Honor Bound (Elite Wrestling Entertainment #2)

Prologue

If you had told me when I booked this trip six months ago that I’d be sitting front row at an Elite Wrestling Entertainment show, I would have called you a liar. I would have told you hell needed to freeze over before you’d catch me—Sloane Elise Jenkins—at a professional wrestling show.

Yet, here I am…and it’s all because of the little boy (and his mom) sitting next to me. If it had been anyone but my best friend asking me to join them tonight, I would’ve laughed in their face and called a cab to the airport—and while I might still have laughed in her face, I didn’t call the cab.

The audience cheers again.

Seated in the hard camera section—at least that’s what I think Sophia called it—we won’t be seen on television.

I can’t say I’m upset about that. I don’t need any evidence of my involvement, minus the photos on Sophia’s phone.

As she led us through the halls of the arena earlier, her son Liam listed off all the things he thought I needed to know before we reached one of the floor sections surrounding the ring—like how Brooks Taylor is his favorite wrestler, closely followed by Wolf Bennett; sometimes wrestlers fall over the wall into the front row; and how we have to stay until the very end, because they might have an extra match that isn’t shown on television.

I roll my eyes while everyone else stands, cheering through the end of the video package. I don’t think I’ve stood once since we sat down two hours ago, but every time Liam glances my way, I muster up my best smile. It’s hard not to when he gets so excited about every little thing that happens.

The arena goes black when the screen dims, before another image appears.

This time, it’s a live feed from backstage.

Two women—one blonde and one brunette—stand in a hallway, dressed in their wrestling outfits (Gear?

Is that what they call it?), and the crowd cheers.

I swear they cheer for just about everything.

The camera zooms out to show a man walking toward them.

As he gets closer, I recognize him as one of the men who finished wrestling before the Wrestlefest promo.

I want to roll my eyes again, but I’m forced to play along when Liam looks back at me. This is obviously a staged run-in, and I guarantee we’re about to hear some terribly prepared speech from this guy about how “great” he is.

He stops before the women, wearing a proud smirk. The brunette rolls her eyes, not trying to hide her annoyance, but the blonde swallows hard, taking a step back.

“You see what I just did out there?” the man practically purrs to the blonde.

“No, I was too busy not caring what you’re doing, Ryker.” She sighs, appearing more confident than a moment ago. “I have better things to do with my time than—”

“You should care, Emmy.” Ryker takes a step toward her. “Because that’s not even close to what I’m going to do to your boyfriend at Wrestlefest.”

You’ve got to be kidding me. My own scoff matches the one that comes from Emmy, but my annoyance fades when I look down to find Liam’s wide eyes staring up at the screen, eating this whole thing up.

“When I’m through with him, he’s going to wish he’d never set foot in my ring.

This is my house, my show, my world. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’re going to be, Em.

And when you’re ready to stop playing mommy to that frog-faced loser, you know where to find me.

” Ryker’s grin widens before he puckers his lips in her direction for an air kiss and stalks away.

Emmy watches his retreat for a moment before looking back over at her friend, and the screen goes black.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whisper aloud this time, rubbing the bridge of my nose.

Light consumes the darkness when the opening chords of an upbeat rock song fill the speakers, and the name Aaron Zimmerman stretches across the stage screen.

Seconds later, a different wrestler walks out and makes his way down the ramp—cocky and arrogant—ignoring everyone lining his path.

He sneers at fans ringside, smacking their hands away, before tossing back the length of his black trench coat and climbing the steps.

Wiping his boots on the outer edge of the ring, he steps through the ropes and climbs up the corner, standing on the middle rope.

Aaron puts his hand behind his ear, nothing but a chorus of boos in reply, and yells back at them.

He seems to really enjoy the hate. Does he, though?

Wouldn’t it bother someone to get booed like this every night?

Eat away at the person behind the mask, behind the well-crafted character? It has to…right?

I meet Sophia’s timid smile. I’m sorry, it says, and I shrug. She has apologized more than once because, if it’s not obvious, this isn’t my scene, but I couldn’t let her come alone after her husband had to work.

It’s not so bad, I mouth over Liam’s head—not a total lie.

There have been a few times I’ve caught myself getting invested in the show, but for the most part, it has been exactly as I imagined: corny and staged.

