A gleaming tower rises twenty stories against the night sky. A sign at the entrance readsKillaney Plazain elegant script.
Of course.
This isn't just some random venue. It's his family's building.
I park and grab my medical bag from the passenger seat.
As I get out, I think about why a guy whose family has so much money would deal with this shit. What reason could someone have to voluntarily choose this lifestyle? I sure as hell wouldn't.
I slam my door, sling my bag over my shoulder, and start walking toward the building, looking for any signs of an underground fight—bouncers, a line of people—but I don't find anything.
A man appears from around one of the columns and tosses his cigarette onto the ground.
"Lyra?" he asks when I'm close enough.
I nod, gripping my bag tighter.
"Follow me."
He leads me to a service elevator at the back of the building. The doors slide open silently, and he gestures for me to enter. I hesitate for a fraction of a second before stepping inside. I watch as he presses the button for the basement level.
We descend in silence.
The moment the door at the bottom opens, the roar hits me.
Shouting. Screaming. Cheers. Chants.
Two men stumble past us, carrying a third between them. Blood drips from the injured fighter's face, leaving a trail on the concrete floor. His left eye is swollen shut, nose definitely broken.
Yup. Definitely fight night.
I look up and inside the basement ring, it's chaos. No gloves. Bare knuckles. No regulation. Just bodies slamming into each other like animals. Men in designer suits yelling and women in short skirts and too-high heels drinking from glasses. This isn't like the normal crowds. There's more money, wealthier people tonight.
And everyone's eyes are focused on the fighting ring in the center, where two men circle each other like wolves.
I look and see the man who brought me here has disappeared. Okay, I guess I'll just make my way to the center.
I barely make it two steps when a hand grabs my ass.
"Looking for a good time, honey?"
Before I can twist and break his wrist, a towering figure steps in.
It's Declan, and his face is a mask of cold fury.
In one fluid motion, he grabs the man's wrist and bends it backward at an unnatural angle. The man drops to his knees with a strangled cry.
"This is my medic," Declan says, his voice dark. "If you touch her again, not even she will be able to save you."
The man's face contorts with pain. "I'm sorry! I didn't know she was with you."
Declan releases him with a shove and he scrambles away, clutching his wrist.
He then turns, and without a word, grabs my arm and starts pulling me through the crowd.
Out of instinct, I snap.
"I didn't need your help," I say, twisting free. "I could have handled it."
