Chapter 6
The gym beneath the Obsidian fight club smells like sweat, leather, and the kind of determination that leaves blood on the canvas. It’s five in the morning, and the space is mine alone.
Or so I thought until I hear the distinctive sound of knuckles meeting heavy bag from the far corner.
Dom.
He’s shirtless, and even in the dim lighting I can see the play of muscles across his back as he delivers a series of brutal combinations to the bag. Each strike is precise, controlled, and devastating. This isn’t someone working out their aggression. This is a master craftsman perfecting his art.
I watch for a moment longer than I should, mesmerized by the fluid way he moves.
There’s something almost meditative about his routine, like he’s found peace in the violence.
The scars that map his torso tell stories I want to read with my fingertips, but I push that dangerous thought away even though I notice he’s added a few since I was much younger and first wanted to reach out and touch those lines.
“You’re early,” he says without turning around, somehow sensing my presence.
“So are you.” I drop my gym bag near the mats and start unwrapping my hands. “I thought I’d have the place to himself.”
“I don’t sleep much.” He finally turns to face me, and I have to work to keep my expression neutral. Up close, the damage to his body is even more apparent, not just scars but the kind of wear that comes from years of absorbing punishment. “You shouldn’t be down here alone.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Against most people, yeah. Against the kind of fighters who compete at the higher levels?” He shakes his head, reaching for a towel. “You’re good, Raven, but good enough to survive what Marcus is planning for you? That’s different.”
The conversation I had with Marcus three nights ago echoes in my mind. The alliance, the information, the promise of resources in exchange for trust… But it all means nothing if I can’t hold my own in the ring against opponents like Ghost and anyone else thrown my way. This isn’t child’s play.
Good thing I’m not a child anymore.
“Marcus says you’ve seen some of my fights,” I say carefully. “And you saw the match against Ghost. What’s your assessment?”
Dom’s expression grows guarded. “You want the truth or the version that won’t hurt your feelings?”
“The truth. Always.”
“You fight angry, which makes you sloppy. You rely too much on speed and not enough on strategy, and you have tells that any experienced fighter will exploit within the first thirty seconds.” He crosses his arms, studying me with clinical detachment.
“Against the caliber of opponents Marcus is considering, you’d last maybe two rounds before getting seriously hurt. ”
“Even against Ghost?”
He sighs and shakes his head. “You fought him differently than most of your opponents, yes. You were more strategic, and you were slippery enough to evade most of his strikes, but…”
“I already know he held back.”
“Yes, but anyone else who faces you now won’t.
They’ll want to knock you out and keep you down.
Maybe even permanently. Do you understand?
They won’t care if they paralyze you. Fuck, they might even be slipped some dough to kill you on the mat.
Anyone and everyone is going to come gunning for you, even if you’re known as Sally and not Raven. ”
I trust his assessment even if I thought I was a much better and stronger fighter than he thinks I am.
I force myself to remain steady. “Then teach me.”
Dom goes very still, his dark eyes studying my face with an intensity that makes my pulse spike. “Train you?”
“Why not? You know these fighters better than anyone. You’ve been in the ring with most of them.” I cross my arms, hoping I look more confident than I feel. “Unless you don’t think I’m worth the effort.”
“That’s not—” He cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Raven, training you for higher-level fights isn’t just about technique. These aren’t street thugs or drunk college kids looking to blow off steam. These are killers who happen to fight for sport.”
“I know what I’m asking. I know he held back, but Ghost—”
“But nothing. Do you really know what you’re asking?
” His voice drops dangerously low. “Because training for that level means I’d have to push you past every limit you think you have.
It means bruises, blood, and nights when you’ll hate me for what I put you through.
It means getting intimate with pain in ways that—”
“I’m already intimate with pain,” I interrupt sharply. “I’ve been living with it for five years. The only question is whether I’m going to let it destroy me or use it to destroy my enemies.”
Recognition, maybe, or respect flash in his eyes, but he shakes his head. “This isn’t about revenge, Raven. In the ring, emotion gets you killed.”
“Then teach me to fight without it.”
He’s quiet for so long I think he won’t answer.
When he does speak, his voice is rougher than usual.
“Training someone means breaking them down completely before building them back up. It means getting inside their head, under their skin, knowing every weakness and fear.” His gaze doesn’t waver from mine.
“You sure you want me that close, princess?”
The nickname should irritate me. Instead, it sends heat sliding down my spine. “I’m not that sheltered girl anymore.”
“No,” he agrees quietly. “You’re not.”
He studies my face for another long moment, and I can practically see him weighing options and calculating risks. Finally, he sighs, the sound heavy with reluctance.
“Against my better judgment…” He moves to one of the equipment lockers and pulls out a pair of focus mitts.
“Fine, but we do this my way. No arguments. No complaints when it gets hard.” He slides the mitts onto his hands, the leather creaking softly.
“And it will get hard, Raven. I don’t believe in going easy on people. ”
“Good. I don’t want you to.”
