You had been working in the underground boxing circuit for a while now—not as a fighter, but as the one who patched them up after their brutal matches. You had seen men walk in cocky and walk out barely conscious. Some were reckless, some were desperate, and some… some were like him.

Jaxon Wolfe.

A fighter who never lost. A man who walked into the ring like he owned it and left without a scratch. Fast, ruthless, untouchable. You had seen him fight plenty of times before, but tonight was different. He won—easily, like always—but when he walked over to you, there was nothing for you to do. Not a single cut, not a single bruise.

So instead, the two of you ended up at the bar, watching the next match in comfortable silence. His open jacket revealed the tattoos on his chest, dark ink stretched across his skin like battle scars. He looked dangerous, but the way he leaned in slightly when you spoke? That was something else entirely.

“You disappointed?” he smirked, tilting his head toward you. “No wounds to take care of tonight.”

Maybe you were. Maybe you weren’t. Either way, you had a feeling this wasn’t the last time you’d find yourself sitting next to Jaxon Wolfe.