My ears were ringing with a siren so shrill I could barely hear the crowd roaring around me. The sound wasn't just loud—it was piercing, like someone had driven an ice pick straight through my eardrums and was twisting it slowly. Every heartbeat sent another wave of that high-pitched whine crashing through my skull.
Every nerve in my body feels alive from the buzz of adrenaline. Sweat covers each and every part of my body, dripping like water off of me. My breath is coming out shallow in puffs. And my heart beat is sprinting to impel blood throughout my cells.
I know people around me are screaming. But the blood pumping through my ears has made everything indiscernible. Couldn't make out even a single word through the white noise consuming my head.
Were they booing at me? Were they cheering for me? Hell, were they placing bets on whether I'd collapse before I made it out of this ring?
Who knows?
And honestly, who cares?
My eyes were locked on my opponent's still form sprawled across the concrete floor. Travis "The Crusher" Holster—the man who was supposed to end my night in the emergency room—lay motionless, one arm twisted beneath his massive frame, the other splayed out like he was reaching for something just beyond his grasp. A thin line of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, pooling slowly on the stained concrete.
I've seen a fair share of things in my life, and if it's taught me anything, it's the undisputable importance of never celebrating too early. It's when you get too cocky, when you undermine your opponent and let your guard drop, that you fall. And when you fall in places like this, you fall so hard that picking yourself back up might require months in the hospital. In some cases, you never do.
The stories were legendary in these underground circuits—fighters who thought they had it won, only to get blindsided by a desperate last-ditch effort. Guys who ended up eating through straws for six months because they raised their hands in victory a second too soon.
I wasn't letting my guard down until my name was announced as the winner. Although I seriously doubted I'd even be able to hear that. For all I knew, they'd already done it.
Note to myself: Get these ears checked the fuck out.
The announcer—that sleazy bastard with the gold tooth who'd introduced me at the beginning— grabbed my wrist and raised my hand high above my head, breaking my long-standing staring contest with Travis's unmoving body.
I turned my head up, letting that smug smile spread across my face—the one I generally reserved for moments exactly like this. This was my time. These were the moments when everything else faded away, when the noise in my head wasn't tinnitus but pure, unadulterated triumph. This was when I wasn't Nate Rostenkowski. This was when I was just Nate, raw and real and alive in ways that nothing else could never make me feel.
My eyes swept across the crowd, taking in the sea of faces twisted with excitement, greed, and bloodlust. Some were cheering, others counting money, a few looked genuinely shocked that the college boy had taken down their champion. I wanted to soak in every second of this moment, to burn it into my memory for the days when everything felt gray and meaningless.
But apparently, my moment of victory was going to be excruciatingly short-lived.
Even though I'd expected to not recognize a single face in this crowd of degenerates and thrill-seekers, I did. And the face I recognized made my blood run cold despite the adrenaline still pumping through my veins.
Boy, this could not be happening right now.
Are you kidding me?
Lia stood in the crowd like a beacon of everything that didn't belong in this hellhole. Her dark hair caught the harsh overhead lights, and even from here, I could see the mixture of horror and fascination painted across her features.
What the hell was she doing here?
My exasperation blew through the roof as I looked at her, standing there with that wide-eyed expression, clutching the arm of some blonde girl I didn't recognize. Of all the people I wouldn't have minded running into, I had to run into her. And here of all the places.
Before I could even process what was happening, everything went to hell in a handbasket.
In a flash, she was standing on her chair, her movements quick and decisive in a way that made my stomach drop. She snatched a phone out of some guy's hand and before anyone could react, she landed a mean right hook straight to his face with the precision that spoke of years of practice.
An involuntary wince escaped my mouth as the guy doubled over, hands flying to his nose as blood spurted between his fingers. The crack of her knuckles connecting with his face was audible even over the crowd noise.
"Holy shit!" someone near the ring shouted. "That chick just decked Marcus!"
"What the hell is she thinking?" I muttered, but even as the words left my mouth, I realized I was too tired to even care about this shit. Not after the interaction we had last time when we met. I do not want to associate myself with her or her little perfect life. This is not my place.
Besides, if there is one thing I know about her, it is that she isn't weak. Whatever it was, she can handle.....
Two guys immediately jumped on her—big, muscular types who looked like they could crush her just with an arm. Then more joined in, and my vision of her was blocked completely by a wall of angry, violent men who didn't appreciate having their entertainment interrupted. The blondie was snatched away by some guys that I knew were from the school. She tried to resist but the next second she was being dragged away from the center of frenzy.
What surprised me the most is no one moved to help her.
"Son of a bitch!" The words exploded from my mouth with such vehemence that the announcer actually took a step back.
My body moved before I could form a rational thought. The euphoria of victory evaporated, replaced by something much more primal and urgent. I dove off the makeshift ring and into the crowd, my bare chest still slick with sweat and blood, pushing people aside with both hands.
"Move! Get the fuck out of my way!"
The whole place had erupted into chaos. What had been an organized, if illegal, sporting event had devolved into a full-scale riot. People were running and screaming from everywhere, some trying to settle scores that had been brewing all night, others just trying to get to the exits before the violence spread. I caught someone stepping directly on Travis as he lay unconscious on the concrete.
"One goddamn problem at a time," I growled, momentarily torn between helping the man I'd just beaten senseless and finding the woman who'd apparently lost her mind.
I sprinted back to the ring and grabbed his massive frame under the armpits, dragging him toward the edge of the concrete platform. The guy had to weigh at least two-twenty, all of it dead weight, and every muscle in my already exhausted body screamed in protest.
