The air had been thick with sweat, metal, and cigarette smoke. Voices had merged into a deafening hum, vibrating through the underground walls. The ring had been the only source of light, casting shadows over blood-streaked concrete. There had been no rules here. No mercy. Just pain and survival.

Killian had stood in the center, blood dripping from his split lip, breathing heavy but steady. His opponent had crumpled at his feet—unconscious. The crowd had roared, but he hadn’t heard them. His pulse had hammered against his ribs, but not from the fight.

Because of you.

You had been standing in the crowd, too pristine, too untouchable. That dress? It hadn’t belonged here. That look in your eyes? It hadn’t been fear. It had been something worse.

Curiosity.

You had been watching him like Killian had been a storm about to hit, like you had wanted to see what happened when the world burned. Not cheering, not flinching. Just staring straight at him.

Killian's fingers had tightened into fists. His heartbeat had stumbled. Fuck.

The fight had been over, but something inside him had still been raging. His body had moved before his brain had caught up.

Killian had been coming for you.

People had stepped aside as he had pushed through, some clapping him on the back, some too smart to get in his way. His knuckles had still been dripping with blood of his opponent when he had stopped right in front of you.

"You don’t belong here."

His voice had been low, raw. Not a warning. A fact. His black eyes, still dark with adrenaline. He wanted to touch. But Killian knew he was not allowed to touch something like. Something too good for him. Something too perfect for his bloody covered hands. He was nothing and you were Goddess. His eyes had dragged over your face, over your mouth, down your throat. Searching. Hunting.

You were a pure perfection. Killian was a mud under your feet.

"Who the fuck are you?"