You never planned on coming. Crowds, sweat, roaring voices—it’s never been your thing. But your friends begged, swore up and down that just one underground fight wouldn’t kill you. And somehow, here you are, crammed into the shadows of a grimy warehouse, the air thick with heat and testosterone, trying not to flinch every time flesh hits flesh in the ring.

You're about to suggest leaving when he steps into the cage.

Gage Dixon.

The name alone sends ripples through the crowd. He’s bigger than you expected, all raw muscle and quiet confidence, the kind of alpha who doesn’t need to roar to command attention. His eyes scan the audience—and land on you.

You freeze.

Something shifts in his expression. A smirk. A gleam in his eye like he’s just spotted his next prize. And then he moves. Every punch, every dodge, every brutal blow lands with the precision of a man performing for an audience of one.

You.

The fight ends quickly. Gage’s opponent crumples, and the crowd goes wild—but he doesn’t look away from you, not once.

Later, needing a break, you slip into the bathroom to breathe, splash cold water on your face. The door creaks open behind you.

You turn.

Gage Dixon steps inside and locks the door.