Chapter Six #2
I force myself to move away, and for a second, I feel him move as if to stop me from moving.
But he doesn’t. Relief washes over me as I open one of the lockers and begin to slip out of my black sweats and sneakers.
Grabbing my black bag, I pull out the Nike high tops I like to use for fighting and then slip out of my hoodie, leaving me in nothing but my mesh shorts and a white shirt.
From the corner of my eye, I see him reach into my bag, pulling out the bandages that I use to wrap my hands.
I don’t acknowledge him, just continue with what I’m doing.
The silence between us is comfortable, and I hate it.
It’s like he knows me, knows that I need the quiet to focus, to gather my energy into my muscles and fists.
“Sit,” Thiago commands, his voice thick and husky, causing me to fight the shudder that courses through me.
I grit my teeth, willing the thoughts away and turning around to plop onto the bench.
My gaze follows as he crouches before me.
Bandages in his hands, his command coming in a raise of his perfectly groomed brows.
I place my hands in front of me, and the softness of his sends jolts of electricity through me when he touches mine.
His fingers are warm and delicate, guiding the bandage around my knuckles with a patience that feels too intimate.
I force myself to look away, to stare at the empty locker.
I want to pull away, tell him that I don’t need or want his fucking help, but I don’t.
I let him wrap me tight, so tight. It hurts, the pressure bites into my skin, and I welcome it. I need the sting—something to anchor me to this body and not the mess inside my head.
“Focus, Ruas,” he murmurs.
“I am,” I lie.
His hazel orbs flick up, unreadable, and for a second, I think he might say something else. Something that will ruin me even more. Instead, he finishes the wrap, taps my hands twice, and stands. “Don’t hold back tonight.”
I know he’s talking about the fight, but it feels like more than that. It always does with him.
I follow him out the door and through the hallway, the air growing thicker the closer we get to the main floor. The smell of sweat, rust, and cheap perfume filled with adrenaline dances in the air. Music thumps through the concrete walls, bass shaking the floor like a heartbeat on speed.
The second we step out, a roar swells through the warehouse.
Rows of bodies press against the rails, phones lifted, cash being exchanged.
I focus on the ring that looks smaller tonight, caged in by metal fences and a flickering light.
Someone’s blood already stains the mat, and I feel my body come to life at the sight.
Thiago walks beside me now, his hand brushes mine by accident—or maybe not. Who knows with him?
“Remember what I told you,” he grumbles over the music.
I nod. “No holding back.”
“No holding back,” he echoes, adding with a smirk. “And win.”
Miguel Campos is already inside the ring, waiting in the center.
Shirtless with tattoos coiling around his chest like vines.
Costa Mar elite students circle him; his grin is pure arrogance—the same one I will wipe away with my fist. A smirk tugs at my lips watching the ego pour out of him.
He probably thinks he’s invincible… I’ll gladly show him he’s not.
The bell rings.
And he moves.
He’s faster than I expected—he lands the first hit, slamming right into my ribs and knocking the air straight out of my lungs.
I stumble back, blinking away the stars in my vision.
The crowd erupts in cheers, and I stay my distance.
He’s got reach and is quick on his feet, but has no discipline.
I can tell by the way he breathes too quickly that he’s too eager and wasting stamina.
He will burn out before he gets a chance to shine.
“Stay light,” Thaigo’s voice cuts through the noise.
Miguel moves. I pivot and block before I jab. My rhythm comes back like a core memory etched in muscle. Pivot. Block. Jab. Each landing with a punishing blow. Miguel laughs, wiping blood from his lips using the back of his glove.
“That’s all you got, bitch boy?” He sneers, before he swings, it’s lazy and uncoordinated, missing me entirely. Using his own opening, I shoot my fist upwards, slamming into his chin. He staggers back, shaking off the hit before he swings again, stupid and reckless.
I catch him with a right hook this time, and he stumbles, and I don’t stop.
I’m on him, years of rage bleeding with each hit—it steadies me, the violence is my preferred language.
The only thing I understand, I’m no longer in the ring—I’m in my head.
The noise fades, and I can see Thiago’s mouth move in the crowd.
It’s all moving in slow motion, but the way his eyes find mine even through the chaos.
And I hate it, how he pulls me right off the ledge.
I land one more hit before Miguel goes down hard, his head bouncing off the mat.
The crowd loses its mind, and the bells ring, signaling the fight is over.
The referee saunters over, his arms crossing, making an X in the air.
I’m shaking from the adrenaline when he walks over to me and places my arm above my head, showcasing my victory.
My knuckles sting, and my breath comes in a ragged burst.
And when I look up, Thiago is already walking into the cage, grabbing my chin, and he turns my face towards him to check the damage, which I’m sure is plenty. My left eye throbs from the pain, and my lip is busted. The look on his face tells me it’s bad even though I don’t feel it.
“Didn’t I tell you not to hold back?” he snaps, his voice low and rough.
I want to tell him to fuck off, but my throat is too dry, and honestly, I simply don’t care. Then his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, smearing blood I didn’t know was there. I bite down on my piercing, using my tongue to play with it.
Thiago gives me a crooked grin as he praises me. “You did well, Ruas.”
Something in me snaps.
Maybe it’s the praise, maybe it’s him. I wasn’t sure about a lot of things.
All I know is that I stopped trusting myself the moment I fucked my hand to the memory of his kiss.
For a second, I forget where we are. I grab his wrist, pull him closer until our faces are inches apart.
His breath ghosts my skin, warm and familiar.
“Stop calling me that,” I whisper. “Stop acting like you give a shit.”
“Why?” His lips twitch, a half smile. “Because you like it? Or is it because you hate that I care?”
“Because it makes me want to hit you.”
“Then hit me,” he murmurs, his eyes going wide, not with fear but with menace. “Or kiss me. Either way, pick your poison; we have an audience.”
The noise around us fades, the crowd dissolving into a blur. For a split second, I consider doing both, giving in and letting him continue to ruin me all over again. But I don’t. I shove him back, hard enough to make him stumble into the rails. “We’re done here.”
I step out of the ring, feeling the eyes of everyone on me, the sound of the crowd swallowing me whole. Behind me, I hear the Costa Mar boys say something to Thiago, and my eyes find the perfect person to take my anger out on. Greyson.
Perfect.
After all, I’m here for Velarium. Might as well find some enjoyment while I continue to bleed. This is my job tonight after all.
1. my prince