The stench hit me first. Sweat, blood, and something else I couldn't name but made my skin crawl. Welcome to the Darkmoon underground fighting ring, where humans came to watch monsters tear each other apart.
I adjusted the fake ID in my back pocket and pushed through the crowd. Bodies pressed against me from all sides. Men in expensive suits shouted bets over the noise. Women in barely-there dresses giggled at things that weren't funny. Everyone here had money to burn and a taste for violence.
"Ruby Martinez, right?" A bouncer the size of a refrigerator blocked my path. His neck tattoo looked fresh, still red around the edges. "You sure you want to do this, sweetheart?"
I looked up at him and smiled. "Do I look unsure?"
He laughed, but his eyes stayed serious. "Most girls who come down here end up leaving in pieces. Tank's never lost a fight."
"There's a first time for everything."
The bouncer shrugged and stepped aside. "Your funeral."
The main fighting area opened up in front of me like a gladiator pit. A chain-link cage sat in the center, surrounded by rows of bleacher seats that climbed up into darkness. Overhead lights cast everything in harsh white, making the blood stains on the mat look black.
Tank was already in the cage, shadow-boxing to warm up. Six-foot-four of pure muscle, with scars crossing his chest like a roadmap of violence. The crowd loved him. They chanted his name and threw money at the cage.
I checked my watch. 11:47 PM. Emma Carter, FBI agent, officially didn't exist right now. Only Ruby Martinez, small-time fighter looking for her big break.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The announcer's voice cut through the noise. "Tonight we have a special treat. In the red corner, weighing in at two-forty and undefeated in seventeen fights—Tank Morrison!"
The crowd roared. Tank raised his arms and flexed, showing off biceps bigger than my head.
"And in the blue corner, making her debut tonight—Ruby Martinez!"
I walked toward the cage, ignoring the boos and catcalls. Someone threw a beer bottle that shattered near my feet. Charming crowd.
But as I climbed through the ropes, I felt it. Eyes on me. Not the hungry stares of the crowd, but something different. Focused. Dangerous.
I scanned the audience while pretending to stretch. Third row, slightly to the left. A man sat alone in expensive clothes that didn't quite hide the predator underneath. Dark hair, pale skin, and eyes that caught the light like a cat's.
Green eyes. Watching me with an intensity that made my heart skip.
I forced myself to look away. Focus, Emma. You're here to get noticed by the right people, not get distracted by some pretty boy with good seats.
"You ready to bleed, little girl?" Tank asked, rolling his shoulders.
"Are you?"
The bell rang.
Tank came at me like a freight train. His first punch would have taken my head off if I hadn't ducked. The second caught me in the ribs and lifted me off my feet. Pain exploded through my chest.
I hit the mat hard and rolled away as his boot came down where my head had been a second before. The crowd loved it. They wanted blood, and Tank was happy to provide.
For the next five minutes, I let him. Every punch I could have blocked, I took. Every kick I could have avoided, I absorbed. By the time the first round ended, my lip was split, my left eye was swelling shut, and blood dripped from my nose onto the mat.
"Stay down, sweetheart," Tank said as we returned to our corners. "I don't want to hurt you worse than I already have."
I spat blood and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "Who says you're hurting me?"
The crowd was getting restless. They'd paid good money to see a fight, not a massacre. I could hear the disappointment in their voices, the calls for the fight to be stopped.
But those green eyes never looked away. If anything, they seemed more focused now, like their owner was seeing something the rest of the crowd missed.
The second round bell rang.
Tank rushed me again, confident this would be the finishing blow. His right hook came in fast and hard, aimed at my temple.
I caught his wrist and twisted.
The sound of bones breaking echoed through the sudden silence. Tank's scream followed a second later.
Before he could recover, I drove my knee into his solar plexus. He doubled over, gasping for air that wouldn't come. My elbow came down on the back of his neck, and he hit the mat like a sack of concrete.
The whole thing took maybe three seconds.
The crowd exploded. Half of them cheered while the other half screamed about fixed fights and demanded their money back. I stood over Tank's unconscious form, breathing hard but not from exhaustion.
"Winner by knockout—Ruby Martinez!"
The announcer sounded as shocked as everyone else. I raised my hand and let them see the smile on my bloody face. This was exactly the kind of attention I needed.
But as I climbed out of the cage, those green eyes found mine again. The man stood up slowly, never breaking eye contact. He was taller than I'd thought, with the kind of build that said he knew how to use violence as well as appreciate it.
He started moving through the crowd toward me.
My pulse quickened, and not from the fight. Something about him set off every instinct I had. The way he moved, silent and fluid like he was hunting. The way other people unconsciously stepped out of his path without knowing why.
And his scent. Even from across the room, I could smell pine trees and mountain air, like he'd walked out of a forest instead of through the city streets.
"Impressive," he said when he reached me. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise around us like a blade.
"Thanks." I grabbed a towel and pressed it to my split lip. "Though I'm guessing you're not talking about my acting skills."
Something flickered in those green eyes. Surprise? Amusement? "You let him beat you for five minutes. Most people would have ended it sooner."
"Most people aren't smart enough to know when patience pays off."
He stepped closer, and I caught more of that strange scent. It made my head feel fuzzy, like I'd had too much to drink. "What's your name?"
"Ruby Martinez. And you are?"
"Someone who appreciates talent when he sees it." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card. Black with silver lettering, no company name. Just a phone number and an address. "My employer might have work for someone with your... particular skills."
I took the card, careful not to let our fingers touch. "What kind of work?"
"The kind that pays better than underground fighting."
"And if I'm not interested?"
His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Then you go home tonight and pretend this conversation never happened. But something tells me you didn't come here just for the money."
He was right, but I couldn't let him know that. "How do you know what I came here for?"
"Because people like us don't end up in places like this by accident."
People like us. What the hell did that mean?
Before I could ask, he turned and walked away, melting back into the crowd like he'd never been there. I looked down at the card in my hand, feeling like I'd just stepped off a cliff without checking how far down it went.
The address was in the warehouse district. Tomorrow night, 11 PM.
I pocketed the card and headed for the exit, ignoring the people trying to congratulate me or buy me drinks. My mission was working. I'd gotten their attention.
So why did I feel like I was the one being hunted?