15. Killian #4
Malone claps a hand to my back as I do some cross-body arm stretches.
“Don’t pay Mr. Golden Grill any mind. Focus on what you came to do tonight—take The Tank down.
Remember he’s got power. There’s no doubt about that.
But you’re quicker and smarter. That oaf telegraphs his right hook.
Watch his shoulder—it dips when he throws. ”
I nod in acknowledgment, shuffling from foot to foot in place. Warming my body up for twelve rounds in the ring with a man who weighs as much as I do and hits just as hard too.
But Malone’s right. I’ve got him on the footwork. I’m quicker than he is. More strategic.
I’m about to have him down for the count.
The door opens and Ronan steps in. He’s had his hands full since returning from his honeymoon, but he’s made it a point to attend tonight. He might be Clan Chief, but he’s also my best friend and has been since we were boys.
“Make the clan proud tonight,” he says, gripping my shoulder. “We could use a win right now.”
“You’ll get one.”
“We’ll be watching from the stands.”
He steps aside, and that’s when I see her.
Jhene hovers by the doorway, fidgeting uncertainly as if questioning whether she belongs here. I understand why—the locker room’s full of my team, all men.
She’s wearing jeans and a simple black top, curls half up and half down, pulled away from her face. Her glasses are perched on her nose as they always are.
She looks so damn beautiful. Distractingly so.
Enough that I have to consciously fight those thoughts off. I can’t afford to not have my mind on the fight and only the fight right now.
That’s not even touching on how we’ve started exploring together in recent days.
She crosses to me slowly, then rises onto her toes and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. “Make sure you win.”
It’s a whisper only I hear. I nod at her and murmur back, “I always do.”
Half an hour later, I’m heading out to the ring, backed by my team. The crowd goes wild at the sight of me.
I scan the arena, picking out some of the clan in the VIP section. Ronan and Simone are seated together, along with Jhene and Sean who already looks like he’s three beers deep into the night.
Then my gaze pans to a group of men on the other side of the VIP. Though it’s from afar, I can tell they’re Russian. They’ve got the same cold-eyed stares and deadpan expressions they’re known for.
It’s no surprise they’re here. The Russians have always had a heavy presence in the New York boxing circuit. Tonight’s no exception.
The only difference is we’re currently at war.
I say let them watch. Let them see what I can do and how I’ll fucking crush them myself.
Winner takes on Ivan Sharapova, and he’s got known ties to the Bratva too. When I beat Thompson tonight, it means I’ll be going up against their prized fighter in a couple months.
I look forward to it.
The fight starts a few minutes later.
The Tank lives up to his name—he’s huge and slow, with a jaw that seems immune to pain.
The first few rounds are no cake walk. We trade blows that would drop lesser men. He catches me with a left hook right out of the gate. It blurs my vision and slashes open a cut above my brow.
I’m quick to recover, reverting to what I know. Playing strategic defense as he presses on.
He throws out punches backed by sheer power. I’m faster than he is, often a split second ahead.
The crowd roars as the second round ends and we’ve come up dead even. Nobody’s landed a knockout blow, but we’re both hungry for it.
In the third round, he once again throws heavy punches designed to take me down. I duck his latest assault and then follow up with a jab to his ribs.
It sends him doubling back, his first real retreat. Still not enough to take him down. The oaf attacks again, more determined than ever.
The excitement in the arena only grows. The energy in the air crashes over us in waves.
We fight on.
The fourth and fifth rounds test our stamina. The fight’s no longer new, and the human body can only take so much.
By the sixth round, we’re both slicked in sweat with a couple gashes and bruises. I landed a hit to his jaw last round that’ll swell up any second. He’s drawn more blood from the split above my brow.
We go at each other again as the bell rings, and I work his body. He tries to retaliate, but Malone’s warning comes in handy.
His shoulder dips, and I anticipate his next move, dodging his right hook. It only frustrates him and he starts swinging more wildly, burning energy he doesn’t have.
The eighth round’s when I end it.
His fist flies at me, his haymaker sloppy. I sense it coming a mile away. I slip under it, plant my feet, and drive my fist into his temple with everything I’ve got.
The knockout punch of the match.
The Tank goes down. He hits the canvas with a heavy thump and the countdown begins.
One. Two. Three.
The referee waves his arm, his fingers going up with each number.
Six. Seven.
Thompson tries to get up. He makes it to one knee, then collapses again.
Nine. Ten.
The referee calls it as the bell rings.
People flood the ring at once, the rest of the arena going wild. Hands slap my back and voices scream my name.
I’ve won. Championship match secured.
But I’m not looking at the cameras or the reporters or the sponsors Dez was bragging about. I’m not even paying attention to Dez who’s beaming and already on camera with a sports reporter from ESPN.
I’m looking at the crowd, searching for one face among thousands.
Ronan and Simone are on their feet, applauding hard. Sean’s got his fist in the air, shouting something I can’t hear.
…then I look to the seat next to them—the one where Jhene was sitting—and it’s empty.
My chest seizes from the sudden tension spearing through it.
I shove past the crowd of handlers and well-wishers, ignoring Dez’s protests and the ESPN reporter trying to shove a microphone in my face. I scan face after face, searching for curly hair and oversized glasses.
Any sign of her at all.
But she’s nowhere to be found.
“Jhene!” I call out, my voice swallowed by the noise. “JHENE!”
I finally make it to Ronan, shouldering through a group of VIP tech assholes.
“Where is she? Where’s Jhene!?”
Ronan frowns, then glances over at the row where he’s seated. “What? She was just—”
“She said something about going to the bathroom,” Sean pipes up. “Between one of the rounds. I figured she’d be back by now.”
He’s barely finished his sentence yet I’m already barreling toward the back. More people crowd around me, trying to block my path with their fucking celebratory bullshit.
But I grit my teeth and bulldoze my way through them, even knocking one guy to the floor. None of it matters as long as she’s gone.
A rare panic has exploded inside me. Ten times as powerful as the panic I’d had the time I searched the subway station for her.
This time it’s so much worse, surrounded by dozens of people. Enough noise to split ear drums and live cameras capturing me rushing off.
I make it to the back corridor where it’s quieter. Concrete walls muffle the racket from the arena.
The women’s restroom is at the end of the hall. I break into a sprint, eating up the distance in only a couple long strides. I shove the door open and rush inside.
“JHENE!” I bellow. “Jhene, where the fuck are you?!”
The restroom’s empty. Every last stall.
It’s another shock to the system as I realize she could be anywhere. She could be lost among the crowd or have wandered off alone again.
…or worse.
Then my gaze falls to something cracked on the floor, and I realize it is worse. It’s so fucking bad a wave of lightheadedness passes over me. Not from the many punches I’ve taken tonight, but from what’s on the floor at my feet.
Jhene’s broken glasses, snapped in half.