Chapter 6 - Chloe
What is happening?
That's the only coherent thought my brain can form as I sit here on this mat, four feet away from Cole Steele, both of us sweating and breathing hard and having what might be the most honest conversation I've had with another human being in months.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
I came here for a self-defense lesson. That's all. Learn some basic techniques, feel a little safer walking to my car at night, maybe build enough confidence that the next time my ex shows up unexpectedly, I don't completely freeze. Simple. Professional. Nothing complicated.
Except nothing about this is simple anymore.
Because for the last forty minutes, Cole has been grabbing me from behind, and I've been feeling something very specific pressing against my back. Something hard and thick and absolutely unmistakable.
The first time, I thought I imagined it. The second time, I thought maybe he had his phone in his pocket, even though that made no sense because he wasn't wearing anything with pockets. By the third time, I knew.
He's hard.
My self-defense instructor, this enormous, terrifying man who beats people unconscious for money, has been rock-hard and pressing against me while teaching me how to escape from a rear attack, and I have no idea what to do with that information except that it's making me so wet I'm genuinely concerned about leaving a visible spot on these leggings when I stand up.
Every single time his arms came around me, I felt it.
Thick and solid and pressing against my lower back, and I went still because my body didn't know how to process the combination of fear and arousal and complete overwhelming want that came with that sensation.
My first instinct, my immediate, visceral, completely insane first instinct, was to push back against it.
To rub my ass against his cock and find out what sound he'd make, whether he'd grab me harder or push me away or do something else entirely.
I wanted to turn around and drop to my knees.
I wanted to tell him I'd help him with that.
I wanted to offer him my mouth, my hands, anything he wanted, right here on this mat in the middle of the afternoon with the gym door unlocked and anyone able to walk in.
And now we're sitting here having a completely different conversation, and I can see sweat dripping down his forehead, down the sides of his face, down his neck and disappearing into the collar of his shirt.
I can see it on his forearms where his sleeves are pushed up, gleaming on his skin, and I want to taste it.
I want to know what he tastes like, what his skin feels like under my tongue, whether he'd let me explore him the way my body is screaming at me to do.
But instead, I just told him about my ex.
I never tell anyone about my ex. Not the full truth anyway.
Sarah knows some of it, knows that he won't leave me alone, but I've downplayed how bad it is because I don't want her to worry.
My parents definitely don't know because they'd just tell me it's my own fault for trusting someone in the first place, for thinking I was ready for a relationship when clearly I wasn't.
But I told Cole. He listened, and I feel safer knowing that he knows.
That this man... This enormous, dangerous, capable man who could break my ex in half without breaking a sweat knows what I'm dealing with and has decided I'm worth protecting.
Even if that protection only extends to teaching me how to protect myself, it's more than anyone else has offered.
"Thank you," I say.
He nods. Doesn't say *you're welcome* or *it's nothing* or any of the polite deflections people usually offer. Just nods like it's already decided, already done.
"He knows where you live, right?”
"Yes. I moved after we broke up, but he found the new place within a week."
"He ever threaten you directly?"
"No. That's the problem. He's careful. He never says anything that would hold up as a threat. He just... shows up. Texts things like 'saw you at the store today, you looked pretty.' Things that sound almost normal if you don't know the context."
"Does he know you're taking these lessons?" he asks.
"I don't think so. I haven't told anyone except Sarah, and she wouldn't tell him. But I don't know how he finds out things, so..." I trail off, shrugging helplessly.
"If he shows up here," Cole says, and his voice has gone very quiet, very level, "you tell me immediately."
"Okay."
"I mean it, Chloe. The second you see him anywhere near this gym, you find me."
"I will. I promise"
"Good."
He's still looking at me, those dark eyes locked on mine, and I feel pinned by the weight of his attention. Not scared. Not uncomfortable. Just... seen. Like he's cataloging every detail, filing it away, building some kind of profile in his head.
"There's another fight Friday night," he says suddenly.
"Here?"
"Yeah."
"Are you fighting?"
"Yeah."
"Who?"
"Don't know yet. Someone new probably. They like to bring in fresh blood, see if anyone can take me down."
"Can they?" The question comes out before I can stop it. "Take you down, I mean."
Something that might be a smirk touches the corner of his mouth. "Not so far."
"You got hit last time."
"I got distracted last time."
He was distracted by me. Because I was there. Because he saw me and stopped paying attention, and that other guy's fist connected with his face.
