Chapter 26
Bea
The crowd presses tighter around us, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and sweat. Like an idiot, I press myself against the very guy who dragged me in here. It’s pure instinct—he’s the only pillar in this ocean of sweaty, overstimulated bodies.
My eyes are glued to Noah, tracking his every move, his every breath. His face is nonchalant, but his shoulders are hunched forward, giving him a vicious edge.
Someone bumps into me, yanking my attention from Noah.
That’s when I see George—Ezra’s occasional driver, but clearly much more than that.
He strides to the center of the ring, wearing a three-piece suit and commanding the room with a single look.
The gruff, stoic man who barely speaks during car rides is running this show?
I shouldn’t be surprised. Ezra once hinted George had a mysterious past, but I pictured an ex-con, not… whatever this is.
Noah steps into the middle of the ring just as the other fighter walks up to him. This guy looks like a brick wall with legs, yet Noah acts like he’s about to take a casual jog.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Is Noah really going to fight this guy? He’s twice Noah’s size; he looks like he eats people for breakfast.
“Who do we have here?” comes an oddly familiar smoked-up female voice from the side, and I turn toward it. A mighty woman to match Noah’s physics with short, spiky hair is staring at me with an open interest. “Does your wife know about your new friend?”
“She knows about everything, Rebecca.”
I feel my eyes widen to the point of falling out of their sockets. This is the Rebecca who’s been calling Noah? I hardly can imagine them together, unless it’s to spar for dominance.
“I bet she does,” Rebecca laughs, not shifting her attention away from me.
“Hey, Rebecca, we need you here,” someone calls her from the crowd.
“Saved by the bell,” she snorts, and disappears amid the excited bodies.
Meanwhile, George signals the match to begin, and the room falls deadly quiet, tension thick enough to choke on. The giant lunges at Noah with a wild swing. I instinctively grip the arm holding me.
“Don’t fret, No One,” my captor says into my ear. “You are with me.”
Noah moves fast. Way faster than should be possible for someone built like a refrigerator with abs. He dodges the first punch with a sidestep, then lands an uppercut so clean and brutal that I hear the other guy’s jaw click together from across the room.
The crowd explodes, fists pumping, beers sloshing. Noah barely reacts. He keeps moving, ducking and weaving, taking a few hits but dishing out twice as many. He’s methodical, almost clinical, like he’s working through a complex spreadsheet with questions, and the answer is always more violence.
Something ugly and hot twists in my chest. I want to look away, but I can’t. I’m watching a massacre in slow motion; the very man who talks about buildings with souls is turning another human into ground beef.
When Noah’s fist lands on the guy’s face with a particularly disturbing sound, I let out a loud gasp. Even in the room full of yelling people, he hears me.
His head snaps up, his eyes locking onto mine. I freeze, and all color drains from his face. His gaze flicks to my arm, where the man’s grip suddenly tightens.
Noah’s eyes narrow while his chest expands. His expression is pure, unfiltered rage.
Oh boy.
His focus—and rage—are on me, and he doesn’t see the giant’s next move.
“Noah, look out!” I yell, but it’s too late. The giant’s fist slams into Noah’s head with a sickening thud, and he stumbles back, suddenly looking disoriented and gasping in pain.
My stomach drops. This is my fault.
Noah straightens, grimacing, and for a moment, I swear he’s going to storm over and drag me out by my hair.
Instead, he shakes his head, lips pressed into a thin line, and refocuses on the fight.
His movements are slower now, he shakes his head once again, but he dodges another hit, barely staying on his feet.
“Come on, King!” I shout before I can stop myself, my voice echoing over the chaos. It only makes things worse. He shoots me a sharp, furious look. He’s not just mad—he’s livid.
The giant swings again, and Noah takes a hard hit to the ribs, stumbling dangerously close to the crowd’s edge. He’s losing his footing, losing control, all because I’m here distracting him.
My heart pounds. I want to help, but I’ve already done enough damage. I’m the reason he’s getting pummeled.
“Looks like your boy needs a little nudge,” the voice next to me whispers as the grip on my arm tightens painfully, and I let out a sharp cry. I don’t mean to sound so weak while Noah is getting his ribs rearranged, but it happens.
Noah’s eyes snap back to me, his face hardening with determination and something else—something scary, something I’ve never seen before.
He pushes off the crowd he nearly falls into, his eyes blazing fury. His fists fly with renewed energy, faster than before, and the crowd roars, their cheers echoing off the grimy warehouse walls as he lands punch after punch on the giant’s torso, sending him staggering back.
One final uppercut to the jaw and the giant crashes down like a ton of bricks. The warehouse erupts, but Noah? He looks like he wants to murder me.
George raises Noah’s arm in victory, but Noah barely notices because his glare is fixed on me. His face is bruised, a cut above his brow leaking blood, and the way he’s clutching his side says he’s hurt. Badly.
I want to back away, but there’s nowhere to go—just the cheering crowd and the man holding me hostage by his side.
Noah storms toward us. The man’s grip on me loosens—his painful pinch was momentary, reverting to a hold after Noah noticed my cry. Weird.
Noah’s eyes never leave mine as he approaches, and I’m in deep, deep trouble.
