Chapter 4
Conor
I watch as Jaxon wins his third fight. Barely. He’s slowing down now. I can see it in the way his shoulders drag a fraction too low, the way his breaths come heavier, sharper. His movements aren’t as clean as they were earlier. He’s exhausted, but he still gets it done.
He locks his arm around the guy’s throat, muscles straining as he tightens the hold.
It takes longer this time. His opponent fights harder, longer, but it doesn’t matter.
Jaxon doesn’t let go until the man finally goes limp.
The crowd roars. I don’t. Because I’m not watching the win, I’m watching what happens after.
Jaxon releases him immediately, rolling onto his back for half a second like even that took everything out of him.
Then he forces himself up, unsteady but determined, and drops back down beside the guy he just choked out.
He checks on him. Hand pressing lightly against his shoulder, saying something I can’t hear over the noise.
He’s the only one who does that. The only one in this place who fights like this isn’t all he is.
That shouldn’t matter to me as much as it does.
I knew it the first time I saw him fight Declan.
Jaxon doesn’t belong here. You can see it in the way he moves after the fight.
In the way he checks on the men he puts down.
In the way there’s no satisfaction in his eyes, no hunger for it.
Just endurance. It’s like he’s surviving it instead of living it.
He staggers as he makes his way back to his bag, and something in my chest tightens at the sight of it. He’s running on fumes. Anyone with half a brain can see that. He drops down into the chair, hands already moving to unwrap the tape. Then that little asshole steps in front of him.
I lean forward slightly, eyes narrowing. I can’t hear what they’re saying over the noise, but I don’t need to. Jaxon’s shaking his head. Firm shakes, a solid, firm no. But the guy doesn’t back off. He keeps talking, leaning in, pushing. My jaw tightens. What the fuck?
Jaxon’s shoulders tense, his hands curling slightly like he’s trying not to react, trying not to make it worse. Then it hits me. The man is not asking him, he’s telling him. My stomach drops.
No, they wouldn’t. My eyes flick toward the ring, then back to him. He can barely stand. There’s no way.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I mutter under my breath.
Because if they send him back in there again, he’s not going to survive it. The more I watch, the more certain I am that’s exactly what’s happening. They’re sending him back in.
My jaw locks. When the little bastard finally walks away, I’m already moving.
This isn’t happening. I won’t allow it. The decision hits me fast and hard, settling deep in my chest before I can second-guess it.
Before I can remind myself of all the reasons this is a bad idea. I’m already crossing the room.
Jaxon’s head is down when I get close, his gaze fixed on the floor like he’s trying to disappear into it. His hands are still wrapped, fingers flexing slowly, like even that takes effort.
For months, I told myself I wouldn’t do this.
Wouldn’t get involved. Wouldn’t cross that line.
Watching him is one thing, but stepping into his world is something else entirely.
I can’t stand here and watch them throw him back in that cage like he’s disposable.
Not when he looks like that. Not when I know what it’ll do to him.
I stop in front of him, close enough now that he can’t ignore me. For a second, I just stand there, because this is the moment everything changes. He doesn’t look up right away.
His eyes stay fixed on my boots, like that’s all he can manage.
Like looking anywhere else would take more out of him than he has left.
I wait, not saying anything. Then, slowly, his head lifts.
His gaze drags up my body until it finally meets mine, and I hate what I see.
There’s no fire there, no fight. Just defeat.
It sits heavy in his expression, dulling everything that should be sharp. Like something inside him has already given up, already accepted whatever comes next. It’s as if he knows he doesn’t get a choice.
Something dark twists in my gut. Because that look doesn’t belong on a man like him, and I realize, standing there with him staring up at me like that, I can’t walk away now. If I do, that look on his face is never going to change.
“Can I help you?” His voice isn’t what I expected. It’s not as deep or as rough as I imagined. It’s quieter, almost gentle.
The pictures didn’t do a damn thing for him.
Didn’t come close. His eyes hit me first. Whiskey.
Dark, aged, with flecks of gold and amber that catch the low light and hold it.
They’re sharper than they should be for a man who looks this worn down.
Too alive for someone who just looked ready to give up.
It throws me off for half a second. Because that defeat I saw?
It’s still there, but it’s not everything, not yet.
My gaze drags over him before I can stop it. I take in the sweat slicked across his skin, the rise and fall of his chest that’s just a little too fast, the bruises already blooming under the surface. He definitely shouldn’t be fighting again. My jaw tightens.
“You’re done,” I say, my voice low enough that it doesn’t carry. His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering across his face.
“I don’t get a say in that,” he replies, just as quiet. There’s no bite to it, no anger, just fact. And that pisses me off more than anything else. My eyes flick briefly to where the guy disappeared, then back to him.
“You do tonight,” I say.
“Look, mister. I don’t know who you are, but I can’t walk away. I appreciate it, but please just go away before Henry gets back. You won’t be helping by making a scene.” His voice stays low and controlled, but there’s something under it.
He drags a hand through his hair, rough, frustrated, then drops it and stares back down at the floor like that settles it.
Like the conversation is over. Does he think I’ll just leave?
Something in me snaps tight. I want to grab him.
Haul him out of that chair. Drag him out of this place if I have to.
I don’t understand it. Why is he staying?
Why is he accepting this? What the hell does he owe Henry? What could possibly be worth this?
He doesn’t look back up. I take a step closer, just enough that he can feel me there without me touching him.
“Jaxon.” Saying his name makes his head lift, fast this time. Surprise flashes across his face before he can hide it. Good. Now I have his attention.
“I’m telling you you’re not stepping back in that cage tonight,” I say, voice quieter, sharper.
His jaw tightens immediately. “You don’t—”
“Stop. Get the wraps off your hands,” I cut in, letting just enough edge slip through to make him pause.