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He was younger. Twenty-five, maybe. Not quite as tall as me. Maybe five eleven. He looked strong enough to go against me. Muscular. Fit. But he wouldn’t be able to take my left. No one could take my left hook.
I barely heard the ref talking, or the sounds of the audience as I caught sight of Donovan outside the ring. His thugs flanked him on each side, and he tipped his chin up and flashed me a smile. Fucking arse.
I conjured images of Tommy. Of Frankie hitting Les. Anything to fuel my anger, to help me get through this.
When the ref finished talking, my opponent came blasting at me like a gunshot to the head.
* * *
“Congratulations, mate. But hell, you could have made it a little more entertaining.” Donovan’s eyes twitched with amusement.
I was standing outside in the parking lot in front of Donovan’s Benz. He was leaning against it, looking smug, and I wished it had been him in the ring earlier, not the poor sap who’d gone down in less than two minutes.
I swiped at the little bit of dried blood at my brow. He got in one good shot at my temple, but it was the only shot. Tonight proved one thing: I’d remembered how to fight. It was like riding a bike. A twisted, sick bike.
“You’re still undefeated,” Donovan said with almost an air of pride, and it bugged me. “Which is a damn good thing.”
“Why’d you choose him? He looked just like . . .” I couldn’t say his name. I couldn’t do it.
Donovan waved his hand dismissively. “Coincidence.”
Yeah, sure. With Donovan there was no such thing.
“The guillotine move was very unlike you.”
Yeah, well, I was too afraid to throw the left hook, and I knew the guillotine would make him tap out. The fight had been a mind trip, yet I was more pumped up than ever. The adrenaline still soared through me, even twenty minutes later. It was how I used to feel after all my fights—energized, ready for more. Ready to run a marathon or have sex all damn night.
I always got high off the feeling of a win, and I’d always kept chasing the high. Until the day I had to stop. I wanted to hate that my body was more alive now than it had been in years. It was so goddamn wrong to feel like this.
“You loved it, didn’t you?” Donovan laughed and opened the door to his Benz. “Felt good to hit again—I can see it in your eyes.” He slid onto the cream leather interior and grasped the wheel. “Welcome back.”
Donovan tore out of the parking lot, dirt kicking up behind the wheels. People began to exit the building, and I rushed over to my Porsche. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t want to play fifty questions about where I’d been the last five years.
I started up my car and reached into the glovebox for my phone.
Three missed calls from Anna. She’d called almost an hour before I’d entered the Octagon. But why?
Using the Bluetooth connection through my dashboard, I called her back as I drove, heading for her hotel, which was less than five minutes away.
I tried twice more and got her voicemail each time.
“Damn.” I pushed the pedal, increasing the speed, worry pumping through my already charged body.
I didn’t have time to deal with parking in Dublin on a Saturday night. I pulled up to valet and darted into the hotel, hoping that she was there, that everything was okay.
Why hadn’t she left a message, though? If it had been an emergency, she would have left a message, right?
My fist hammered her door.
No answer.
What the hell?
“Anna?” I called out and pounded the door again.
I dug into my sweats for my phone, ready to dial her when I heard the rattling of a chain.
She was inside. Thank God.
