Chapter Twenty-Five
Connor
I woke before dawn, my body already humming with the familiar pre-fight energy that no amount of training could fully tame. The hotel suite was still dark. Beside me, Sierra slept peacefully, her curls spread across the pillow, one small hand tucked under her cheek.
I slipped from the bed silently, careful not to disturb her. She'd been sleeping better without the hydroxyzine since we arrived in Boston, the nightmares about Jerry seemingly held at bay by the change of scenery.
Before leaving the bedroom, I paused to watch Sierra sleep for a moment longer. She looked so small in the massive king bed, so fucking innocent. My sweet girl, who saw only the carefully constructed version of Connor Graves that I allowed her to see .
“I'll be back after training,” I whispered, though I knew she couldn't hear me. “Mara will be right outside if you need anything.”
In the suite's living area, Toffee was already awake, perched regally on the windowsill as he surveyed the pre-dawn city below through licks of his fur. He acknowledged my presence with a blink before returning to his licking.
“Keep an eye on her,” I told the cat, feeling only slightly ridiculous for giving instructions to him.
I slipped out of the suite, nodding to Mara, who stood at attention beside the door. The former WBC fighter was strong, and her cropped hair and stern expression made it clear she took her job seriously, especially since I was paying her hundreds of thousands.
“She's still sleeping,” I told her, keeping my voice low. “She’ll be up in a couple of hours. Don't let anyone in. Enter with the room service, and check the food before she eats it. Don’t leave her until they leave.”
Mara nodded, her expression unchanging. “No one gets near her,” I added, the edge in my voice making it clear this wasn't a request. “If anyone tries, handle it.”
The hotel gym had been reserved exclusively for us this morning, giving me time to warm up before heading to the arena for the final training session. As I walked through the quiet hallways, I mentally reviewed the day ahead: training, weigh-in, press conference, and finally, the fight itself.
The gym was already lit up when I arrived, Coach setting up the equipment while Jax and Adrian lounged on weight benches, looking far too alert for the early hour.
“Look who finally showed,” Jax drawled, checking his Rolex with exaggerated concern. “We were about to send a search party.”
“Fuck off,” I replied dully, dropping my bag by the door. “Some of us have better things to do than primp in front of the mirror all morning.”
Jax smirked, running a hand through his perfect fucking hair. “Not all of us got laid last night. What else was there to do?”
Adrian snorted, tossing me a roll of hand wraps. “Don't mind him. He's just pissy because the hotel bartender shot him down last night. Apparently, not everyone is susceptible to the famous Easton charm.”
“She was clearly a lesbian,” Jax muttered, lounging lazily in his nearly transparent gym shirt. “No straight woman turns this down.” He gestured to himself with a sweeping motion.
“It’s hotel policy," Coach interrupted, his weathered face set in its usual stern lines. “Now we've got work to do. Volkov's southpaw stance will give you trouble if you're not prepared, Graves.”
I grunted, beginning to wrap my hands. “I've studied his footage. He telegraphs his left hook.”
“But his right uppercut is sneaky,” Adrian added, suddenly all business. For all his puppy-like enthusiasm in everyday life, Adrian transformed into a tactical genius when it came to analyzing opponents. And torturing people.
“He comes in tight to the body, then explodes upward. Caught his last three opponents with it.”
“Won't catch me,” I replied, a confidence born from years of domination in the ring. Three months of non-stop wins had only reinforced what I already knew: I was untouchable. Unbeatable. At the peak of my career, with no signs of slowing down.
“That's what they all say,” Coach cautioned, setting up the focus mitts. “Until they're looking up at the lights, wondering what the fuck happened.”
I rolled my shoulders, feeling the familiar pop and crackle of joints loosening.
"Not happening today. Not with Sierra watching.”
A knowing look passed between Jax and Adrian, one that might have irritated me if I didn't know it came from a place of genuine concern.
“How's our bee doing?” Adrian asked, his voice softening slightly at the mention of Sierra. “Settling in okay? And Toffee?”
“Better than expected,” I admitted, beginning my warm-up with a series of dynamic stretches. “The change of scenery seems to be helping. The cat thinks he’s a king. ”
“And our friend Jerry?” Jax asked, his voice dropping to ensure Coach couldn't overhear from where he was setting up the heavy bag. “Any issues?”
