George materializes at Noah’s side like a referee at the world’s most awkward afterparty, saving me from further embarrassment of explaining my shame, and throws a shirt over Noah’s shoulder. It’s a silent gesture, but the message is clear:Stop bleeding all over my nice warehouse. Noah grabs it without looking and winces, and that one wince feels like a punch to my own gut.
My boss stands with his shoulders squared and chest heaving, and now that he’s not actively pummeling anyone, I can see the toll the fight has taken on him. His torso is a map of fresh bruises, ugly and purple even beneath the thin sheen of sweat. Blood has started a lazy crawl from his eyebrow, tracing a path along the side of his nose before dripping off his jaw. One of his eyes is already swelling, puffing up like a marshmallow in a microwave—give it another hour and he won’t be able to open it at all.
For a split second, his face betrays how badly he’s hurting. Then he glances at me and the mask slides back into place, pure anger and icy detachment.
I want to say something. Anything. Sorry is too small, too pathetic. I could apologize a thousand times, but it wouldn’t change the way his ribs are probably screaming, or the fact that he’s standing here, now refusing to look at me.
Noah presses the shirt to his face, gritting his teeth as the fabric agitates the cut above his eye. He breathes in but doesn’t make a sound. The crowd, sensing the show is over, starts to disperse in clumps, their attention already shifting to the next spectacle. I register it all in the background, but my world has narrowed down to just Noah and me, and the silent, judgmental presence of George, who’s looking at me with something less than welcome.
Noah tries to shrug into the shirt without letting go of my wrist, but his arm isn’t cooperating. He looks furious but alsodefeated. His jaw works like he’s chewing through every cuss word he’s ever heard.
I fumble, reaching out to help. My fingers brush the side of his ribcage, and he flinches with a glare sent my way. I recoil slightly but refuse to completely look away. If I can’t handle even this, what right did I have to follow him here?
He finally manages to pull the shirt down, the black fabric still shiny with blood from where he pressed it to his bleeding cut.
“Get her out of here,” George says quietly. “You’ve had enough for today. Dante will cover the rest of your fights.”
Noah nods curtly and grabs my arm again. His steps are hesitant, heavy, lacking his usual swagger. He’s clearly in pain.
This is all my fault. And as we step into the cold night air, I swear to myself I’ll make this right, no matter what it takes.
27
Noah
I take a deep breath,trying to steady myself as we walk toward the parking lot. The cool night air bites at my sweat-dampened skin, carrying the distant hum of New York traffic and the faint, acrid scent of warehouse exhaust. Every step sends a jolt of sharp pain through my ribs.
My head’s still pounding from that first hit in the ring, a dull throb that echoes with each heartbeat. I don’t remember the last time I got beaten this badly. High school, maybe, when a kid from another class called my mom a Xanax zombie. I fought to protect her honor then, just like I’d fight for anyone I care about now.
I think this was when everything started. Back then, it was raw teenage fury; now, it’s something deeper, more controlled—usually.
Tonight though, control slipped away the moment I saw Bea in that crowd. None of the physical pain compares to the anger simmering inside me, bubbling like molten lava under my skin. It’s not just anger—it’s a mix of fear, frustration, and somethingI can’t quite name. Fear for what could have happened to her in that den of fighters, frustration at her for following me, and something else that came up upon her stupid admission about joining a sex club if I was in one.
She wiggles out of my grip and moves to walk a few steps ahead, with arms crossed defensively over her chest and her posture rigid like she still might be scared. Good, she should be. That place isn’t for someone like her—soft, curious, way too innocent for the underground world I’ve been stepping into here and there.
Who the fuck knows what could’ve happened if Dante hadn’t found her first? He can be an asshole, sure, and he was taunting me by gripping her arm like she was a prize. But deep down, I know he wouldn’t have hurt her. Out of everyone there, he was probably the safest bet besides me or George. And both of us were too preoccupied, blinded by the bloodthirsty haze of the fight and roar of the crowd. If it had been one of the newer guys, or worse, some bidder with a grudge…
I shove the thought away. She’s safe now, but that doesn’t erase the what-ifs gnawing at me.
“Wait,” I call out, my voice rough from pain and lingering adrenaline. “I don’t have my keys. George has them.”
I turn to head back, but her warm hand wraps around mine. My eyes snap to where we’re connected, and a jolt runs through me that has nothing to do with my ribs. Her skin is soft against my calloused palm, and for a split second, the pain fades. Why does her touch always feel like that? Like a spark igniting something I’ve been ignoring.
“I’ll drive.”
Her eyes flick to my torso, catching my wince before I can hide it. The bruise is probably blooming purple by now, proof of tonight’s mistake of seeking out the voice I thought I hallucinated in the middle of the fight.
“You can’t drive right now, Noah. I have my car here.” She nods toward the dark street, her tone firm despite the earlier vulnerability.
She’s right. My side’s on fire, a burning ache that radiates with every breath, and my hand’s shaking too much to grip a steering wheel properly. Adrenaline from the fight and seeing her be held to bait me still has my blood boiling, my muscles tense and ready for another round.
If I were alone, I’d risk it—push through the pain like I always do. But not with her. I can’t put her in more danger. I’ll grab my car tomorrow. For now, we’ll get to her place in hers, and I’ll Uber from there.
We reach a line of cars, and she walks directly toward a yellow bug-sized thing, and I stop dead. Parked crookedly under a flickering streetlamp, with two wheels kissing the curb, its door practically falling off, a beat-up Fiat covered in dents and scratches looks like it’s been through a war zone. I didn’t even know she had a car, and honest to everything, I can’t even call itthat.
I don’t hide my disgust. “This is what you’re driving?”
Bea doesn’t flinch, her chin lifting in that defiant way I’ve come to expect. “Yeah. What about it?”
