Chapter 7
Jaxon
The fight that probably would have either killed me or left me permanently broken is over before it even really begins. I’m still trying to wrap my head around how quickly it happened, how effortlessly he handled someone I know I wouldn’t have survived in my current state.
Conor doesn’t just fight. He controls everything. Every movement is deliberate, every shift of his weight calculated. None of his movements is wasted. He already knows how it’s going to end before it even starts, and I haven’t seen that kind of control since my time in the Marine Corps.
God. When he pulled his shirt off. When he took off his belt like it was nothing, like he wasn’t standing right in front of me, like I wasn’t sitting there trying not to stare. I thought I was going to combust on the spot. There’s no other way to describe it.
I’ve seen fit men before. Hell, I’ve been around them most of my life.
But him? That’s something else entirely.
Yeah, I looked. Of course I did. No one can blame me, fuck.
But he caught me, too. For a split second, our eyes met, and I was sure I’d been called out without a single word being said, but his expression never changed.
There wasn’t even a flicker, and I couldn’t tell if he was offended, amused, or if it didn’t even register to him at all.
Which somehow makes it worse. Because in my defense, with a body like that on display? Anyone would look.
He’s making his way back to me, long strides eating up the distance between us as if the crowd pressing in around him doesn’t exist at all.
People are shouting, cheering, calling out to him, trying to grab his attention now that they’ve seen what he can do, but he doesn’t so much as glance their way.
His focus stays locked on me, steady and unbroken, until it feels as if the rest of the room has faded into nothing.
Those green eyes don’t leave mine. Not once.
My pulse picks up without my permission.
He reaches me faster than I expect, grabbing an empty folding chair as he passes and setting it down beside me with a sharp scrape of metal against concrete before dropping into it.
His presence settles beside me, solid and undeniable.
He starts unwrapping his hands, his movements efficient and practiced, but then he pauses halfway through and looks at me, his gaze sharp and assessing in a way that makes my chest tighten.
“Get your wraps off and pack up.”
It isn’t a suggestion, it’s a command. There’s no room in his tone for argument, no space to question him or push back.
And the worst part is that I don’t. I don’t argue, don’t hesitate.
I don’t even think about telling him no.
My hands move before my brain can catch up, my fingers already reaching for the tape around my knuckles as something heavy settles in my chest. Because for some reason, I want to do exactly what he tells me.
I make quick work of getting my shirt back on, my hands unwrapped, and everything packed away with more speed than care. My movements are automatic even as my thoughts lag behind, trying to make sense of everything that just happened. I’m not sure what he wants. None of this makes sense.
The whole situation feels surreal, like I stepped into something that doesn’t belong to me and haven’t quite found my way out of it yet. I noticed him before. At every fight.
Every time I stepped into that cage, I could feel his eyes on me, could pick him out of the crowd without even trying, but he never approached me, never spoke, never showed anything beyond that quiet, watchful presence. And now he’s beside me after he just fought for me, giving me orders.
As soon as I’m packed up, I push to my feet, my body heavy and aching, ready to be done with this night. All I want is to go back to my apartment, take a long hot shower, and sleep until everything stops hurting.
“Let’s go.”
Conor stands and starts walking toward the exit without waiting for me, not even checking if I follow. It’s like he already decided that I will. And I do. I’m like a confused little puppy. I fall in behind him, my bag slung over my shoulder as I try and fail to make sense of any of it.
The second we step outside, the warm night air hits me, and I take a deep breath, filling my lungs fully for the first time since I walked into that place. It almost feels like relief. But he doesn’t stop. He just keeps walking.
I hesitate for a second, watching him, realizing that if I don’t say something now, he might just walk away and disappear again. And I don’t want that.
“Thanks for helping me out,” I say, my voice rougher than I expect. “I really appreciate it.” It sounds small even to my own ears. It’s not enough, but it’s all I’ve got. He stops and turns toward me. Those green eyes lock onto mine again, steady and unreadable.
“We need to talk,” he says, his voice firm. “But not here.” He pauses just long enough for the words to settle. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” I ask. “I can’t leave my truck here, so I’ll have to follow you.”
I know this is an idiotic move. Yeah, sure, just agree to follow a stranger.
A hot, sexy as fuck stranger, but still a stranger.
I tell myself that over and over, trying to find some kind of solid ground in all of this, some reason to stop and walk away before I get pulled any deeper into something I already don’t understand.
