2. Zaria
ZARIA
The body hits the canvas and the noise crashes over me like a wave—screaming, money changing hands, the beautiful chaos of people losing their minds over what I just did. My heart pounds against my ribs, blood singing in my veins, skin electric with leftover adrenaline.
This is the high. This moment right here, standing over some asshole who thought size mattered more than skill, who ran his mouth about what he'd do to me once he got me on my back.
The crowd knows what he said. They always know.
And they love watching me prove that words mean shit when you can't back them up.
I roll my shoulders, feel the pleasant burn in my muscles, the sting of split knuckles through the tape. My sports bra is soaked with sweat and spattered with his blood. Some of it's mine too—he caught me once on the cheekbone, a glancing blow that'll bruise pretty by morning.
Worth it for the way his eyes went wide when he realized I'd crushed his windpipe.
The referee gives me a nod, professional courtesy between people who understand the rules down here.
The medical team hauls the body out through the back gate.
Someone will handle it. Someone always handles it.
That's the beauty of Bennett territory—we take care of our own mess, keep it clean, keep it professional.
I duck under the cage ropes, and the crowd parts like I'm fucking Moses. Some reach out trying to touch me, congratulate me, like I did this for them. I ignore all of it, pushing through toward the locker area in the back, needing to breathe without two hundred bodies sucking up all the oxygen.
But then I remember—the guy.
Clean-cut, sharp jaw, messy brown hair that looked accidental instead of styled. Standing there with his boys like he'd wandered into the wrong party, wearing dark jeans and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Not trying to fit in. Just... there. Watching.
And those eyes when they met mine. Green with gold flecks even from across the cage, holding my gaze like he wasn't sure if he should run or step closer.
Most people in this crowd are regulars. I know their faces, their betting patterns, which ones come here to get off on violence and which ones are genuinely involved in the life.
This guy was neither. He looked like he worked in finance or marketing, probably had a gym membership he actually used, definitely wasn't supposed to be watching me kill someone in a basement fight club.
But he couldn't look away.
That's what caught my attention. Not the pretty face—plenty of pretty faces down here. The fact that he looked horrified and fascinated in equal measure, like I'd cracked something open in him just by existing.
I change direction, scanning the crowd. His friends are at the betting tables—I spot them collecting on whatever they threw down for my fight. But he's not with them.
There. The bar.
He's standing with his back to the scarred wood, beer bottle in one hand, staring at nothing like he's trying to process what he just witnessed.
The industrial lights cast shadows under his cheekbones, make his face look sharper than it probably is.
He's tall—six-one maybe—with the lean build of someone who runs instead of lifts.
Absolutely does not belong here.
I push through the last section of the crowd, my body still humming with post-fight energy that needs an outlet.
Sometimes I go home and fuck whoever I brought with me.
Sometimes I hit the heavy bag until my knuckles split through the tape.
Tonight feels different. Tonight I want to see what happens when I get close to the clean-cut boy who watched me commit murder and didn't run.
He doesn't notice me approaching. Too lost in his own head, that beer barely touched, his free hand running through his hair in a gesture that looks habitual.
I step into his space, close enough that he has to look at me or look like he's deliberately avoiding it.
He chooses looking.
Up close, he's prettier than I thought. Straight nose, defined features, a faint scar across his left temple that's too clean to be from anything down here.
His eyes are even better up close—that green-gold combination doing something interesting in the dim lighting, pupils still slightly blown from adrenaline.
"You lost?" My voice comes out rougher than intended, still breathless from the fight.
He blinks. Processes. His throat works as he swallows. "What?"
"This doesn't seem like your kind of place." I gesture vaguely at the chaos around us—the cages, the blood, the people who look like they'd gut you for looking at them wrong. "You've got 'private school' written all over you."
Something flickers across his face. Defensiveness maybe, or recognition. "And you've got 'jumped to conclusions' written all over you."
Oh. He's got bite under that clean exterior.
"That right?" I lean against the bar next to him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. He tenses. Not fear—awareness. "So you're a regular then. Guess I just missed you in my three years fighting here."
