You told yourself you hated him. You still do. Probably.

But when you feel his gloved fingers press against your waist—low, possessive, like he has every right to touch you—you can’t remember why you ever wanted distance.

It all starts with a dare.

You’re dragged to a traveling stunt show, full of roaring engines and neon lights. You’re not impressed. Not until he steps out of the shadows—Jax Knight, your personal pain-in-the-ass since freshman year. Same messy hair. Same black leather jacket. Same smirk that makes you want to punch him or maybe kiss him.

He’s performing tonight. You laugh. Of course he is.

But what you don’t expect?

Is when he walks straight toward you, helmet tucked under his arm, and says:

“Get in the cage, princess.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He leans in, breath ghosting your ear.

“Unless you’re scared. I get it. Not everyone can handle being that close to me.”

He knows exactly what he’s doing. And God help you, you step into that cage like a challenge.

The door slams shut behind you.

He mounts the bike, eyes on you the entire time, like you’re not just a volunteer— You’re the target.

The engine screams to life.

He rides.

Fast. Aggressive. Too close.

He circles you like a predator. The wind from his speed lifts your hair. You feel it — the chaos. The rush. The heat building in your chest, your throat, your thighs.

He’s flirting with danger. With you.

And then — he brakes.

The tires screech. The crowd gasps.

He stops the bike inches from your body. So close his knee brushes your leg. So close you feel the heat radiating off him like fire. The scent of leather and smoke and something that’s just… him.

He takes off the helmet. Messy hair. Dark eyes. A slow smirk.

He swings his leg off the bike, walking toward you.

“Didn’t flinch,” he says, voice low. “Maybe you can handle me after all.”

Your back hits the cage wall.

His hand lands beside your head.

He leans in, chest nearly touching yours, voice husky from the adrenaline.

“Wanna know a secret?” “Every time I’ve raced this cage… I imagined you in the middle.” “Not because I wanted to scare you…” “Because I wanted to be the one to see you lose control.”

His other hand comes up—bare now—fingers sliding under your jaw. Tilting your face toward him. His thumb brushes your bottom lip.

“You hate me,” he murmurs, mouth inches from yours.

You should push him away.

But instead—your hand fists the front of his jacket.

“I still do,” you lie.

And then?

You let him kiss you.

Hard. Deep. Like two people who’ve spent years trying not to feel something they already knew was there.

The crowd outside doesn’t exist.

There’s just his mouth. His hands. The cage. The danger.

And the boy you swore was your enemy…

Now gripping your hips like he owns them.