How anyone enjoys sitting through three-plus hours of this regularly is beyond me, but I can deal with it for one night.

The music dies and the lights dim, and I swear I can feel Liam’s body begin to vibrate; his excitement rolls off him in waves. His hands clutch the thick, black-padded wall, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes locked on the entrance ramp.

The chords of another song rise from the speakers like a battle cry. It’s a hit of adrenaline straight to my system. The music turns heavy, accompanied by gritted male vocals, before another man walks out from the entrance.

This time, the crowd is deafening.

There is no name behind him, only the graphics of the inside of a colosseum, like one you’d expect to see in a movie about Romans and gladiators.

He walks down the ramp, pausing where it spills into the walled-off area surrounding the ring, and for the first time, I get a good look at him.

He’s fucking hot.

This man has to be at least six-two, maybe taller.

His body looks like a sculptor from ancient Rome stepped out of the image on the screen and chiseled him to perfection.

But what captures my attention most are the thick thighs on full display from his choice of ring gear—black, Speedo-style trunks with white crossed swords printed on either side.

Despite their noticeable circumference, his legs appear to be long and well-defined, only adding to his allure. Is this man even real?

Dark brown eyes scan the audience, but pause when they land on our section—on me.

I swear I see a small quirk in the corner of his mouth.

Visibly taking a breath, he takes one step, then another, before he rounds the corner the same way Aaron Zimmerman had moments ago.

Unlike his opponent, this man shakes hands with some of the people lining the barricade.

Our eyes meet again, and a spark ignites beneath my skin when a full-blown smirk tugs on his lips.

Is he really looking at me? No, there must be someone else nearby he knows.

He climbs the stairs and stands in the center of the ring, facing the crowd on the other side, and I can’t help but stare at the sword tattoo running the length of his spine.

When he turns on his heel to face our section, his eyes lock on something above our heads—the camera—before his gaze lowers to mine.

“Don’t look now, but I think you have an admirer,” Sophia leans over to whisper.

I scoff, ripping my gaze from his, and find her staring straight at me with a cocked brow.

“Wolf and Sloane sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” Liam sings the old schoolyard rhyme, and I glare down at him, but he only giggles.

The bell rings, and the crowd begins to settle, finding their seats as the match begins. The whole time, I’m trying not to be obvious as I stare at…What did Liam call him? Wolf? Interesting name. I wonder how he came up with that.

I wince alongside Liam, Sophia, and every other fan in attendance when his opponent gains the upper hand, tossing him outside the ring, where he lands with a hard thud.

“Get him back in the ring!” the referee shouts, but his demand goes unanswered.

Wolf staggers to his feet, narrowly stepping out of the way as Zimmerman dives through the ropes and goes headfirst into the barricade.

Rolling his shoulders and then his neck from side to side, Wolf takes a fistful of black hair and forces his opponent to his feet.

He shoves the man into the edge of the ring, then face-first into one of the steel poles holding the structure together.

I count at least six impacts before Zimmerman flies into the steps.

With his opponent down, Wolf approaches the barricade, standing in front of me. “You’re new around here,” he says, and his voice makes my insides melt. It’s warm and gravelly, a low tone and an intense edge that draws me in. He shoves his hand in my direction. “I’m Wolf.”

I look down at it and then back at him. What the fuck is he doing? He’s in the middle of a match, and his opponent is…still on the ground. I glance at Sophia, and my best friend lifts her brow. I can already hear the I told you so.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Sloane.”

His hand swallows mine whole when I finally place it in his, and his smile shines bright beneath the stadium lights.

“Sloane,” Wolf repeats. “You want to grab a bite after this?”

“A bite?” My brow furrows.

“Yeah, you know, that thing most people do when—”

I gasp, ripping my hand away when I see the other man charge, but Wolf steps out of the way just in time. I jump back, almost tripping over the chair I’ve been sitting in all night, when Zimmerman sails over the barricade and hangs halfway over the wall.

With a look of annoyance, Wolf threads his long fingers through Zimmerman’s hair and slams his face into the barrier—the crowd counts six times—but he’s not done.

Instead of releasing his opponent upon the final hit, Wolf plants his hand on the side of Zimmerman’s head, smashing his face into the barrier.

Regaining the upper hand, he turns to look at me again. “So, what do you say? Dinner?”