Page 88

“Don’t want to go back.” I pull him close again. I press my forehead against his, grounding myself in his solid warmth. The ambient noise of the stadium fades into a dull hum. “Only forward. With you.”

I turn my head just enough to look over his shoulder.

Dan stands near the cage door. His face is drained of all color, matching the pale white athletic tape wrapped around my wrists. His jaw hangs open. He looks horrified. He looks like a man watching his entire house burn to the ground.

Beside him, Jason Ortega grips the chain-link fence. The wealthy investor’s tailored suit cannot hide the absolute fury radiating from his rigid posture. His knuckles turn white against the metal wire. They finally understand I chose this. They can no longer sell me as their perfect, straight legacy fighter. They’ve lost their hold on me.

I look Dan dead in the eye.

I smile at him.

It’s not a media-trained smirk. It’s not the arrogant sneer I used for the press conferences to sell pay-per-views. It’s a smile of relief. The weapon they built just shattered their empire, and I’ve never felt lighter. I hold the power now. I own my life.

I turn back to Micah, and the rest of the world disappears.

I trace the line of his jaw again. He leans into the touch, closing his eyes for a brief second. The chaos raging outside the chain-link fence can wait. The inevitable PR nightmare, the furious sponsors, the incoming media circus—I’ll deal with it when I have to. We survived the war they demanded. We survived the secrets. We survived the suffocating darkness of the closet.

Micah opens his eyes. I meet his deep brown gaze. He drops his hand from my shoulder and slides his fingers down my arm, seeking my palm.

Our hands lock together. Calloused fingers tangle with taped knuckles.

I lift our joined hands high into the air.

A fresh wave of noise washes over the octagon. The flashbulbs explode again, capturing the image that will dominate the sports world by morning. Two bruised, bleeding fighters standing hand-in-hand in the center of the canvas. The victor and the defeated, claiming each other in the exact spot they were paid to tear each other apart.

We walk toward the cage door together.

The path forward will not be easy. The fallout will require strength I’m still learning to access. But as I walk across the blood-stained vinyl, my fingers locked tight with Micah’s, the fear is entirely gone. The cage door swings open. The arena’s blinding lights guide our exit.

We step out of the shadows, and we do not look back.

28

MICAH

The chaos is relentless.

They separate us at the tunnel entrance. One second I have Zane’s hand in mine; the next, an official directs him toward the other medical room. Victor goes to collect my gear while a nurse guides me to an examination table. The interviews will have to wait.

I sit on a crinkling paper sheet covering an examination table. A ringside doctor clicks a penlight. He shines the harsh yellow beam into my left eye, then my right. He holds up a latex-gloved finger.

“Follow this. Do not move your head.”

I track his finger. The skin around my left eye is swollen, but I can follow the light. He asks about double vision, nausea, headaches, and gaps in my memory. I answer each question while a nurse takes my blood pressure.

He checks my balance and makes me recall three words he gave me earlier. Only then does he ask me to lift my arm so he can examine my right side.

Pain catches under my ribs when he presses along them. He listens to my breathing and asks me to take a deeper breath. I can, though it hurts. He tells me bruising is likely but he cannot rule out a fracture here. A nurse wraps an ice pack in a towel and hands it to me. After cleaning the cut above my eye, the doctor closes it with strips and checks that the bleeding has stopped.

He keeps me there while the arena empties, then repeats the questions and checks my eyes again. I hate every minute of waiting. I keep looking at the door.

The new belt rests on the chair beside my gear. I ought to want to pick it up. All I want is to know where Zane is.

I kissed him. I kissed him in his corner of the cage and he kissed me back.

The door swings open. Eli steps inside first, planting his broad shoulders against the frame to block the hallway. He acts as a human shield against the press swarm.

Victor follows. My coach looks worn out, but when he sees me his mouth lifts at one corner. He picks up the belt from the chair and sets it across my gym bag. “Earned that,” he says.