Chapter 7 - Rampage
I'm in serious trouble.
That's the thought that follows me for the next three days.
Through Tuesday afternoon after she leaves, through Wednesday and Thursday where I catch myself staring at the clock wondering what she's doing, through Friday morning when I wake up at four a.m. from the usual nightmare and my first coherent thought is *she'll be here tonight*.
I’ve had women watch my fights. Occasionally.
Women who made it clear what they wanted, who saw the violence and got turned on by it, who thought sleeping with Rampage would be some kind of thrill.
I never took them up on it. Never saw the point in complicating something that worked perfectly well on its own.
But Chloe is different.
She didn't ask to come to the fights. She didn't show up trying to get my attention.
She came to learn how to protect herself from some asshole ex-boyfriend who won't leave her alone, and somehow that turned into me standing in the training room with my cock hard enough to hurt, pressing it against her back while teaching her how to break free from someone holding her, and then inviting her to watch me fight.
I don't know what I'm doing.
That's the problem. I always know what I'm doing. In the ring, in the gym, in every aspect of my life, I know exactly what I'm doing and why. But with her, I'm operating on pure instinct, and my instincts are telling me things that make absolutely no sense.
They're telling me she's mine.
Not in any way I can claim. Not in any way that makes logical sense.
But some primitive part of my brain has decided that Chloe Marsh belongs to me, and now I'm arranging for her to have private access to the Pit, telling security to watch for her, making sure everyone down there knows she's under my protection.
I've never done this before.
By Friday evening, I'm wired in a way that has nothing to do with the upcoming fight. I go through my usual routine: eat at six, light meal, protein and carbs. Check the gym one last time, make sure everything's locked down upstairs. Head down to the basement at nine to help set up.
Tank is already there with two other members from the MC, moving equipment, checking the lights, setting up the cash box. He nods when he sees me.
"Got your message," he says. "About the girl."
"She's using the back entrance."
"I'll be there to let her in. What's her name?"
"Chloe," I say. "Brown hair, glasses, small. She comes in, you walk her to the back corner, away from the ring. You make sure she stays there."
"You got it."
"And Tank," I say, my voice dropping lower. "Anyone looks at her wrong, anyone gets too close, you deal with it immediately. Before I have to notice."
"Understood," he says.
I should feel ridiculous. I should feel like I'm overreacting, being possessive over a woman I've spent a total of three hours with. But I don't. I feel like I'm doing exactly what needs to be done.
The crowd starts arriving at ten. By ten-fifteen, the basement is half full. By ten-twenty-five, I'm standing near the ring watching the back entrance, waiting.
She arrives at ten-thirty-two.
I see the door open, see Tank step forward, see Chloe walk in wearing jeans and a dark sweater that somehow makes her look even smaller than usual. Her hair is down tonight, falling past her shoulders, and she's looking around the basement with wide eyes, taking it all in.
Tank says something to her. She nods. He starts walking toward the back corner, and she follows, and I watch every step she takes until she's exactly where I told Tank to put her. Back corner. Away from the crowd. Protected.
Our eyes meet across the basement.
She gives me a small smile.
Something in my chest tightens.
I nod once, acknowledging her presence, and then force myself to look away. I need to focus. Need to get my head in the right place. The fight starts in less than thirty minutes, and I cannot afford to be distracted.
The opponent tonight is someone I've never seen before.
That's becoming more common. Word about the Pit has spread beyond Blackwater Falls, and fighters from surrounding towns are starting to show up wanting to test themselves against the champion.
This one is younger than me, mid-twenties probably, tall and lean with the kind of build that suggests speed over power.
His name is Travis.
I don't care.
Names don't matter in the ring. Size matters. Skill matters. How much pain you can take and keep moving that matters. Everything else is just noise.
We face each other across the tape line that marks the ring's boundary. The crowd is loud tonight, already worked up from the earlier fights, already anticipating blood. Travis is bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, trying to stay loose, trying to look confident.
He should be scared.
The bell rings.
He comes at me fast, just like I expected. Leading with a jab, testing my defense, trying to establish range. I slip it easily and counter with a body shot that makes him grunt. He backs off, resets, comes at me again.
He's fast. I'll give him that. Faster than the last guy, faster than most of the fighters who come through here. But fast only matters if you can land something significant, and I'm not giving him that opportunity.
I control the center of the ring. Make him come to me. Let him waste energy trying to find an opening that doesn't exist. He throws combinations. Some of them clean, well-practiced, and I block or slip every single one, and I can see the frustration starting to build in his face.
Three minutes in, I catch him with a right hook that snaps his head to the side.
The crowd roars.
He stumbles back but doesn't go down. Tough kid. Stupid, but tough. He shakes it off and comes at me again, and this time there's something desperate in his movement, something that says he knows he's outmatched but doesn't want to admit it.
