Chapter 3
Jaxon
I hate this place. The warehouse is hot to the point of being stifling and suffocating.
Like the air has nowhere to go, and neither do I.
Heat clings to my skin, thick and damp, turning every breath into work.
It’s filthy, not just the grime ground into the concrete or the dark stains no one bothers to clean, but the people.
The energy, the way everything feels used up and rotten.
The smell hits hardest. It’s filled with sweat, blood, and cheap alcohol.
And that overpowering perfume from the skimpily dressed women weaving through the crowd.
It’s too sweet, too heavy, trying and failing to cover everything else.
It sticks in my nose, settles on my tongue, sinks into every pore like I can’t escape it.
The whole place feels alive in the worst way.
Everything is pulsing, watching, and waiting.
And I can’t stand that no matter how much I hate it, I’m still here.
Henry is waiting for me just outside the doors when I arrive.
Of course he is. I hate him almost as much as I hate Manny.
The difference is simple: Manny has real power, but Henry just borrows it.
He wears it like a cheap suit that doesn’t quite fit but makes him feel important anyway.
He throws his weight around as if it belongs to him, like he’s the one calling the shots instead of being the errand boy.
It’d be almost funny if it wasn’t so damn irritating.
I stop in front of him, towering over him easily. At six foot seven, I’ve got more than a foot on him. I should be the one looking down. But Henry still manages to tilt his chin up just enough, eyes cold and smug, like he’s the one in control. Like I’m the one beneath him.
Something in my jaw tightens so tight that I think I might crack a molar. Because it’s not his size that gives him that confidence. It’s the fact that, in this place, he’s not wrong. I am beneath him.
I scan the crowd, searching for the one face that’s been here every single fight.
It doesn’t take long to find him. He stands out, even in this crowd.
He’s big, bigger than most of the men in here.
Maybe even a little taller than me, and just as broad.
The kind of build that looks carved instead of made.
His hair catches the low light, sandy blond, shorter on the sides and longer on top.
I think it’s called an undercut, but I’ve never cared enough about that kind of thing to know for sure.
It suits him. Everything about him does.
He looks like something out of a myth. Not clean or untouchable, but dangerous.
The kind of man people would have once called a god and then feared for it.
His jaw is sharp enough to draw blood. And his eyes, God his eyes, they’re the most beautiful green I have ever seen.
Completely out of place in a place like this.
Like something valuable buried in a pile of dirt.
I feel it the second his eyes land on me. That same sensation crawls over my skin, sharp and electric, like my body recognizes him before my mind can catch up. It’s the same feeling I’ve been trying to ignore for months. It’s an attraction that I feel, and it’s both exhilarating and terrifying.
My chest tightens, breath going shallow for a second as everything around me dulls.
The noise, the heat, the crowd all fade until it’s just him.
Just those eyes. I tear my gaze away first. There’s no reason to dwell on it.
No reason to let my mind go where it’s already trying to.
Because even if I let myself believe there’s even the slightest chance he’s looking at me like that.
It doesn’t matter because it can’t happen.
I’m in too deep with the wrong people. And men like me don’t get things like him without paying more than we can afford.
“Are you fucking listening to me?” Henry snaps.
The sound cuts through the noise, sharp enough that I almost flinch. Almost. I lock my body down before it can happen, muscles going tight and controlled. I’m not giving him that. I turn just enough to look at him, letting the scowl settle in.
“No,” I say flatly. “Didn’t hear you. It’s too loud in here.”
His face darkens, but I don’t wait for whatever bullshit he’s about to throw at me.
I keep walking. Leaving him standing there like he’s not worth the effort it would take to stop.
The farther I get from him, the easier it is to breathe.
I make my way to the far wall, to the same battered chair I always use.
It’s dented, cracked, stained with things I don’t want to think about.
I drop into it heavily, the metal legs scraping against the concrete.
My hands move on instinct. Tape. Wraps. Pull.
Tighten. Loop. Secure. Over and over, the rhythm steady, familiar.
Grounding me when all I want to do is go home.
It gives me something to focus on besides the heat pressing in from every side…
besides Henry… besides the weight of what’s coming.
But even as I work, I can still feel it.
That stare. Burning into me from across the room.
It’s been months, and we’ve never spoken a single word to each other.
Not one single fucking word. And still, every time he looks at me like that, it sends a nervous shudder down my spine.
Like he sees too much or he knows something I don’t.
What the hell could he even want from me?
I’ve thought about asking Henry a hundred times who he is. The question sits on the tip of my tongue, and every single time, I swallow it back down. It doesn’t matter who he is anyway. And the last thing I want is to draw attention to him.
“I said you’ve got three fights tonight,” Henry snaps, stepping closer, his voice cutting through my thoughts, “and I’m working on a fourth.”
I don’t look up from my hands as I tighten the wrap around my knuckles.
“I told you, Henry,” I say, my voice low but steady, “four fights in one night is too much. If you want me to win, I need to stick to three. Or less.”
There’s a beat of silence, then a scoff. He doesn’t fucking care. He’s already made his decision. Sometimes I think that’s exactly what he wants. To push me until I’m too exhausted to keep going, too slow, too weak. That way, when I finally lose it won’t look like his fault at all.
I’ve only lost one fight. Just one. And it was to a guy named Declan.
That man was a fucking machine. Every hit he landed felt like it rattled through my entire body, like electricity snapping under my skin.
There was no hesitation in him. No second-guessing.
Just pure, controlled violence. I remember the look in his eyes when he stepped into the ring that night.
Not excitement or nerves. It was need, he needed to hurt someone.
He’s been back a few times since then, but I haven’t drawn his name again. Not that I had a choice the first time, Henry jumped at the chance to put me in.
“You’ll do as you’re told,” Henry snaps, dragging me back to the present. “Manny wants as many fights as possible a night.”
I finally look up at him, meeting his gaze head-on.
“Four isn’t possible if you want me to win.”
He just stares at me for a second, like I’ve said something mildly interesting instead of something that could get me killed.
“We’ll see,” Henry says. Cocky little shit.
Before I can respond, the announcer calls my name, his voice echoing through the warehouse, cutting through the noise like a blade.
My jaw tightens, and I push to my feet. For a second, I glance toward him.
My mystery man, but his eyes aren’t on me.
They’re locked on my opponent as he climbs into the cage.
Something in my chest drops. I’m so stupid.
I tear my gaze away and step forward, rolling my shoulders as I move.
The guy across the octagon is already putting on a show, jumping around and yelling.
Pounding his fists against his chest like he’s trying to convince himself he belongs here.
The crowd eats it up. I let out a slow breath, watching him carefully.
He’s wasting energy with too much movement, too much noise.
He’s a blowhard. The kind of fighter who likes the attention more than the fight.
The kind who doesn’t realize they just stepped into a cage with someone who has absolutely nothing left to lose.
I step inside the octagon, and the door slams shut behind me.