For the next hour, he puts me through combinations I thought I knew until he breaks them down and rebuilds them from the ground up. My jab is too telegraphed. My footwork is sloppy when I’m tired. I drop my guard when I get aggressive.
“Again,” he says after I miss a cross-hook combination for the third time. “And this time, don’t think so much. Feel the rhythm.”
“I am feeling it.”
“No, you’re analyzing it. There’s a difference.” He adjusts my stance with his hands, the contact brief but electric. “Stop trying to perfect every movement and let your body remember what it already knows.”
I try again, and this time, something clicks. The combination flows naturally, each strike setting up the next.
When I finish, Dom nods approval. “Better, but you’re still holding back.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He drops the mitts and steps closer, invading my personal space in a way that makes every nerve ending come alive. “You fight like you’re afraid of hurting someone.”
“That’s not true.”
“Prove it.” He gestures toward the sparring mats. “Show me you can actually throw a punch like you mean it.”
The challenge in his voice ignites something primal in my chest. I follow him to the center of the mats, where we circle each other like predators testing boundaries. No protective gear, just skin and determination.
“Rules?” I ask.
“Don’t break anything I can’t fix.” His smile is sharp, even dangerous. “Everything else is fair game.”
He comes at me fast, testing my reflexes with a series of quick jabs that I slip and counter. We fall into a rhythm. He attacks, I defend and respond, neither of us trying to end it quickly. This isn’t about winning. It’s about pushing limits, finding edges, and discovering what breaks first.
“There,” he says after I land a solid body shot that makes him grunt. “That’s what I wanted to see. Again.”
We reset and go again, harder this time. Dom’s technique is flawless, but he’s holding back enough that I can keep up. Within minutes, I’m breathing hard, sweat stinging my eyes as I work to match his pace.
“You’re getting sloppy,” he warns.
He immediately follows up with a combination that breaks through my guard. His fist stops just short of my face, close enough that I feel the displaced air.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re exhausted. This is exactly what I’m talking about. You don’t know when to quit.” Instead of stepping back, he stays close, his breath warm against my cheek. “In a real fight, that gets you killed.”
“Then maybe you should teach me better endurance.”
The words come out breathier than I intended, and I see his pupils dilate slightly. We’re still pressed together from the stopped punch, and I fight the urge to lean into him.
“Raven, this is a bad idea.” But he doesn’t move away.
“What is?” But I know what he means. I can feel it too. The current running between us is electric and dangerous.
“Getting involved with you. Crossing that line.” His free hand comes up to trace the scar above my eyebrow, the touch feather-light. “I’m supposed to protect you, not—”
“Not what?”
He kisses me, and it’s not gentle or tentative. It’s consuming. His mouth captures mine, and I respond with equal hunger. My hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer as he backs me against the wall of mirrors that line one side of the gym.
The cool glass against my back is a sharp contrast to the heat of his body pressed against mine. He tastes like mint and something darker, more dangerous. When his teeth catch my bottom lip, I can’t stop the soft moan that escapes.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my mouth, pulling back slightly. “We shouldn’t—”
“Don’t.” I pull him back to me, needing this connection more than I need air. “Don’t think. Just feel. Isn’t that what you taught me?”
He groans low in his throat, and then we’re kissing again, deeper this time, our tongues dueling.
His hands map the curve of my waist, the line of my ribs, careful of my bruises but possessive in a way that makes my knees weak.
When he lifts me easily, wrapping my legs around his waist, I forget why this is supposed to be complicated.
There’s only this moment, this man, this need that’s been building between us since the moment I walked back into his world.
“Dom,” I whisper against his lips, and he freezes.
“Christ, Raven. What are you doing to me?”
“Exactly what I want to,” I whisper.
Before I can kiss him again, the sound of footsteps on the stairs cuts through the haze of desire. We spring apart like guilty teenagers, and I have just enough time to smooth my hair before Marcus appears at the bottom of the staircase.
If he notices the tension crackling between Dom and me, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he surveys the gym with those calculating eyes, taking in our disheveled appearance and the abandoned focus mitts.
“Morning training session?” he asks mildly.
“Something like that,” Dom mutters, reaching for his shirt.
“Good. Raven, I have information about your next fight. Are you free to discuss it?”
I glance at Dom, who’s pulling on his shirt with jerky movements that suggest he’s as affected as I am. The kiss lingers between us, unfinished business that makes my skin feel too tight. And the way he’s standing, so that neither Marcus nor I can see his front makes me certain Dom’s erect.
“Of course.”
But as I follow Marcus toward the stairs, I catch Dom’s reflection in the mirrors. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read—part want, part regret.
And yes, his shorts are tented.
Whatever just happened between us, it changed something fundamental. Will that change make us stronger or destroy us both?
In this world of violence and betrayal, I’m starting to learn that sometimes the most dangerous battles are the ones you fight with yourself.