Chapter Six
Ronan
The crowd is fucking feral by the time I slide through the door—sweaty bodies packed tight, heat rolling off them like steam in a pressure cooker. The scent of adrenaline, blood, and cheap whiskey punches me straight in the chest.
It’s beautiful.
I shoulder my way through, barely registering the curses and shoves. People move when I want them to. They always do. Especially when I hear it—that chant.
Cupcake! Cupcake! Cupcake!
A sick grin curls at the edge of my mouth. My Pixie’s name on their tongues, like a prayer they don’t even realize they’re whispering.
I push forward until I’m close enough to see the ring, and there she is—my girl, my madness—raining hell down on some poor bastard who clearly didn’t know what kind of monster he stepped into the cage with.
Fists flying. Eyes locked. That little snarl tugging at her lips like she’s daring him to stay conscious.
Goddamn.
She’s poetry written in bone-breaking blows.
The guys next to me are talking too loud, all chest-puffing and awe. One’s got a beer sloshing over his hand as he brags to his buddy. “This is her third match. She’s a fucking killer. They’ve barely even touched her.”
No shit.
I could’ve told them that.
But I don’t.
I just stare, because she’s not just winning—she’s owning the space like she’s carved for this. And every time she lands a punch, something in my chest cracks open a little wider, but no matter how I angle myself or where I stand, I still can’t get a clear look at her.
She’s a blur of movement—fast, lethal, electric. But it’s not just her fists or the way she fights that’s got my skin crawling and my jaw clenched.
It’s her presence.
The air around her crackles, alive with something I haven’t felt in years.
And I’m not the only one who notices—hell, the whole damn crowd is buzzing.
They feel it too.
But there’s something else. Something wrong and right at the same time because just watching her, just tracking the way her body moves across that ring, has me hard as fucking steel.
Which…
Let’s be honest, hasn’t happened since her.
My angel.
The girl I’ve mourned, dreamed about, screamed for in the dark.
The one they claimed died in the fire.
And yet here I am, with a heart pounding like a war drum and a dick that’s damn near making decisions without me.
What the hell is happening?
Could this be the moment I finally lose it? My cheese sliding clean off the damn cracker? Wouldn’t be the first time I teetered too close to the edge… but this?
This feels different.
Real.
My brothers are going to be furious, confused, and probably one sentence away from throwing punches the moment I open my mouth.
But they moved on.
I never did.
Not really.
I never bought the story.
Never believed Berkley was gone.
Her body was never found. Just ash and a few charred bones that were her father’s.
And now…
Now I’m looking at this wild thing in the ring. This feral, gorgeous, unapologetic hurricane of a woman.
She’s not the soft girl we used to know. Not the sweet, innocent thing who used to smile like sunshine and glue our broken pieces together.
But my gut? My fucking dick?
They’re screaming the same thing:
It’s her.
Changed. Hardened. Unleashed.
And suddenly, I don’t know if I want to kiss her… or fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness—for letting her go, for not finding her when she needed me most. Even though I never stopped searching.
Not then or now.
Not for a single damn day.
These people don’t know who she is. Not really. Not like I do. They don’t know that the same hands breaking noses and drawing blood are the same ones that once clutched my shirt and held me together on nights when I should’ve fallen apart.
And they sure as hell don’t know that she’s mine.
My little Pixie.
My Cupcake.
My beautiful, brutal fucking salvation.
My Berk.
The second the fight ends, she vanishes—pulled off stage and swallowed by the crowd like some kind of magic trick.
Gone. Just like that.
Again.
And I still can’t get a good look. Just flashes—purple hair whipping as she disappears backstage, boots stomping with purpose, shoulders squared like she owns the world. Not blonde anymore. Not that soft, sunlit gold I used to know. But I’d bet my fucking soul it’s her.
And I’m not telling my brothers.
They wouldn’t believe me anyway.
It’d turn into another goddamn fight—more fists, more shouting, more bullshit.
And for what?
They don’t deserve to know.
Not if it’s really her.
Not after they gave up.
They let go so easily—believed every half-assed story fed to us like obedient little pups. Didn’t question the ashes. Didn’t fight for her name.
Me?
I never let go.
Not even when they dragged out bags of bones and told us to move on. Not when the world turned cold and tried to bury her memory under a pile of lies.
So, no, I’m not handing this to them.
Not when they broke faith.
Not when they stopped seeing her.
Then I ask around, voice tight, jaw aching with how hard I’m clenching it.
But no one has anything useful.
“She reaches out when she wants a match,” some guy mumbles. “No name. No number. Just shows up.”
Of course she does.
A ghost.
A storm.
Untouchable. Untraceable.
But not from me.
Let her stay in the dark. Let them keep mourning the girl they think is dead. Because if that was her in that ring… My Pixie’s alive. And this time, I’m not letting anyone—not my brothers, not fate, not fire—keep her from me.