Chapter 8 - Chloe
I follow him.
Through the crowd of people still buzzing about the fight, past the biker who let me in and now looks mildly concerned until Cole gives him a single shake of his head that seems to communicate everything necessary, up the stairs and through the gym and out into the cold night air.
He doesn't care who sees us leave together.
That's what strikes me as we walk. He's just Rampage, the undefeated champion, the most feared fighter in the Pit, the man everyone came here to watch, and he's walking out with me.
A younger, chubby accountant in glasses who probably looks like someone's kid sister, and he doesn't give a single fuck what anyone thinks about it.
He doesn't slow his pace to match mine. Doesn't look around to see if anyone's watching.
Doesn't show even a flicker of concern about what people might say seeing him leave with someone like me.
He just moves with that same purposeful intensity he had in the ring, and I have to walk quickly to keep up.
My heart is still racing.
It hasn't slowed down since the moment Daniel appeared next to me.
Since I looked up and saw him there, too close, invading my space the way he always does, and felt that familiar combination of fear and helplessness wash over me.
I kept telling him to leave. Kept saying no.
And he kept talking like my words didn't matter, like if he just explained himself enough times I'd suddenly understand and take him back.
And then Cole was there.
I've never seen anyone move that fast. One second Daniel was leaning in, trying to touch my arm, and the next second he was against the wall with Cole's forearm across his throat and murder in Cole's eyes.
He lifted him like Daniel weighed nothing.
Just grabbed him by the collar and yanked him off his feet and slammed him into the wall with enough force that I heard the impact over the crowd noise. Daniel is six feet tall, probably one-ninety. And Cole moved him like a ragdoll.
God, he's so fucking strong.
The thought hasn't left my head. Keeps playing on repeat while we walk. He's so strong. Could he lift me like that? Could he pin me against a wall the same way, hold me there with one arm while his other hand—
Stop.
I can't think like this. Not right now. Not when I'm still shaking from seeing Daniel, still processing what just happened, still trying to figure out how Daniel even knew I was here.
We reach the parking lot. It's mostly empty now except for a handful of cars belonging to people still in the basement.
"Did you drive or take the bus?" Cole asks.
"I drove."
"Show me your car."
I lead him to my sedan, parked near the back of the lot where I thought it would be safest. He walks around it slowly, his eyes scanning every inch.
"You never figured out how he always knows where you are, right?"
"Yeah. I have no idea. I just thought he was... I don't know. Following me somehow. Or guessing."
"For three months straight? Always knowing exactly where you'll be?"
Put like that, it sounds impossible. It sounds like something more than coincidence or good guessing.
Cole crouches down next to the rear driver's side wheel.
"He put a tracker on your car," he says.
"What?"
"That's how he knows where you are. That's how he knew you were at the fights tonight." Cole reaches underneath the car, his hand disappearing into the wheel well. "Found it."
He pulls out something small and black—a device about the size of a matchbox with a blinking green light on one side. A GPS tracker. Daniel put a GPS tracker on my car.
For three months.
For three goddamn months, I've been driving around thinking I was safe, thinking I had some privacy, and he's been tracking my every movement.
Cole stands up, the tracker in his palm, and looks at it for a moment. Then his fist closes around it.
I watch as he crushes it.
The plastic casing cracks, then shatters completely. The green light flickers and dies. His hand is so large the device disappears entirely within his grip, and when he opens his palm again, all that's left are broken pieces and circuit board fragments.
I bite my lower lip.
I can't help it. Watching him destroy that thing, watching the casual display of strength, the complete lack of effort it took, sends heat straight between my legs.
My control is slipping. Has been slipping since the moment he put his hands on me during that first lesson, but now it's actively falling apart.
He brushes the pieces off his palm, letting them fall to the ground.
"He won't be able to track you anymore," he says. "But you should check your phone too. Make sure he didn't install anything there."
"I will. Thank you."
"And if he shows up again, anywhere, any time, you call me immediately."
"Okay."
He's looking at me in that way he does, like he's reading something I'm not saying out loud, like he can see straight through to whatever I'm trying to hide.
"You want to come upstairs?" he asks.
