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The way that was mine.

“That it, McNeely?” Vaughn taunted, louder now, circling me with loose, predatory steps. The fury in his face had shifted. It was still intense, but a little more controlled. “I left Nashville for this?”

The crowd ate it up.

And I got it.

He wasn’t here to hurt me.

He was here to make me win.

The realization hit me like cold water, and I almost laughed—almost broke entirely—because of course he was.

This infuriating, impossible man had taunted me for weeks, then soothed me through my nightmares.

Had practically vomited at the idea of exclusivity, but never hesitated to show me his possessive streak.

Had every reason to hate me… but had made me feel more seen and cared for than I’d ever been in my life.

So of course he’d driven four hours back from Nashville and stepped into a cage for me without a word of explanation.

The least I could do was make it worth his while.

I reset my feet. Brought my hands up the way Dalton had instructed.

Vaughn’s eyes tracked the movement. A flicker of something crossed his face—approval, maybe—before it disappeared behind the mask he was wearing for everyone else in the room.

He threw a jab-cross. Fast, but I could see it coming. He’d let me see it coming.

I was still slow. My body reacted a beat late, shifting into the swing instead of away from it, and my knuckles cracked against his ribs with a dull, solid thud.

He grunted like it actually hurt.

Like I’d done something.

That moment—the sound of it, the realness of it—hit somewhere deep and aching in my chest. I’d done that. That was me.

“Again,” he said under his breath as we passed. Then louder, for the crowd, “You hit like a damn kicker.”

Several people in the crowd hooted. I felt the energy shift around us, people leaning in.

He came at me again—feinting left before swinging right—and I got a shoulder up just in time, deflecting most of it. The contact still sent a jolt down my arm.

“Don’t think,” he said low, still circling. “Move.”

So I did.

We fell into a rhythm I didn’t entirely understand but could feel in my body—the push and pull of him pressing forward, giving me just enough to work with, and me reading it a beat too slow but reading it nonetheless.

Then he turned up the heat.

“You gonna cry when I drop you, babygirl?” he shot at me loud enough for the front rows. “Or is that after?”

Something ignited in my chest.

That taunt landed.

He’d known it would—I could tell from the way he watched my face, waiting for the reaction. And he knew why.