"Come Friday," he says before I can respond. "Use the back entrance. There's a door at the rear of the building that leads directly down to the basement. I'll tell Tank, he's security, to expect you."
"Just me?" I ask. "Not Sarah?"
"Just you."
"Why?"
He doesn't answer right away, and I realize I don't actually want him to answer. I like not knowing. I like the mystery of it, the question of what it means that he's inviting me specifically, that he wants me there alone, that he's making arrangements to keep me safe.
"Never mind," I say quickly. "I don't need to know why. I'll be there."
"Ten-thirty," he says. "Fights start at eleven but come early."
"Okay."
"And when you come in through the back," he continues, "everyone down there will know I invited you."
Fuck. He's claiming me. Not explicitly, not in any way that he's actually saying out loud, but that's what this is. By having me use the back entrance, by telling security to expect me, by making sure everyone knows he invited me, he's putting me under his protection.
And God help me, I like it.
I like the idea of being under his protection. I like the idea of walking into that basement and having people know that I'm there because of him. I like the idea of being his in some undefined way that probably isn't healthy but feels necessary all the same.
"No one's going to bother you," he adds. "No one's going to get too close, get too drunk, and forget their manners. You understand?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"Will you—" I stop, not sure how to ask this. "Will you know I'm there? During the fight?"
"I'll know."
"Will it distract you again?"
"No," he says, and there's absolute certainty in his voice. "Not this time. This time I'll know exactly where you are. That's different."
I don't know what to say to that.
The idea that knowing where I am, that being aware of my presence, will somehow make him better instead of worse does something to my chest that feels dangerously close to hope.
Hope that this isn't just professional courtesy.
Hope that whatever is happening between us isn't entirely in my imagination.
"Okay," I manage. "I'll be there."
I should stand up. Should suggest we continue the lesson or end it early or do literally anything except keep sitting here staring at him while sweat continues to drip down the valley between my breasts and I try not to think about the fact that twenty minutes ago his cock was pressed against me and he did absolutely nothing to hide it.
"Can I ask you something?" I say instead.
"Another question?"
"Yes."
"Go ahead."
"Your pit name. Rampage, right? Who gave it to you?"
"The crowd," he says finally. "First fight I had down there. Guy was talking shit, getting in my face. Thought he was tough." He pauses. "I put him in the hospital."
"Jesus."
"Broke his jaw in three places. Fractured two ribs. Gave him a concussion that kept him there for five days." His voice is completely flat, emotionless. "Someone in the crowd said I went on a rampage. The name stuck."
"Do you regret it?" I ask. "Hurting him that badly?"
"No."
The answer is immediate, certain, and I should probably be scared by that. By the fact that he has no remorse for sending someone to the hospital. But I'm not scared. I'm something else entirely.
"He was asking for it," Cole continues. "And everyone else down there needed to understand what happens when you step in that ring with me. I don't pull punches. I don't show mercy. You come at me, you better be prepared for what comes back."
"And they keep coming anyway."
"Money's good if you win. And everyone thinks they're going to be the one to finally take me down." That almost-smirk touches his mouth again. "They're wrong."
"What if someone does?" I ask. "Eventually. What if someone finally beats you?"
"Then they beat me," he says simply. "And I get back up and do it again."
"You'd keep fighting? Even after losing?"
"What else would I do?"
The question hangs in the air between us, and I realize it's not rhetorical. He's genuinely asking. What else would he do without the fights? Without that outlet for whatever darkness lives inside him?
"You could do this," I say, gesturing to the gym around us. "Just this. Teaching people. Running the gym. You don't need the underground fights."
"Yes," he says. "I do."
And the way he says it… The certainty, the finality, tells me everything I need to know about how deep whatever he's dealing with actually goes. The fights aren't optional for him. They're necessary. They're survival.
"Okay," I say.
He looks at me for a long moment, and I wonder what he sees. If he sees someone who understands, or someone who's just naive enough to think she does. If he sees someone worth protecting, or just another student passing through.
"We should finish the lesson," he says finally, standing up.
I take the hand he offers and let him pull me to my feet. His palm is rough, scarred, and when I'm standing, he doesn't immediately let go.
"Friday," he says. "Ten-thirty. Back entrance."
"I'll be there," I promise.
His thumb brushes across my knuckles once before he releases my hand. And I know, with absolute certainty, that I'm in serious trouble.