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“Forty-eight hours,” Zane whispers, his voice a raspy wreck.

“Forty-eight hours,” I confirm, brushing a damp lock of dark hair off his forehead. “Then the cage door locks.”

“I’m going to put you on the canvas.” A feral, beautiful smile curves his lips.

I laugh, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss against his mouth.

“You can try.”

19

ZANE

The leather focus mitts crack like rifle fire inside the empty gym.

Sweat burns my eyes. Lactic acid floods my shoulders, turning the muscle tissue into lead. The cut has left me tired and stiff, and every strike takes more effort than it should. I ignore the pain. I pivot on my back foot, driving a heavy right cross into the target, following immediately with a sweeping left hook.

Dan absorbs the strikes. He doesn’t yield an inch of ground.

“Reset.” He barks the command. “Your chin drifts. You leave that open against Rivera, he puts you to sleep. Again.”

I plant my feet on the damp mat. I drag a ragged breath into my lungs. The air in the training room tastes like bleach and stale aggression.

“Go.”

I launch forward. Jab, cross, slip the imaginary counter, drive the knee upward. The combination flows entirely from fifteen years of relentless muscle memory. I land the combination, but my mind is elsewhere.

“Time.” Dan drops the battered focus mitts to his sides.

My chest heaves. I stare at the Chicago gym’s faded logo at my feet. A drop of sweat falls from the tip of my nose, splashing against the vinyl.

“Tomorrow night, you end this.” Dan steps into my personal space, forcing me to lift my chin and meet his hard gaze. “You put Rivera down and you remind everyone why you’re the future of this sport. No hesitation. No mercy. You understand?”

“I understand.” I lock my jaw tight.

“Good.” Dan’s eyes bore into me, stripping away the layers, searching for the weakness he knows lingers just beneath the skin. “Whatever’s been going on with you these past weeks, I don’t care. Tomorrow, it doesn’t exist. Tomorrow, you’re a weapon. My weapon. The weapon your father trained you to be.”

I nod. I say what he wants to hear. I bury the raw, tearing scream building in the center of my chest.

Dan turns his back and walks toward the office we have borrowed for the week. The dismissal hangs heavy in the air.

I peel the Velcro strips off my gloves with my teeth. They hit the mat with a dull thud. I unwind the damp hand wraps, exposing my raw knuckles. The initials R.B. stare back at me from the inside of my wrist, written in faded black marker. The ghost of Richard Butler watches from the shadows of the rafters.

The locker room offers no comfort. I strip out of my soaked gear. The shower water runs ice cold, numbing the throbbing ache in my ribs, but it does nothing to cool the raging fire inside my skull. I dress in a faded black hoodie and dark jeans. I shove my gear into my duffel bag and walk out the glass front doors into the humid night.

The parking garage sits quiet and isolated.

I slide into the rental car and close the door, the faint scent of air freshener tinging my nostrils. I lean my forehead against the steering wheel.

The crash hits me instantly.

The adrenaline ebbs, and panic takes its place. My hands begin to shake. The tremor starts in my fingertips and travels rapidly up my forearms. My chest constricts. The oxygen inside the car evaporates.

I sit in the dark, shaking.

I can’t stop shaking. I spend every waking hour performing the role of the undisputed king. I memorize the lines. I wear the armor. I absorb Jason’s threats and Dan’s manipulations, saying nothing to keep the peace for one more day.

Ten minutes pass. The digital clock on the dashboard clicks forward.