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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.

Chapter 13

Conor

Taylor walks into my office at exactly seven on the dot, not a second early, not a second late, which is something I’ve come to expect from him over the years. Everyone in my family has an obsession with time, with precision, with respect, and somewhere along the way, Taylor picked it up, too. Hell, he might be worse than any of us. Military training never really leaves, he told me once. The thought sticks with me. I wonder if Jaxon is punctual.

“He arrived back home around six,” Taylor says, already moving into his report without wasting time. “Once he was inside his apartment, the men checked the perimeter and cleared out per your instructions.”

I nod once, my attention already shifting, already waiting for what comes next.

“I also found out why he’s being made to fight.”

That gets my full focus. Taylor turns the tablet toward me, angling it so I can see clearly, and the first image that fills the screen is Manny, his arm wrapped in a cast, fingers sticking awkwardly out from the end. My jaw tightens. Taylor scrolls, then taps the screen, bringing up a video. I hit play.

The footage is grainy, pulled from some security camera, but it’s clear enough. Manny is front and center. There’s a woman on the ground in front of him, her body curled in on itself, trying to protect what she can, and he’s hitting her. Again. And again. Something cold settles in my chest. He pulls his arm back for another strike, but the hit never lands.

Jaxon. He comes out of nowhere, barreling into Manny with enough force to send him stumbling back, putting himself between the woman and the next hit without hesitation. I watch it closely, every detail locking into place. There’s a flash of metal, quick but unmistakable, and then Manny’s arm bends the wrong way, the angle sharp and unnatural enough that I know immediately what happened. Broken. Clean.

Security swarms in seconds later, flooding the frame, and it takes three of them to bring Jaxon down, even with the numbers against him, even with the situation already lost. He doesn’t go quietly. He doesn’t go easy. Despite the situation, despite what it’s going to cost him. I feel it, a sharp, unexpected jolt of pride. Because he didn’t hesitate, he didn’t walk away. Now I know exactly why he’s paying for it.