Tonight.