The boxing club reeked of sweat and adrenaline, the air thick with the echoes of fists slamming into flesh and the rhythmic shuffling of feet against the mat. The overhead lights flickered slightly, casting sharp shadows on the two figures in the ring—Stella and Rocco.
Stella was relentless, her movements sharp and aggressive. She lunged, her fists a blur as she aimed punch after punch at Rocco, her frustration bleeding into every strike. But he was like a damn mountain—solid, immovable, barely flinching as he absorbed each hit. His eyes remained calm, calculating, like he was waiting for something.
She growled under her breath, stepping back only to come at him again. A feint to the left, a brutal right hook aimed straight for his ribs—he caught her wrist mid-air. Her breath hitched as he twisted her arm just enough to throw her off balance, and before she could counter, his leg swept beneath hers, knocking her feet out from under her.
She hit the mat hard, the impact jolting through her spine. But before she could register the pain, Rocco was on her. He didn't pin her completely, just enough to let her know that he had won this round.
Her chest heaved, her heartbeat pounding in her ears as she glared up at him. Unlike her, he wasn't even panting. He wasn't even sweating.
Rocco stared down at her, unreadable. His expression wasn't mocking, nor was it concerned. It was something else.
Unfair.
With a frustrated grunt, Stella shoved him off and rolled onto her knees, her fingers pressing into the mat. Every muscle in her body burned, but she refused to look weak. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
He stood, offering her a hand. She ignored it, pushing herself up on her own, her knuckles red and aching.
"You fight like you're running from something," Rocco finally said, his voice even.
Stella didn't respond. She didn't need to. He wasn't wrong.
She wiped the sweat from her brow, inhaling sharply. "You're lucky you're a damn vampire," she muttered, trying to ignore the weight of his words.
Rocco smirked, rolling his shoulders. "I don't know. If I actually used my strength, you'd be dead by now."
Stella scoffed, shaking out her sore fists. "Cocky bastard."
Rocco only chuckled. But then his next words hit like a gunshot.
"I thought the mermaid of the eclipse was supposed to be deadly."
Stella's breath caught. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by a cold wave of shock. Her gaze snapped to him, searching his face for any trace of mockery.
"You—You know?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
Rocco shrugged. "Of course. If I didn't, why do you think I've been searching for them?"
She hesitated. Her pulse pounded in her ears. "You never thought about drinking from me?" she asked, her voice uncertain, guarded.
His eyes darkened for a moment, but his smirk remained. "I'm not Blake. And I'm definitely not Simon. My self-control is better than those two." Then, more seriously, he added, "And I respect my friend."
Stella let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, a small, grateful smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
A beat of silence passed between them before something else came to mind. "Does Blake know?"
Rocco shook his head. "Simon doesn't trust him. And neither do I."
Stella nodded, absorbing that information. She wasn't surprised.
She hesitated again before speaking. "I forgot to ask you something," she said.
Rocco raised a brow. "That's new. You're always full of questions."
She rolled her eyes but continued. "Blake said I have to sell one of the islands." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't want to."
"You don't have to," Rocco said easily. "I already found a solution. You get to keep both."
Her head snapped up. "Seriously?"
Rocco gave a dramatic bow. "I work in mysterious ways."
A real smile spread across her face, softening the sharp edges of the night's fight. "I'm so lucky to have you as a friend."
"Of course you are," Rocco said, smirking. "I am a delight."
"Now, answer my question—what exactly is upsetting you?" Rocco asked, his voice steady but firm.
Stella exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "It's not a what—it's a who."
Rocco's expression darkened immediately. "That asshole again?" His jaw tensed. "I swear, I'm going to kill him one day."
Stella didn't argue. Instead, she told him everything that had happened in the black market—everything except Simon's last words.
When she finished, Rocco was silent, his brows drawn together in thought.
"What?" Stella asked, watching him closely.
Rocco met her gaze, a sharp glint in his eyes. "What the hell was he doing in the black market in the first place?"
Stella blinked. Her mind had been so clouded by Simon's presence, his words, his closeness, that she hadn't even questioned it.
"Right..." she murmured, realization dawning. "What was he doing there?"
Rocco gave her an unimpressed look. "How are you this dumb?"
She scowled. "Excuse me?"
"Stay away from that guy," Rocco said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I'll be coming to pick you up from now on."
Stella hesitated but then nodded. "Fine."
Rocco wasn't satisfied, but for now, he let it go.
After arriving home, Stella took a long, hot shower, letting the steam and warmth soothe the bruises from boxing. She dried off and tended to her wounds, dabbing ointment on the forming bruises. Instead of slipping into her usual nightclothes, she reached for an old shirt—his shirt. Simon's scent had long faded from the fabric, but wearing it made her feel closer to him, even if she hated herself for it.
She climbed into bed, the oversized shirt draping over her frame, and for the first time in days, she slept peacefully.
Meanwhile...
Simon sat in his dimly lit study, sipping a glass of blood, when the sudden chime of the doorbell cut through the silence. His brows furrowed. No one rang his bell—no one dared step onto his property uninvited.
He checked the CCTV. Nothing.
His muscles tensed as he walked to the door, his instincts on high alert. When he opened it, there was no one there—only a small, wrapped gift box sitting on the marble doorstep.
Cautiously, he picked it up and unwrapped it. Inside was an assortment of red chili peppers. His eyes darkened. Beneath the peppers lay a small white note and a stack of photographs.
Six women.
He recognized every face. They were all employees of his company.
Then his gaze landed on the last photo.
Stella.
His grip on the note tightened, the paper crinkling in his palm. He unfolded it, his sharp eyes scanning the words scrawled in jagged black ink:
GUESS WHO'S YOUR NEXT MEAL... AND MY NEXT TARGET?
- FROM SOMEONE FILLED WITH HATE.
A muscle ticked in his jaw, his eyes flickering crimson.
Whoever had sent this had just made a fatal mistake.