My Fixation (Murphy Enterprises #3)

Prologue

Conor

Eight months ago:

“Are you fighting tonight?” Declan asks me.

“No. Not tonight.”

I watch as Declan makes his way over to the sign-up table, shoulders squared as men part for him without being asked.

Someone mentioned there’d be a couple of new fighters tonight, fresh blood looking to prove something.

Usually, I enter the fights as much as Declan does, but lately the competition’s been pathetic—too easy, too quick, not worth the bruises on my knuckles.

Then I see him. The guy standing in front of Declan is massive.

Declan’s big, broad enough to make most men think twice, but this guy towers over nearly everyone in the room.

He has to be close to my height—six foot nine, maybe more.

Thick shoulders. Heavy hands. The kind of body built for violence.

He doesn’t stay by the table long. After signing in, he moves away from the crowd and drops into a chair by himself in the far corner of the room.

“Did you see the guy ahead of you? That fucker is big,” I ask when Declan rejoins us.

“Name’s Jaxon. His hands are the size of a dinner plate.”

“I pity you if you draw him. He’s got to have over a six-foot reach.”

After two quick fights, Declan is yelling for another opponent. The little man with a clipboard, who calls the fighters up, hurries over to Jaxon and leads him back to the ring.

Jaxon is careful. He circles Declan slowly, waiting for him to make the first move instead of rushing in like every other idiot who thinks size is enough to win.

The crowd around them roars, men shouting for blood, but Jaxon barely seems to hear it.

The way he moves tells me everything. The way he shifts his weight.

The way he keeps his hands up, elbows tucked in tight, chin down.

Not just the punches he throws, but the ones he blocks.

He’s trained. Not street-fight trained either.

Real training, military, maybe? I can’t stop watching him.

Every movement pulls my attention back to him—the flex of muscle under sweat-slick skin, the sharp turn of his shoulders, the way he pivots just before Declan can land a clean hit.

Then I notice it. He’s holding back. I see it in the punches he doesn’t throw.

In the openings Declan gives him that he doesn’t take.

Twice, Declan leaves himself exposed, and twice Jaxon lets the moment pass.

Why?

They’re evenly matched. Maybe Jaxon’s even better.

Declan gets behind him fast, locking his arm around Jaxon’s throat in a rear-naked choke. The crowd explodes around them.

Jaxon fights it for a few seconds, muscles straining, jaw clenched.

Then his hand slaps weakly against Declan’s arm.

A tap which is worthless in a place like this.

No one honors a tap in a no-rules fight.

You either go unconscious or you don’t get up.

My body is already moving before I realize it, surging to my feet as Jaxon’s struggles slow, then stop.

His body goes limp in Declan’s arms. The room feels too hot.

Too loud. I hold my breath, waiting for Declan to let go.

One second.

Two.

Then Declan finally shoves him away, and Jaxon collapses onto the mat.

I still can’t breathe. My chest is tight, pulse hammering hard enough to hurt.

I don’t know why the hell I care. I don’t know why I’m watching so closely, why the sight of him lying there has something cold and ugly twisting inside me. But I can’t look away.

I can hear Declan talking to Liam beside me, their voices blending into the noise of the crowd, but I’m not paying attention.

My eyes stay locked on Jaxon as he stumbles out of the ring.

He’s unsteady on his feet, one hand braced against the cage for half a second before he forces himself upright again.

There’s blood smeared along his mouth, bruises already beginning to darken beneath his skin. Still, he doesn’t look weak.

He makes it back to the chair in the corner and drops into it heavily, head tipped back like he’s trying to catch his breath. Then some small balding guy steps in front of him.

The man’s talking fast, waving his hands around, getting right in Jaxon’s face like he owns him. Something ugly twists low in my stomach. The fucker needs to back the hell up.

Jaxon looks half-conscious, throat already bruising from the choke, and this asshole is crowding him, not giving him a second to breathe. The guy leans in even closer, and I have to stop myself from moving before I can think better of it.

Declan taps my shoulder to get my attention. I’m still watching Jaxon.

“You coming?”

“No, you go ahead. I’m going to hang out for a while. I’ll see you tomorrow at dinner.”

I turn my attention back to Jaxon.

His breathing has finally evened out, but his body is still rigid, every muscle locked tight like he’s bracing for another hit. Even from here, I can see the angry red marks wrapped around his throat. I’ve been choked out by Declan before, so I know how it feels.

The ache that settles deep in your neck.

The burn in your lungs. The pounding in your skull after you wake up.

It’s worse when you fight it, and Jaxon fought it hard.

My eyes stay on the bruises forming against his skin.

Something sharp twists inside me. Anger, or maybe something worse.

The need to protect him hits so suddenly that it almost pisses me off.

I don’t know this man. He’s a stranger. Just another fighter who walked in off the street looking for a payout.

So why the fuck do I care? Why can’t I stop staring at the marks on his throat? I’m imagining my hands around the neck of anyone who put them there, even my cousin.

Jaxon hangs his head, defeat pouring off him in waves so thick it feels like I can see them in the air around him.

The water bottle in his hand dangles loosely between his fingers, his massive shoulders slumped as he braces his elbows on his knees.

He looks drained, broken. Not just physically.

And for some reason, that sits wrong under my skin.

I move closer to the balding guy who’d been in his face after the match.

He’s standing near one of the organizers now, talking low enough that most people wouldn’t notice.

I stop a few feet away, close enough to hear.

The little bastard, Henry, doesn’t even glance at Jaxon while he talks.

Like he’s not a person. Like he’s a fucking investment.

“He’s good to go. Put him back on the roll,” the ugly fucker motions at Jaxon.

“He just got choked out. You need to give him some time to recover first,” Danny says.

I’ve known Danny since he and his partner started these fights a couple of years ago. Illegal and unregulated doesn’t mean stupid. They know where the line is.

A broken jaw? Fine. A concussion? Expected. But a body bag would be bad for business. The balding guy looks irritated, his mouth pinching tight like Danny’s the one being unreasonable.

“He needs to get back in there,” he snaps.

Danny shakes his head, “Not happening. He can barely stand.”

My gaze drifts back to Jaxon. He hasn’t moved from the chair. His head is still hanging low, his thick forearms braced against his knees, the water bottle slightly crushed in his grip. He looks exhausted. Defeated.

And something about that look makes my jaw tighten. Because no one else in the room seems to see the difference between him being unable to fight and him not wanting to.

I don’t know what it is about Jaxon that has me so fixated.

He’s built like a tank, all broad shoulders and heavy muscle, the kind of man most people would cross the street to avoid.

There’s nothing small about him. Nothing weak.

But underneath all of that, there’s something else.

Something in the way he keeps his head down.

In the tightness around his eyes when he thinks no one’s looking.

In the way he sits there and takes whatever gets thrown at him without fighting back nearly as hard as he should.

There’s a vulnerability in him that doesn’t match the rest. Something bruised. Something that makes a dark, possessive part of me sit up and take notice. Because every time I look at him, all I can hear is the same thing. Please protect me. Help me. But from what?