I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to hurt me physically. If he did, he could have just let me take that last fight and watched me get destroyed. But physical pain isn’t the only way to hurt someone. And if anyone knows that, it’s me. Exhibit A: the lesson I learned from Trent.
“There’s a diner down the street on Oak,” he says, tilting his head slightly as he looks at me, like he’s expecting me to push back, like he’s waiting for me to argue or question him. I don’t.
The truth is, I want to talk to him. I need to. Because nothing in my life comes without a cost, and I know there’s going to be one for what he did tonight. There’s always a price. It’s better to know what it is now.
“Yeah, I know it,” I say, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. “I’ll meet you there.”
He studies me for a second, then gives a single nod before turning and walking in the opposite direction without another word. Just like that. I stand there for a moment, watching him go, before I finally turn and head for my truck.
It’s not a new truck, not even close, but it runs, it’s clean, and it’s mine, and that matters more than anything else ever could.
One of the few things in my life that actually belongs to me.
Growing up in foster care, I never had that.
Nothing was ever truly mine. Not the rooms I slept in, not the places I stayed, not even the clothes on my back.
Everything I had was passed down from someone else, worn before me, lived in before I ever touched it.
I can count on one hand the number of new things I was given in the eighteen years I spent moving from place to place.
The Marines were supposed to change that.
They were supposed to be my fresh start, my chance to build something real, something solid.
A family made out of choice and loyalty instead of blood.
Brothers and sisters who had my back, held together by a true bond.
For a while, I thought I had that. I thought I had more than that.
And now, nine years later, I’m right back where I started.
Alone.
All because I let myself believe in something more, opened myself up to a future with someone who was supposed to want me just as much as I wanted him.
I shake my head, forcing those thoughts away before they can take root, before they drag me somewhere I don’t have the time or energy to go. I need to focus on the here and now.
I pull into the lot and cut the engine, the sudden quiet settling around me as I sit there for a second, staring through the windshield without really seeing anything.
Suddenly, headlights sweep across the lot.
A sleek black G-wagon pulls into the spot beside me, the engine purring quietly as it comes to a stop. Of course it is. It fits him.
He doesn’t say anything while he waits for me to join him on the sidewalk, doesn’t try to fill the silence or rush me, just turns and heads inside.
He doesn’t wait to see if I’m following him.The second I step through the door, the smells hit me all at once.
Fried food and stale grease, fresh coffee cutting through it, and something that smells suspiciously like burned toast lingering underneath it all. Comforting in a way I can’t explain.
Conor moves through the diner without hesitation and slides into a booth on the far side of the room, taking the seat that faces the door without even thinking about it.
Which means my back will be to it. My anxiety spikes immediately, sharp and instinctive, tightening in my chest as I pause beside the table, my eyes flicking from the seat to the door and then back to him without meaning to.
He notices. Nothing seems to get past him.
Without saying a word or making it into something bigger than it is, he shifts, sliding out of his seat and switching sides with me like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t inconvenience him at all.
Relief hits fast and heavier than I expect, and I let out a quiet breath as I slide into the booth, my shoulders easing just enough to take the edge off.
“Sorry,” I say, my voice quieter now. “Military habit.”
He nods once. “Understood.”
That’s it. No questions or judgment. Just acceptance.
A waitress appears a second later, dropping two menus onto the table with a distracted smile before moving on just as quickly. I pick mine up and immediately notice its sticky surface, a faint sheen catching the light. I glance closer. Yep, that’s syrup.
“Who is Henry to you?”
Conor doesn’t look up when he asks it, his attention still on the menu like he’s asking something simple, something casual, but there’s nothing casual about the question itself.
The abruptness of the question catches me off guard.
My fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the sticky menu as I stare at him for a second, trying to figure out how to answer that, trying to decide how much I should say to a man I just met.
Because the truth? The truth isn’t simple.
I glance down at the table, at the streak of syrup catching the light, using the distraction as a second to gather my thoughts, to steady myself before I speak.
My jaw tightens as I lift my gaze back to him.
“He’s the one who tells me when I fight, who I fight, how many times I step into that cage,” I continue, my voice quieter now, more controlled. “And if I don’t listen, it won’t end well for me.”
I pause, letting that settle between us. His next question is impossible for me to answer without letting him in. And I can’t do that.
“Why?”