I respect that, actually. The refusal to quit even when you should. I hit him again. Left to the body, right to the jaw. He goes down this time, hard, and the crowd loses their minds, but Travis gets up.
He shouldn't. Any smart fighter would stay down after a hit like that, would recognize that getting back up is just asking for more damage.
But he's stumbling to his feet anyway, swaying, one hand pressed to his jaw, and I can see in his eyes that he's not thinking clearly anymore.
He's running on pride and adrenaline and nothing else.
The crowd is screaming. Calling for more blood. Calling for me to finish it.
But I'm not looking at Travis anymore.
I'm looking at Chloe.
There's a man standing too close to her. Too fucking close. He's leaning in, saying something, and even from here I can see the way she's pressed back against the wall, the way her shoulders have come up defensive, the way she's shaking her head no.
Where the fuck is Tank?
I scan the crowd and find him near the ring, talking to Bruiser and Reckless.
The three of them are standing together, laughing about something, completely fucking oblivious to what's happening ten feet behind them.
Bruiser and Reckless are two of the best fighters who come through the Pit regularly, both undefeated except against me, and Tank's probably discussing their upcoming matches.
Any other time, I wouldn't blame him for being distracted by fighters of that caliber.
But not tonight.
Not when she's here.
Travis is moving toward me again, but I don't have time for this.
I step forward and throw everything I have into one punch.
My right fist connects with his jaw with enough force that I feel the impact all the way up my arm.
His head snaps back violently and he drops like someone cut his strings, hitting the concrete floor hard and not moving.
The crowd erupts.
I don't wait for Tank to check him. Don't wait for the official end of the fight. I step over the tape line and move through the crowd, and people scatter out of my way because I'm still in fight mode, still running hot, and anyone with half a brain can see it in my face.
The guy is still talking to her.
Still leaning in.
Still not taking the fucking hint.
As I get closer, I hear her voice. Shy but firm.
"—we broke up, Daniel. Three months ago. You need to leave me alone."
Daniel. The ex. The one who won't leave her alone. The one who shows up everywhere she goes. The reason she came to my gym in the first place.
I cross the remaining distance in three strides, grab him by the back of his collar, and yank him away from her so hard he actually leaves his feet for a second before I slam him against the wall.
My forearm comes up across his throat, pinning him there, and I'm in his face before he can process what's happening.
"Leave," I say.
My voice is low. Deadly calm. The kind of calm that comes right before violence.
His eyes go wide when he realizes who's holding him. "I was just talking to—"
"I don't care what you were doing." I press harder against his throat. Not enough to cut off air completely, but enough that he has to work for each breath. "You see her?"
I don't turn around to gesture at Chloe. I don't take my eyes off him. But he knows who I'm talking about.
"Y-yes."
"You don't go near her. You don't talk to her. You don't show up where she is. You don't text her. You don't exist in her world anymore. You understand me?"
"We just need to talk—"
"No." I lean in closer. "She said you broke up. That means it's over. That means you leave her the fuck alone."
"Who the hell are you?" he tries, attempting to sound tough. It doesn't work when your voice is shaking.
"I'm the person who's going to break every bone in your legs if I see you near her again," I tell him and I mean every word. "You'll never walk right. You'll limp for the rest of your life. Every step will remind you that you should have listened to me tonight."
His face goes pale. "Jesus Christ—"
"Do you understand me?"
"Yes. Yes, I understand."
"Good. Now get the fuck out of my gym and don't come back."
I release him and step back.
He slides down the wall slightly, catches himself, and then looks past me at Chloe. "Chloe, come on, we just need to—"
I move back into his space so fast he flinches. "What did I just say?"
"I’m sorry! I'm going. I'm going."
He scrambles away from me, pushing through the crowd, and I watch until I'm sure he's heading for the stairs, heading out, not coming back. Then I turn to Chloe.
She's pressed against the wall, both hands up near her chest, eyes wide behind her glasses. Her face is flushed, her breathing fast.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"Yes," she says. "Yes, I'm fine."
"Did he hurt you?"
"No. He just… He wouldn't leave. I kept telling him to go and he just kept talking."
The rage that sweeps through me is immediate. If that asshole was still here, I'd finish what I started. I'd make good on every threat I just made.
"I'm sorry," I say.
She blinks at me. "For what?"
"For being aggressive. For handling it like that right in front of you. I should have—"
"No," she interrupts. "Don't apologize."
Her eyes are wide, but it's not fear I'm seeing. It's something else. Something that makes my cock start to thicken again despite the fact that we're surrounded by people.
"Don't apologize," she repeats, softer this time. "No one's ever—" She stops. Takes a breath. "No one's ever protected me like that before."
"I will.” I say, and I mean it, "How did he know you were here?"
"I don't know." Her voice is small now, worried. "I don't know how he always knows where I am."
That's a problem. A serious fucking problem. But not one we can solve standing in this basement with a hundred people around us.
"Come on," I say. "Let's get out of here. Get some air."