I shook my head, moving into a series of boxing combinations. “Adrian?”
Adrian pulled out his phone, checking something before nodding. “The transfer went through yesterday. One million, as agreed. He's been quiet since with no social media activity, unusual calls, or texts from the numbers we're monitoring.”
“Good,” I grunted, throwing a particularly vicious combination into the air. “And the other thing?”
“Still working on it,” Adrian replied. “The footage is stored on multiple servers with redundant backups. The dead man's switch is sophisticated; definitely not something Jerry could have set up himself.”
“Meaning he had help,” Jax concluded, his expression darkening. “Professional help.”
“We’ll find them,” Adrian promised. “Then they’ll die.”
“Time is one thing we don't have,” I reminded him, increasing the intensity of my shadowboxing. “If Sierra sees that footage?—”
“She won't,” Jax interrupted firmly. "We'll handle it. We always do.”
Coach returned, effectively ending the conversation as he held up the focus mitts. “Enough gossip. Let's see those combinations we worked on.”
For the next hour, I lost myself in the rhythm of training—the satisfying smack of gloves against mitts, the burn in my muscles, the controlled breathing that kept oxygen flowing to my brain. This was my element, where everything made sense. Where I had complete control.
“Tighten up that defense,” Coach barked as a simulated counter slipped through my guard. “Volkov will capitalize on that opening.”
I nodded, adjusting my stance and throwing the combination again, this time with perfect form. The mitts popped loudly as my fists connected with precision and power.
“Better,” Coach acknowledged, though his expression remained critical. “Again.”
As we moved through the training session, Jax and Adrian took turns playing the role of Volkov, mimicking his southpaw stance and signature combinations.
Despite their different fighting styles, Jax quick and precise, Adrian wild and unpredictable, both were more than skilled enough to give me a challenge.
By eight, sweat poured down my body, my muscles pleasantly fatigued but not exhausted, exactly where I needed to be the day of a fight. Coach called time, and we began the cool-down process, stretching out tight muscles and reviewing the strategy for tonight.
“Volkov's going to try to keep you at a distance with that jab,” Coach said, demonstrating the motion. “You need to cut off the ring, get inside his reach, and work the body. Wear him down early.”
I grunted, toweling off the sweat from my face. “I'll break him by the fourth round.”
“Don't get cocky," Coach warned, though there was biting back a smirk. “That's how champions lose titles.”
“Speaking of cocky,” Adrian interjected, checking his phone with a grin, “the press are already setting up for the weigh-in. Volkov's giving interviews, saying he's going to 'expose the myth of Killer Graves.'”
Jax snorted, taking a long drink of glacial water or some other fancy shit. “The only thing getting exposed is his glass jaw when Connor connects with that right hand.”
“Let him talk shit,” I muttered, unconcerned. Trash talk was part of the game, a way to sell tickets and generate buzz. It meant nothing once the bell rang.
“My fists will speak louder.”
“We should head to the arena,” Coach called, breaking the moment of tension. “Press will be waiting.”
I shouldered my bag and checked my phone one last time. No messages from Sierra yet, which meant she was still sleeping. Good. She needed the rest .
“One more thing,” I said as we prepared to leave the gym. “If anything happens to me in that ring tonight?—”
“Nothing's going to happen,” Jax interrupted firmly. “You're going to beat Volkov, just like you've beaten everyone else who's stepped in front of you."
“I know. But if it does,” I insisted, needing them to understand the importance of what I was about to say.
"Sierra is your priority. Get her out of here, back to the penthouse, and make sure Jerry never gets within a hundred miles of her. Whatever it takes."
Adrian and Jax exchanged a look before nodding in unison, a silent pact between the three of us.
“She's family now,” Adrian promised.
For all our differences, the three of us shared an unshakeable loyalty to those we considered our own.
Sierra had worked her way into that inner circle, becoming someone they would protect not just for my sake, but for hers.
“Let's go,” Coach called impatiently from the doorway. "Champions don’t keep the press waiting.”
As we left the hotel gym, my mind was already shifting gears, focusing on the fight ahead.
Volkov was a worthy opponent, skilled and hungry for the title I'd successfully defended.
But he didn't stand a chance. Not today.
Not with Sierra watching from the VIP box, watching me fight in person for the first time.