Chapter 12
Jaxon
Wednesday comes faster than I’m ready for it. It seems like the days in between never really existed. I’ve barely had time to catch my breath before I’m right back in the driver’s seat, heading toward something I don’t want to face.
My palms are damp against the leather steering wheel, slipping just enough that I have to readjust my grip every few minutes. The tension sitting heavy in my chest and refusing to ease no matter how many times I tell myself to calm down.
I’m driving myself straight into Manny’s world, and I have no control over how this is going to play out.
Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic. But it doesn’t feel like it.
Not when my stomach is tight, not when my thoughts keep circling back to every possible outcome, none of them ending in anything good.
I have no idea what they’re going to demand or what this is going to cost me.
There are already three dark-colored sedans sitting in the parking lot when I pull in, all lined up waiting for my arrival. My grip tightens on the wheel as I slow the truck, my eyes tracking over them automatically, cataloging without thinking.
I should turn around. Just throw the truck in reverse, get the hell out of here, and don’t look back.
Maybe I should have done that days or even months ago.
Maybe I should have packed a bag, driven until the roads ran out, found some off-grid cabin in the middle of nowhere, and just disappeared.
Lived out whatever’s left of my life alone and untouched by all of this.
It’s tempting, but it’s not realistic. Because I don’t know how far Manny’s reach goes.
Everything I’ve managed to dig up on him points to connections that stretch beyond this city, beyond this state, ties in places I can’t track, people I can’t see.
Running might buy me time, but it wouldn’t end it, if he decides I’m worth the effort, he’ll find me.
Resigned to my fate, I get out of my truck and head for the door. I clock the guard at the far end of the building and the one closing in on my left. This is not going to fucking go my way at all.
Opening the door, I pause just inside the threshold, letting it fall shut behind me as I stand there for a moment, giving my eyes time to adjust to the dim, uneven lighting before stepping fully into the space. The warehouse feels different without the crowd. If anything, it’s worse.
I can make out four men standing near the cage in the center of the open floor, their silhouettes sharp against the low light, their attention already angled in my direction like they’ve been expecting me.
Waiting. The air is still thick with the lingering smells of blood and sweat.
That sickly sweet perfume that clings to everything, even now, even without bodies packed in shoulder to shoulder.
It lingers in the back of my throat, familiar and wrong all at once.
My boots scrape lightly against the concrete as I step further inside, every sound carrying more than it should in the empty space. No crowd to hide behind. No noise to get lost in. Just me and whatever is about to happen.
“Finally,” Henry sneers the second I’m close enough, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Glad to see you can actually do as you’re told for a change.”
The urge to put my fist through his throat is immediate and violent. The image of him choking for air flashing through my mind before I can stop it, but I lock it down just as fast, forcing myself to stay still, to give him nothing. No reaction, no satisfaction.
I let my gaze shift past him instead, taking in the other men standing nearby, their attention fixed on me in a way that makes my skin crawl. They’re assessing. Judging, but for what? I can feel it, the weight of it, crawling over me like ants.
“This is him,” Henry says, like I’m a piece of merchandise he’s presenting. One of the men steps slightly closer, his eyes narrowing as he looks me over.
“He looks like a fighter,” he says slowly. “I’ve heard he’s only lost once. That puts the point spread heavily in his favor.” His gaze flicks to Henry. “You sure he can win this one? Think before you answer. I’m putting a lot of money into this.”
Henry doesn’t hesitate.
“He’s an ex-Marine who’s only lost one fight in eight months,” he replies smoothly. “And that loss was his first time. Chalk it up to him being a fight virgin.” His eyes cut to me, a smug smile pulling at his mouth. “Right, Jax?”
I don’t answer. I just stare at him, letting the silence stretch, refusing to play along. What the hell is he getting me into now?
“Okay,” the other man says after a beat, pulling out his phone, “I’ll make the call.”
He steps away, already dialing, leaving the rest of us standing there in the thick, stale air. Henry grabs my arm then, his grip tight and invasive as he drags me a few steps away from the others, forcing me to lean down just to hear him.
“There’s a lot at stake right now,” he says under his breath. “You cost me a lot of money on Friday with that little stunt.” His fingers dig in harder. “Time to pay up.”
“I don’t understand,” I reply, my voice low but steady. “Is this for Friday? Why am I here now?”
He lets out a harsh laugh. “Not Friday, you fucking meathead,” he snaps.
“Tonight. Now.” The words hit like a punch.
“I’d say you’ve got about an hour before you walk into that cage,” he continues, his expression twisting into something ugly.
“When you do, you keep hitting him until I tell you to stop.”
My stomach drops.
“Understand?”
He bares his teeth at me, waiting. I glance around again, my eyes searching for something familiar, for someone who might put a stop to this. The usual guys aren’t here. This is wrong. That guy, Danny, isn’t here. Would he allow this? Does he even know? Fuck.
