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“You’ll do as you’re told,” Henry snaps, dragging me back to the present. “Manny wants as many fights as possible a night.”

I finally look up at him, meeting his gaze head-on.

“Four isn’t possible if you want me to win.”

He just stares at me for a second, like I’ve said something mildly interesting instead of something that could get me killed.

“We’ll see,” Henry says. Cocky little shit.

Before I can respond, the announcer calls my name, his voice echoing through the warehouse, cutting through the noise like a blade. My jaw tightens, and I push to my feet. For a second, I glance toward him. My mystery man, but his eyes aren’t on me. They’re locked on my opponent as he climbs into the cage. Something in my chest drops. I’m so stupid.

I tear my gaze away and step forward, rolling my shoulders as I move. The guy across the octagon is already putting on a show, jumping around and yelling. Pounding his fists against his chest like he’s trying to convince himself he belongs here. The crowd eats it up. I let out a slow breath, watching him carefully. He’s wasting energy with too much movement, too much noise. He’s a blowhard. The kind of fighter who likes the attention more than the fight. The kind who doesn’t realize they just stepped into a cage with someone who has absolutely nothing left to lose. I step inside the octagon, and the door slams shut behind me.

Chapter 4

Conor

I watch as Jaxon wins his third fight. Barely. He’s slowing down now. I can see it in the way his shoulders drag a fraction too low, the way his breaths come heavier, sharper. His movements aren’t as clean as they were earlier. He’s exhausted, but he still gets it done.

He locks his arm around the guy’s throat, muscles straining as he tightens the hold. It takes longer this time. His opponent fights harder, longer, but it doesn’t matter. Jaxon doesn’t let go until the man finally goes limp. The crowd roars. I don’t. Because I’m not watching the win, I’m watching what happens after.

Jaxon releases him immediately, rolling onto his back for half a second like even that took everything out of him. Then he forces himself up, unsteady but determined, and drops back down beside the guy he just choked out. He checks on him. Hand pressing lightly against his shoulder, saying something I can’t hear over the noise. He’s the only one who does that. The only one in this place who fights like this isn’t all he is. That shouldn’t matter to me as much as it does.

I knew it the first time I saw him fight Declan. Jaxon doesn’t belong here. You can see it in the way he moves after the fight. In the way he checks on the men he puts down. In the way there’s no satisfaction in his eyes, no hunger for it. Just endurance. It’s like he’s surviving it instead of living it.

He staggers as he makes his way back to his bag, and something in my chest tightens at the sight of it. He’s running on fumes. Anyone with half a brain can see that. He drops down into the chair, hands already moving to unwrap the tape. Then that little asshole steps in front of him.

I lean forward slightly, eyes narrowing. I can’t hear what they’re saying over the noise, but I don’t need to. Jaxon’s shaking his head. Firm shakes, a solid, firm no. But the guy doesn’t back off. He keeps talking, leaning in, pushing. My jaw tightens. What the fuck?

Jaxon’s shoulders tense, his hands curling slightly like he’s trying not to react, trying not to make it worse. Then it hits me. The man is not asking him, he’s telling him. My stomach drops.

No, they wouldn’t. My eyes flick toward the ring, then back to him. He can barely stand. There’s no way.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I mutter under my breath.

Because if they send him back in there again, he’s not going to survive it. The more I watch, the more certain I am that’s exactly what’s happening. They’re sending him back in.

My jaw locks. When the little bastard finally walks away, I’m already moving. This isn’t happening. I won’t allow it. The decision hits me fast and hard, settling deep in my chest before I can second-guess it. Before I can remind myself of all the reasons this is a bad idea. I’m already crossing the room.

Jaxon’s head is down when I get close, his gaze fixed on the floor like he’s trying to disappear into it. His hands are still wrapped, fingers flexing slowly, like even that takes effort.

For months, I told myself I wouldn’t do this. Wouldn’t get involved. Wouldn’t cross that line. Watching him is one thing, but stepping into his world is something else entirely. I can’t stand here and watch them throw him back in that cage like he’s disposable. Not when he looks like that. Not when I know what it’ll do to him.

I stop in front of him, close enough now that he can’t ignore me. For a second, I just stand there, because this is the moment everything changes. He doesn’t look up right away.

His eyes stay fixed on my boots, like that’s all he can manage. Like looking anywhere else would take more out of him than he has left. I wait, not saying anything. Then, slowly, his head lifts. His gaze drags up my body until it finally meets mine, and I hate what I see. There’s no fire there, no fight. Just defeat.

It sits heavy in his expression, dulling everything that should be sharp. Like something inside him has already given up, already accepted whatever comes next. It’s as if he knows he doesn’t get a choice.

Something dark twists in my gut. Because that look doesn’t belong on a man like him, and I realize, standing there with him staring up at me like that, I can’t walk away now. If I do, that look on his face is never going to change.

“Can I help you?” His voice isn’t what I expected. It’s not as deep or as rough as I imagined. It’s quieter, almost gentle.

The pictures didn’t do a damn thing for him. Didn’t come close. His eyes hit me first. Whiskey. Dark, aged, with flecks of gold and amber that catch the low light and hold it. They’re sharper than they should be for a man who looks this worn down. Too alive for someone who just looked ready to give up. It throws me off for half a second. Because that defeat I saw? It’s still there, but it’s not everything, not yet.

My gaze drags over him before I can stop it. I take in the sweat slicked across his skin, the rise and fall of his chest that’s just a little too fast, the bruises already blooming under the surface. He definitely shouldn’t be fighting again. My jaw tightens.

“You’re done,” I say, my voice low enough that it doesn’t carry. His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering across his face.