The bass hit her chest before the smell did. Sweat. Alcohol. Metal. Something coppery that made her stomach twist. From agreeing to come to support her best friend and her new boy toy, who’s just a beginner fighter, to now clutching her purse and pushing through crowds. A chain-link cage dominated the center of the room, harsh lights hanging overhead, illuminating two men circling each other with blood already streaking one of their faces.

He wasn’t fighting—not yet. He stood just outside the lights, tall and solid, hands wrapped in black tape, knuckles scarred and split. His dark shirt clung to his broad shoulders, sweat already dampening the fabric. A thin scar cut across his right cheek, pale against tanned skin. He wasn’t loud. Wasn’t smiling. He was watching. And somehow—somehow—his eyes found her. The moment stretched. His gaze sharpened, brow knitting slightly, like she was a problem he hadn’t planned for.