“Victor—”
“No.” He cuts me off, voice firm but quiet. “You can’t be here. These people...” He gestures toward the gym, expression hardening. “They can’t see me with you.”
I arch an eyebrow, challenge rising in my chest. “With me specifically, or with any man?”
His jaw clenches. “You know exactly what I mean. Look at you, and look at this place.”
I glance down at my designer clothes, then back at his fight club. Point taken.
“This isn’t—” Victor stops, struggling. “This isn’t who I am here.”
The words sting more than they should. I keep my expression neutral, though something must show in my eyes because his face softens momentarily.
“Just go,” he says, but there’s no real heat in it. “Please.”
He steps further away, creating deliberate space between us as the car parks and two fighters emerge.
“Get out of here, Theo. Now.”
I watch Victor as he moves away from me, every muscle in his body tense. It’s not just fear I see—it’s conflict. The way his eyes darkened when I touched him, how his breath caught when I mentioned our last encounter—all of it betrays the war raging inside of him.
He’s terrified of who he is when he’s with me.
I’ve seen it before in men like Victor. That desperate clinging to an identity built on pure testosterone and bravado. The alpha male who can’t reconcile his desire for another man with the image he’s constructed of himself. Every touch, every kiss, every moment of pleasure becomes a threat to the fortress of masculinity he’s spent a lifetime building.
But Victor isn’t straight. Not entirely. The evidence is written in the bruises he left on my hips, in the possessive growl of “Daddy” that escaped his lips when he was buried inside me. You don’t fuck a man the way he fucked me if you’re just experimenting.
No, Victor Kaine is bisexual at minimum, with deeply repressed gay desires; he’s probably spent years burying it under protein shakes and testosterone. The irony is almost beautiful—how his hyper-masculine environment has become both his shield and his prison.
I slide back into my car, watching him retreat toward the gym. His shoulders are set in that rigid line I’ve come to recognize as his defense mechanism. This isn’t just about me, or even about being seen with a man. This is about Victor facing a part of himself he’s never allowed to exist.
It would be easier to walk away, to find someone less complicated. But I’ve never been interested in easy. And beneath all that repression and denial is a man who made me feel things I’d forgotten were possible. A man whose hands shook with want even as his mind screamed in protest.
17
VICTOR
Tonight was everything. Three years of blood, sweat, and broken bones culminating in the biggest underground fight night Ravenwood has ever seen. Scouts from three neighboring cities, serious money changing hands, and my reputation solidifying with each victory.
Standing in the center of the empty warehouse, I breathe in the lingering scent of sweat and adrenaline. The cleaning crew will come tomorrow. Tonight, this space is still mine.
Jonah surprised even me. The kid’s always been strong despite his smaller frame, but tonight he was something else entirely—surgical precision combined with raw power. When his opponent, a beast from Eastlake with an undefeated record, finally hit the mat, the crowd erupted. I saw money changing hands and heard my name shouted alongside his. My gym. My fighter. My win.
Dawson was here.
Front row, left of the ring. Sandwiched between Hartwell from Southwest Financial and Lin from BioMax—two of my sponsors, two of mine—both of them laughing at something Dawson had just said. Hartwell had a hand on Dawson’s shoulder.
I registered it during Jonah’s third round and filed it away. There are always interlopers at fights this size. Old rivals are showing up to take their measurement. It happens.
But Hartwell signed our renewal six weeks ago. And Lin’s been a fixture at our last four cards. Neither of them came over to say hello tonight. Neither of them looked up when I passed.
I’ll have Marco pull their contract records this week. Just to be sure.
Marco had to practically drag Jonah away from the post-fight celebrations. The kid deserved every drink offered, every number slipped into his pocket, but tomorrow is another training day. No exceptions.
Now it’s just me and the empty ring. This is my ritual—standing alone after everyone leaves, feeling the power of the space. A king surveying his kingdom.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, breaking the silence.
