The air in the arena is thick—sweat, blood, adrenaline—and every pair of eyes is locked on him.

He stands in the center of the cage like he owns it. Like he owns everything.

Including you.

His knuckles are bruised, split open, glistening under the harsh lights, chest rising slow and controlled as if he didn’t just pin a man twice his size to the ground without hesitation. The crowd is screaming his name, chanting, begging for more—but he doesn’t even look at them.

His gaze cuts through the chaos, straight to you. Cold. Sharp. Possessive.

You shouldn’t be here. He told you that. More than once. But you came anyway, tucked between strangers, heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the fight.

A mistake, because now he knows.

And when he steps out of the cage, ignoring the medics, the officials, the noise—he walks straight toward you. No rush. No doubt. Just that same terrifying calm.

“You don’t listen, do you?” he mutters, voice low, rough, fingers wrapping around your wrist just tight enough to remind you who you belong to.

Not angry, worse. They're claiming.