“Now do whatever it is you do to get ready,” Henry adds, releasing my arm with a shove.
I need to get out of here. Now.
“I need to get my gear from my truck,” I say, already shifting my weight, already preparing to move.
Henry grabs me again before I can take a step, his grip even tighter this time as he snaps his fingers sharply. One of the guards by the door approaches, his expression tight, like he doesn’t like this any more than I do.
“Give him your keys,” Henry orders. “He’ll get your bag.”
His eyes lock onto mine, a warning clear in them.
“Wouldn’t want you getting any ideas about running.”
I hesitate for half a second before reaching into my pocket and handing over the keys.
The guard takes them, his gaze flicking to mine briefly before he turns and heads outside.
Maybe Henry is smarter than I gave him credit for.
I change out of my street clothes into my compression shorts, the familiar routine feeling anything but steady this time as I move through it, aware of every second passing, aware of the eyes on me the entire time.
Henry and the guard don’t give me an inch of space. They stay close. Never more than a few feet away. They can feel that if they loosen their grip for even a second, I’ll bolt. They’re not wrong. I would.
My hands move automatically as I start wrapping them, pulling the tape tight, looping it around my knuckles and wrists in practiced motions that usually calm me down, usually center me. Not today. Today, my mind won’t settle.
I keep glancing at the clock, watching the minutes tick down, each one dragging and rushing at the same time, like time can’t decide what it wants to do.
Too fast. Too slow. Every second feels wrong.
By the time the hour hits, my chest is tight, my hands fully wrapped, my body ready, even if everything else in me is screaming that this is a bad idea.
The door swings open. The sound cuts through the space like a signal. I look up.
About ten men walk in, their presence filling the warehouse in a way that shifts the air immediately, heavier, more dangerous. And then I see him. The fighter.
He’s big. Muscular in a way that speaks of raw power rather than control, his frame thick and built for damage, not finesse. A deep scar cuts across his left cheek, pale against his skin, a mark that looks old enough to have settled but not old enough to be forgotten.
His eyes are flat and empty. That dead stare of a man who has nothing left to lose. I know it instantly. Because I’ve seen it before. Every morning, staring back at me from the mirror.
I make my way to the cage, every step feeling heavier than it should, the weight of what’s about to happen pressing down on me as I duck through the door and straighten on the other side.
The other fighter, Yuri, follows me in, his presence filling the space immediately, and we separate without a word, each of us moving to opposite sides of the cage like it’s instinct.
The metal clangs shut behind us. No going back now.
He doesn’t posture. There’s no jumping around, no wasted movement, no unnecessary noise.
Just stillness. His eyes lock onto mine, sharp and unblinking, and I feel the shift as everything else fades out, the space between us tightening into something focused and dangerous.
We’re both doing the same thing. Watching, scanning, looking for the other’s weakness.
I track the way his body moves as he stretches, the way his muscles bunch and roll under his skin as he pulls one arm across his chest and then the other, the controlled tension in every motion telling me exactly what kind of fighter he is.
He’s not sloppy or reckless. He’s disciplined and strong.
This isn’t going to be easy, and it’s sure as hell not going to be quick.
He drops into a squat for a second, testing his range, and I watch the way his legs move, thick and powerful, stretching the material of his shorts.
The sheer size of them is enough to tell me everything I need to know.
If he lands a kick, it’s going to more than just hurt. It’s going to do some major damage.
From where I’m positioned inside the cage, I can see them clearly, the fifteen or so men gathered just outside the metal walls, their attention split between us and the money already changing hands.
Their voices are low but eager as they place their bets.
This is nothing more than a game to them, like what is about to happen isn’t real. Like we aren’t real.
I force myself to keep my focus on Yuri anyway, refusing to let my attention drift for more than a second, because that is the kind of mistake that gets you hurt, the kind that costs more than just a fight. His expression hasn’t changed at all. Not a flicker. Then again, neither has mine.
We stand there facing each other, both still, both waiting, both calculating, the space between us thick with tension as we assess and reassess, looking for anything that might give us an edge.
For a brief moment, a thought slips in. Does he want to be here?
Or is he like me? Dragged into something he can’t get out of, forced to stand in this cage and do what’s expected because there is no other option left to him.
I push the thought away. It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t change anything about what is about to happen.
We are both here, locked inside this cage.
And no matter the reason, no matter how we got here, we are about to do exactly what they want us to do. Perform. Fight. Bleed. All for the people standing just outside, watching us. Because in their world, we exist for nothing more than their entertainment.
“Okay, boys, as soon as you hear the bell, the fight is on. It doesn’t stop until the bell rings again or one of you ain’t getting up again,” Henry laughs. “I wouldn’t be waiting on the second bell if I were you.”
What the fuck? This can’t be happening. Then the bell sounds, loud and clear. Echoing through the space. Yuri moves forward, hands up and at the ready. If there is a God, could he hear my shouts for help? Because I don’t think anyone on this planet would.