"I didn't say I was a regular."
"Then you're lost."
"Maybe I like getting lost." He takes a drink from his beer, his eyes never leaving mine. There's something underneath his surface I can't quite read—darkness wearing a nice-boy mask, or a nice boy trying on darkness for size. "That was... what you did up there was?—"
"Murder?" I supply helpfully.
He doesn't flinch. Just holds my gaze, processing. "Yeah."
"You gonna call the cops?"
"Are you worried if I do?"
"Not remotely." I study his face, the way his jaw tightens when I move closer, invading his space deliberately. "I'm curious what a guy like you is doing watching fights like that. You don't have the look."
"What look is that?"
"The one that says you belong in places where people die for entertainment.
" I reach up, brush my thumb across his cheekbone, feeling him freeze under the touch.
My knuckles are still bloody, leaving a faint smear on his skin.
"You look like you've got a nine-to-five and a gym membership.
Maybe a nice apartment with matching furniture.
Definitely not someone who watches women crush windpipes and thinks it's hot. "
His breath catches. "I never said?—"
"You didn't have to. I saw your face." I drop my hand, watching his pupils dilate further. The adrenaline is still singing through me, making everything sharper, making me want to push him until something breaks or bends. "So what are you doing here, private school?"
"Greer." His voice is steady despite the tension radiating through his frame. "My name is Greer."
"I didn't ask."
"You going to tell me yours?"
"No."
He laughs, short and surprised, like I've confirmed something he suspected. "Mysterious. That a personality trait or a survival strategy?"
"Both." I signal the bartender, who materializes immediately because down here, I don't wait for shit. "What are you drinking, Greer?"
He glances at his barely-touched beer. "I'm fine."
"That wasn't the question."
"A beer is fine."
I raise an eyebrow. "Don't live too far on the edge."
"I don't think any form of alcohol is really living dangerous."
"No?" I accept the two beers from the bartender, hand one to Greer, our fingers brushing. He doesn't pull away. "What is then? Besides wandering into illegal fight clubs and watching people die?"
He takes the beer, considering the liquid like it might have answers. "This is my first time here."
"I know."
"How?"
"Because if you'd been here before, I would've noticed." The words come out more honest than intended. I chase them with my beer, letting the taste ground me slightly. "You're too clean. Too... intact. Like you haven't figured out how dirty the world gets yet."
"Maybe I'm figuring it out now." He drinks, his throat working as he swallows. When he looks at me again, there's something different in his expression—challenge, maybe. Defiance. "Maybe I'm tired of being clean."
Oh, this is dangerous. This boy thinks he wants what I represent—the violence, the freedom, the power that comes from not giving a fuck about rules or consequences.
But he's still soft underneath. I can see it in the way he holds himself, in the flash of guilt that crosses his face when he glances toward the cage where I left a body.
He's the kind of guy who apologizes when he bumps into people on the subway. Who holds doors and says please and thank you. Who probably has never been in a real fight in his life despite that scar on his temple.
And some part of me—the part still riding high on violence and adrenaline—wants to ruin him.
Wants to drag him into the dark with me and see what happens when nice boys try on monster for size.
But I don't do that. I don't corrupt people for fun, don't pull civilians into this life just because I can. My father taught me better than that—Bennett business stays Bennett business. Outsiders stay outside where they're safe from the consequences we live with.
Still. There's something compelling about the way Greer's looking at me. Like I'm a puzzle he wants to solve, a question he needs answered. Like watching me kill someone flipped a switch inside him and now he doesn't know how to flip it back.
I've seen that look before. It never ends well.
"Let me guess." I set my empty glass on the bar, turning to face him fully. "You've got some trauma in your past. Something that made you realize the world isn't as safe as you thought. Now you're here trying to figure out if you're actually dark or if you just wish you were."
His jaw tightens. Direct hit.
"You're looking for an outlet," I continue, reading him like a book. "Something that makes you feel alive again because ordinary life stopped cutting it. And you saw me up there doing something brutal and honest and you thought—maybe that's what I need. Maybe she gets it."
"You don't know anything about me." But his voice lacks conviction.