"Upstairs?"
"My apartment. Above the gym. It's warmer than standing out here. Private."
Private.
I know what he's offering. Or what he might be offering.
Or what could happen if I say yes. This isn't just an invitation for coffee and conversation.
This is Cole Steele, Rampage, asking if I want to go somewhere alone with him, somewhere private, after he just pinned my ex to a wall and threatened to break his legs.
I should say no.
I should absolutely say no.
Cole is dangerous. Violent. The kind of man who beats people unconscious for money and doesn't apologize for it. The kind of man who has scars on his knuckles and nightmares he won't talk about and a darkness in him that I can see even when he's trying to hide it.
He is nothing like the kind of man I ever thought I'd be attracted to. Nothing like the safe, stable, predictable men I dated before. Nothing like the life I planned for myself when I moved to Blackwater Falls looking for quiet and safety.
But he's also the man who spent an hour teaching me how to protect myself with more patience than I knew he possessed. The man who invited me to his fight and made sure I'd be safe. The man who just grabbed my ex-boyfriend by the throat and promised to break him if he came near me again.
He's dangerous, yes.
But he's also good.
And worthy.
And standing here looking at me like my answer actually matters to him.
"Yes," I hear myself say. "I'd like that."
"Follow me," he says.
We walk back to the gym. He unlocks a side door I hadn't noticed before, one that leads to a narrow staircase heading up. The stairs are old, the wood creaking slightly under our weight, and at the top is another door that he unlocks and pushes open.
"After you," he says.
I step inside.
The apartment is exactly what I would have expected if I'd thought about it.
Small, just a studio layout with everything visible from the doorway.
A bed in one corner, neatly made. A small kitchen area with minimal appliances.
A bathroom door that's slightly ajar. No decorations on the walls.
No personal touches. Nothing that suggests anyone actually lives here versus just exists here.
But it's clean. Meticulously clean. And there's something about the spartanness of it that makes sense for him. Like he's kept everything in his life stripped down to only what's absolutely necessary.
He closes the door behind us and locks it.
The sound of the lock engaging makes my pulse jump.
"You want something to drink?" he asks. "Water? I've got beer somewhere if you want it."
"Water's fine."
He moves to the kitchen, pulls two glasses from the cabinet, fills them from the tap.
He hands me the water.
"Thank you," I say.
"Sit wherever you want."
There's a small couch against one wall. I sit down, and he sits next to me. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. He's still slightly sweaty from the fight, his hair damp, his shirt sticking to his chest in places.
I take a sip of water I don't really want because I need something to do with my hands.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yes. I think so. It's just—" I stop, trying to find the words. "I didn't know. About the tracker. For three months I didn't know."
"It's not your fault."
"I should have figured it out."
"How?" His voice is gentle now, patient. "You're not trained to look for that kind of thing. Most people aren't."
"Still."
"Chloe." He waits until I look at him. "This is on him. Not you. He's the one violating your privacy, stalking you, refusing to accept that it's over. None of that is your fault."
I want to believe him. Want to accept that I'm not somehow responsible for Daniel's behavior, for not seeing it sooner, for not handling it better.
"He won't stop," I say. "I know him. Even without the tracker. He'll find another way."
"Then we'll deal with that too."
We. He said we. Like this is something we're in together now. Like my problem has become his problem just because he's decided it has.
"Why are you helping me?" The question comes out before I can stop it. "Really. Why do you care?"
He sets his water glass down on the floor and turns to face me. "Because you walked into my gym asking to learn how to protect yourself," he says. "And I decided you were mine to protect."
"Mine," I repeat.
He doesn't shrug it off. Doesn't backtrack or soften it. Just looks at me with those dark eyes and says, "Yes. Mine. I want to make you mine and I want everyone to know it."
My breath stops.
"I know how that sounds," he continues, and there's something almost frantic in his voice now, like he's pouring everything out before he can stop himself.
"I know it sounds crazy coming from me. Someone you've known for less than two weeks.
I'm probably saying all this because I'm still running on adrenaline from the fight and I can't stop talking, but it's true. Every word of it is true."
"Cole—"