I stumble back, nearly tripping, but the man steadies me.
“This should be interesting,” he murmurs.
Noah stops in front of us with his chest heaving and jaw clenched while anger radiates off him like heat from a furnace.
“Get your hands off her,” Noah says, his face stoney and vicious.
“Yeah? Why would I do that?” The man holding me smirks, clearly enjoying this.
“Masters,” Noah grits out, “let her go. Now.”
“I don’t think so.” His tone drips with amusement. “She’s here. She knows. And no one can know. You know the rules.”
“She’s with me.” Noah’s voice carries an unmistakable threat. “Let go of her arm.”
Noah steps forward, pausing inches from me, nearly sandwiching me between two hulking men. It’s like something out of the raunchy books I download to my Kindle, but the guy behind me gives me the serious creeps.
And the man in front? He scares me. Not just his physical presence, but the thought of him yelling at me. For good reason. Being reprimanded by him would shift the already messy balance of our relationship.
“Dante, stop fucking with him. He’s about to have a coronary,” George says quietly from Noah’s side.
Dante, who is apparently also called Masters, stays silent, locked in a staring contest with Noah.
“It’s the last fucking time I’m telling you to let her go.” Noah’s voice drops to something barely human.
A dark chuckle from somewhere above my head makes my skin crawl, and then my arm is free, but only for a moment because Noah’s hand replaces Dante’s grip.
“Keep your little friend away from the ring, King. You know what could have happened if someone else sniffed her out in the heat of the moment.”
Noah gives Dante a short nod and starts dragging me away from the crowd.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I’ve never seen him this mad.
“I-I…” My voice cracks as I scramble for an excuse. “I was just—”
“Following me?” he snaps, cutting me off. “Why the fuck would you do that?”
“I was worried!” I blurt, stepping back. “You were sneaking off, acting all mysterious, and I thought—”
“You thought what?” He towers over me. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened here?”
“I didn’t mean to distract you,” I whisper, drowning under a pile of guilt. “I was just trying to help. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”
He lets out an angry laugh. “You think I’m worried about getting hurt?” He leans closer. “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?” He jabs a finger behind me. “Do you have any idea who some of these people are? What if someone else had found you first?”
His body radiates heat, anger, and barely restrained power. It’s overwhelming. And, embarrassingly, it’s arousing. Why is my brain wired this way?
“You could have gotten really hurt, Bea.” He leans even closer. “Do you fucking understand that?”
Swallowing hard, I nod. Shutting my mouth feels like the smartest move for once. I don’t know these people, but I’m starting to grasp what could’ve happened to me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. I don’t think my sorries cut it, so I decide to add bits of truth. “I was jealous. I wanted to see what sort of sex club you attend.”
His eyes widen as he stares at me without blinking. “And what? What would you have done?”
“I would have joined it,” I whisper shamefully.
George materializes at Noah’s side like a referee at the world’s most awkward afterparty, saving me from further embarrassment of explaining my shame, and throws a shirt over Noah’s shoulder.
It’s a silent gesture, but the message is clear: Stop bleeding all over my nice warehouse.
Noah grabs it without looking and winces, and that one wince feels like a punch to my own gut.
My boss stands with his shoulders squared and chest heaving, and now that he’s not actively pummeling anyone, I can see the toll the fight has taken on him.
His torso is a map of fresh bruises, ugly and purple even beneath the thin sheen of sweat.
Blood has started a lazy crawl from his eyebrow, tracing a path along the side of his nose before dripping off his jaw.
One of his eyes is already swelling, puffing up like a marshmallow in a microwave—give it another hour and he won’t be able to open it at all.
For a split second, his face betrays how badly he’s hurting. Then he glances at me and the mask slides back into place, pure anger and icy detachment.
I want to say something. Anything. Sorry is too small, too pathetic. I could apologize a thousand times, but it wouldn’t change the way his ribs are probably screaming, or the fact that he’s standing here, now refusing to look at me.
Noah presses the shirt to his face, gritting his teeth as the fabric agitates the cut above his eye.
He breathes in but doesn’t make a sound.
The crowd, sensing the show is over, starts to disperse in clumps, their attention already shifting to the next spectacle.
I register it all in the background, but my world has narrowed down to just Noah and me, and the silent, judgmental presence of George, who’s looking at me with something less than welcome.
Noah tries to shrug into the shirt without letting go of my wrist, but his arm isn’t cooperating. He looks furious but also defeated. His jaw works like he’s chewing through every cuss word he’s ever heard.
I fumble, reaching out to help. My fingers brush the side of his ribcage, and he flinches with a glare sent my way. I recoil slightly but refuse to completely look away. If I can’t handle even this, what right did I have to follow him here?
He finally manages to pull the shirt down, the black fabric still shiny with blood from where he pressed it to his bleeding cut.
“Get her out of here,” George says quietly. “You’ve had enough for today. Dante will cover the rest of your fights.”
Noah nods curtly and grabs my arm again. His steps are hesitant, heavy, lacking his usual swagger. He’s clearly in pain.
This is all my fault. And as we step into the cold night air, I swear to myself I’ll make this right, no matter what it takes.