Levi #2
But I don’t focus on that. I focus on the image of his face from last night, pink and quietly vulnerable, a far cry from the quiet confidence he’s portraying tonight. We’ll see how long that lasts.
He scales the steps, ducking his massive frame smoothly between the ropes and moving straight to his corner.
His trainer is right there, already murmuring into his ear, wrapping a towel around the back of his neck.
Dylan keeps his head down, refusing to look across the room, but the tension across his shoulders and the deliberate aversion of his gaze tells me everything I need to know.
“You’re up, Bastien,” Luke, my trainer, grunts, slapping me hard on the shoulder. “Show ‘em who owns this fucking city. Don’t fuck this for us.”
I grin, the nerves melting into pure adrenaline as my own music punches through the speakers, loud and frenetic and arrogant.
My own walk to the ring couldn’t be any more different from Dylan’s; I bounce through the crowd, soaking in the cheers and boos in equal measure, the drama of it lighting up my instincts and sharpening my senses.
I’m nothing if not a performer, and I always give the crowd exactly what they want—a fucking show.
By the time I slide between the ropes and take my own corner, tapping my gloved fists together restlessly and pacing back and forth as Luke rubs my shoulders, Dylan looks thoroughly pissed off already. My grin widens.
We don’t say a word to each other when our trainers peel away. Our eyes lock, our bodies falling into the fighting stance that’s like second nature to both of us. Dylan tilts his head down, his dark brows knitted together. I bare my teeth in a vicious smile.
The bell rings.
The noise of the crowd is a dull thrum as all my focus zeroes in on Dylan, watching his huge bulk shift from side to side, the heat of the overhead lights beating down on my back.
Dylan doesn’t waste any time. He steps forward, throwing a heavy jab with enough power behind it to rattle my teeth, but I dance backward, my boots squeaking against the canvas.
My lightning reflexes save me by a fraction of a second.
“Too slow, mon grand,” I huff, flashing him a quick grin as I reset my stance.
He doesn’t rise to the bait, but his stare darkens, the unmistakable scent of dark caramel saturating the space between us, cut with a sharp edge of frustration.
I circle him, keeping my movements loose, my eyes locked on his fists. "I didn’t get an answer from you yesterday," I murmur under the roar of the crowd, ducking under a left hook. "Winner takes everything. Unless you’re scared?"
Dylan grunts, lunging forward to block the next jab I aim at his side. For a split second, our shoulders collide heavily, and Dylan glowers at me. "Scared of making you submit?" he growls. "Fuck it, Bastien. You’re on."
Holy shit. Maybe he’s just trying to fuck with me, but he should know better. Nothing fires me up like a challenge—especially when the prize is Dylan's submission. It did six years ago at Addington, and it does now.
I don’t give him a chance to lunge again; I get in first, sending a barrage of sharp jabs in his direction as exhilaration streaks through me.
Most of them glance off his headgear or thud into his raised gloves before he slips outside my guard and answers with a vicious body combination.
One of his left hooks slams into my side, forcing the breath from my lungs and sending a jolt of searing pain through my ribs.
It leaves me reeling enough for him to land a hit squarely on my jaw, the force of it rattling through my skull and splitting my lip.
But I recover quickly, grinning back at him and spitting blood at his feet.
Dylan grunts, flashing me a rare grin in return that lights a fire right in the pit of my stomach.
I’m built for speed, and I use it to my advantage, ducking out of his guard and snapping a jab at his left cheek that knocks his head to the side.
We trade blows for several more rounds, the goading smiles melting away under the exertion by round five, replaced with hard determination.
The space between the ropes is thick with alpha pheromones, and every breath I take tastes like salt, copper and Dylan.
We’re both running on fumes and pure adrenaline, our breaths coming in haphazard gasps.
Eventually, Dylan corners me against the ropes, his massive body blocking off any escape routes.
I see his muscles tense, ready to unload what would undoubtedly be a ferocious combination that could take me down.
But I know what he’s expecting—I’m a speed fighter, and the obvious thing to do is to duck.
So I do the exact opposite, leaning square into him and locking us in a tight, suffocating clinch.
I hear the huff of surprise as our sweat-slicked chests press together—fuck, we’re so close I can feel the hot stream of air against my collarbones—and I tilt my head, muscles straining against his hold.
“Remember our deal, hmm?” I purr, pushing my scent out until his nostrils flare. “I fuck you in the ring, then I fuck you backstage.”
His reaction is immediate. His breath hitches, his form going rigid. His defense weakens for a fraction of a second, and I don’t waste the opportunity.
I break the clinch, digging deep into my reserves to unleash a blisteringly fast combination—jab, cross, hook—straight to his unprotected jaw, sending him stumbling backward across the canvas from the impact, too exhausted to counter.
He doesn’t drop to the floor, but he’s dangerously unsteady on his tired legs.
He falls back against the ropes, bracing against them for support, trying to push himself upright, but his arms slip against the fibers.
I catch the resignation in his eyes before he gives a single bitter shake of his head toward his trainer.
When he looks back at me, his chin lifts almost imperceptibly, exposing the line of his throat.
Shit.
He’s conceding the match. The fight is over.
The referee looks at Dylan, sees the total surrender in his posture, and waves his white-gloved hands through the air, calling a halt to the fight. “Ladies and gentlemen! The winner of today’s fight is... Levi Bastien!”
My ears ring as the crowd erupts into chaos.
The announcer’s voice rumbles through the speakers, but the noise is a distant buzz as the referee hauls us both to the center of the ring and lifts my hand into the air in triumph.
My corner team rushes into the ring, draping a robe over my shoulders and shoving a water bottle into my hands, but I barely register their congratulations.
My eyes are still focused on Dylan.
He’s already surrounded by his own team, who pull off his gloves and wipe the blood from his face. His massive shoulders are tight, his scent sour, his eyes staring down at the canvas.
Anticipation settles in my stomach, burning hotter than the thrill of winning the fight. The professional match might be over, but as Dylan’s gaze shifts back up to meet mine through the chaos all around us, I know the real game hasn’t even begun.
Because Dylan Long just bared his neck to me, and for tonight, he belongs to me.