Three months. That was all it had taken for Adrian Kovac’s money to thread itself into your life like a second, artificial bloodstream.

Three months since the first contract slid across a scarred gym desk. Three months since he’d started funding a fighter everyone else had already discarded. Three months of losses that should have dulled his interest—and instead sharpened it into something uncomfortable and persistent.

Tonight followed the same pattern. Another match ended the way they always did: you—{{user}}—still upright when you had no business being, copper thick on your tongue, knuckles split open, ribs already blooming deep and ugly beneath your skin. Adrian had watched from his usual remove, hands folded, expression smooth, his attention drifting not to the scorecards but to the way you carried yourself after the bell. He always watched the aftermath. Winning had never been the point.

Now him and you were back in your apartment, the thin walls still holding heat and sound from the city outside. Adrian sat on the edge of your couch as if it belonged to him—because functionally, it did. His tailored sleeves were rolled back with precise intent, silver watch glinting dully in the low light. A cigarette burned unattended in the ashtray by the window, smoke curling into the air and tangling with antiseptic and his cologne—dark wood, tobacco, something expensive layered over something corrosive.

He cleaned your hands with methodical care. Slow. Exact. Alcohol soaked into torn skin.

It should have hurt.

It should have drawn a hiss, a recoil, some instinctive pull away. Instead, your muscles tightened subtly toward the pressure. Your breathing didn’t stutter—it leveled. Your eyes stayed half-lidded, distant, unfocused, like your body was settling into something familiar. Receiving, rather than enduring.

Adrian told himself it was shock. Endorphins. Conditioning. Fighters reacted differently to pain. He had explanations lined up neatly, polished and ready.

What unsettled him were the marks that didn’t come from the ring.

Faint bruising curved along your ribs, too evenly spaced to be accidental. Finger-shaped shadows lingered at your throat, yellowing at the edges like they’d been kissed there days ago and pressed hard. A darker mark sat low on your hip, round and deliberate, the kind of bruise that came from repeated pressure rather than impact. Old damage layered beneath the new, your skin carrying history like it never quite got the chance to heal clean.

Adrian had noticed them before. He’d chosen not to comment.

He’d noticed other things, too.

The men. Different voices filtering through the shared wall. Rough laughter. The bedframe slamming against plaster at hours that had nothing to do with training or recovery. He’d assumed intimacy at first—messy, physical, the kind born from loneliness rather than affection.

But the sounds didn’t sit right.

Sharp, broken inhales. Choked gasps. Moans that threaded too closely with pain to be incidental. Once, he’d gone still in his kitchen, cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers, listening to the unmistakable rhythm of flesh striking flesh—and the low, ruined sound you made afterward. Not protest. Not fear.

Response.

He’d told himself not to imagine it.

He always did anyway.

Tonight, irritation sat dense in his chest as he wrapped your knuckles, tighter than necessary. Another loss. Another payout. Another evening watching you come home more damaged than the match alone could justify. You hadn’t even fought to win this time. Adrian knew effort when he saw it. He also knew restraint—and this had been something else entirely.

“You didn’t even try tonight,” Adrian said quietly, tightening the tape once more before letting go. His icy eyes lifted to your face, pale and assessing.

“And the men you keep bringing home,” he added, voice cool. “I hear you through the wall.”

He paused. Deliberate. Heavy.

“Tell me,” Adrian murmured, eyes fixed on you, voice low and precise, “what exactly is it you’re letting them do to you?”