Just as I managed to pull him to the corner of the stage, three guys who looked like they could be his brothers appeared out of nowhere. They grabbed his legs and hoisted him over their shoulders, forming a protective circle around his unconscious form as they slowly made their way toward what I assumed was a back exit.
"Well, thank you for that," I muttered, wiping sweat from my forehead.
With Travis out of immediate danger, I turned my full attention to the center of the chaos. The warehouse had become a war zone. Bodies were flying everywhere—some fighting, some just trying to escape, all of them adding to the mayhem that was making it nearly impossible to locate one specific person in the melee.
"Lia!" I shouted, though I doubted she could hear me over the cacophony. "LIA!"
I kept pushing deeper into the crowd, throwing elbows and shoulders to clear a path. A guy in a leather jacket tried to grab me—probably thinking I was just another rioter—and I put him down with a quick jab to the solar plexus that left him gasping on the floor.
"Not now, asshole."
I could see a knot of people in the center of the chaos, three or four guys bent over in a tight circle like vultures around roadkill. Something about their positioning, their focus, made my blood run cold. That had to be where she was.
I placed my hand on the first guy's shoulder and spun him around. He was a mountain of a man with arms covered in tattoos and a face that had clearly been on the wrong end of many fights. He looked down at me with surprise, then anger.
"What the fu—"
I didn't let him finish. My fist connected with his nose with a satisfying crunch, sending blood spraying across both our faces. Before he could recover, I drove my knee into his gut with enough force to lift his feet off the ground. He folded like a lawn chair, stumbling backward into the crowd.
The second guy had turned at the sound of his friend's distress, giving me the perfect opportunity to grab his jacket and swing him hard into a stack of metal folding chairs. The crash was spectacular—chairs went flying in all directions as he hit them with the full force of his body weight behind my throw. He didn't get back up.
Now I could see Lia clearly. She was on the ground, curled into a protective ball, while two remaining men held her down. Her shirt was torn, her dark hair was a mess, but she was clutching that damn phone to her chest like it contained the secrets of the universe.
Rage made me blind. Everything that happened next was a blur of movement and violence, my body operating on pure instinct while my conscious mind screamed with fury at seeing her hurt, at seeing her vulnerable, at seeing her in this place that I'd brought into her world.
The third guy never saw me coming. I grabbed him by the hair and drove his face into my rising knee with enough force to knock out a horse. He crumpled like paper.
The fourth and final guy had enough sense to let go of Lia and stand up, his hands raised in what might have been surrender or preparation to fight. I didn't give him time to decide which. A right cross to the jaw sent him spinning, and he was unconscious before he hit the ground.
I reached down and pulled Lia to her feet, my hands gentle despite the violence I'd just unleashed. She was still clutching that phone, her knuckles white with the force of her grip.
"Can you walk?" I asked, already knowing we needed to get out of there before more trouble found us.
She nodded, though I could see she was shaky on her feet. I grabbed her hand and started pulling her toward the nearest exit I could remember, but it was completely jammed with people trying to escape. Bodies pressed against bodies in a panic that threatened to turn into a stampede.
"Shit," I muttered, looking around for alternatives. "This way."
I pivoted and dragged her toward the back room that had been designated for fighters. It was a longer route, but it would get us out through the service entrance that most people didn't even know existed. We pushed through a heavy metal door and suddenly found ourselves in a completely different world.
The back area was eerily quiet compared to the chaos we'd just left. A few guys were there—the announcer and some others who looked like they ran the operation—but they were focused on counting money and discussing what to do about the riot, not on two bloody fighters making their escape.
As soon as we were clear of the immediate danger, Lia's legs gave out completely. She fell to her knees on the concrete floor, that phone still clutched in her hands like a lifeline.
The sight of her like that—vulnerable, hurt, exhausted—unlocked something violent and protective in my chest that I'd never felt before.
"What is wrong with you?" The words exploded out of me with more force than I'd intended. She looked up at me with eyes so wide and confused that for a split second, I almost believed she had no idea why I was upset. "Why would you risk so much for a fucking phone?"
I was screaming now, not able to control all the horrific thoughts racing through my head about what could have happened to her. What would have happened if I hadn't seen her when I did. What those men would have done to her if they'd had more time.
Her look of confusion deepened, cycling through several emotions I couldn't read before settling into something that looked almost like understanding. She hung her head low, her back rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths that suggested she was either hyperventilating or trying very hard not to cry.
That's when I noticed it—her entire back was exposed. Her shirt hadn't just been torn; it had been ripped completely away, leaving her in nothing but her bra from the waist up.
The sight hit me like a physical blow. Here I was, screaming at her about a phone, when she was sitting half-naked on a concrete floor in a warehouse full of criminals and degenerates.
I turned to the guys near us—the announcer and his cronies who were still focused on their money counting.
"Hey," I called out, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. "I need a shirt."
The announcer looked up, took one look at me and then at Lia. Without a word he reached into a duffel bag and tossed me a gray t-shirt that had seen better days but was clean and intact.
There was a violent war raging inside me as I fought to control my anger and approached her calmly. Every instinct I had was screaming at me to go back and find every man who had touched her and make them pay for it. But she needed calm right now, not more violence.
I knelt down beside her and gently draped the shirt over her shoulders. She didn't look up, but she grasped the fabric with both hands and pulled it tight around herself.
"Come on," I said softly, offering her my hand. "I'll take you home."