The office door flies open at the commotion outside. I follow Victor and his fighters as they spill back onto the gym floor, where everyone has gone silent. The slamming door wasn’t a fighter—it’s Rick Dawson, Victor’s rival gym owner, flanked by three men who look more like bouncers than trainers.
The air in the room shifts instantly from celebration to tension. I recognize Dawson from the fight night—slick, expensive watch, designer clothes that scream trying too hard. He’s scanning the gym like he owns it already, a predatory smirk on his face.
“Where’s Kaine?” he calls out, his voice carrying across the training floor. “Heard he’s been distracted lately. Now I see my opening.”
Victor steps forward, his body language transforming before my eyes. The vulnerable man who just came out to his team disappears, replaced by the commanding presence I first saw at the Hunt. His shoulders broaden, his stance widens, and his expression hardens into something dangerous.
“You’re trespassing, Dawson,” Victor says, his voice carrying across the now-silent gym. Every fighter has stopped their workout, forming a loose circle around us. I can feel the protective energy emanating from them.
Dawson’s eyes dart to me, then fix on Victor’s hand, which has instinctively settled on the small of my back again. The possessive gesture isn’t missed by anyone—especially not Dawson, whose face contorts with sudden understanding.
“Well, well.” Dawson’s smile turns deviously menacing. “Now it all makes sense. The pretty boy club owner.” His gaze shifts between us, lingering on Victor’s hand on my back. “Should’ve known you were a?—”
He doesn’t get to finish.
Jonah steps forward, his frame suddenly between Dawson and us. Remy and Cruz flank him immediately, a wall of muscle and intent. I feel Victor’s hand tighten against me, not in fear but in restraint.
Victor moves faster than I’ve ever seen him move, crossing the space and grabbing Dawson by the collar, physically lifting him off his feet. The display of strength sends a wave of heatthrough me—this isn’t the carefully controlled sparring I’ve watched. This is Victor in his most primal form.
“Get the fuck out of my gym,” Victor snarls, his voice dropping to a register I’ve only heard in our most intimate moments. “And if you ever come back, if you ever speak about him like that again, I will end you.”
He throws Dawson toward the door with such force that the larger man stumbles backward, nearly losing his footing. Dawson’s face flushes red with humiliation and rage as he straightens himself, tugging at his expensive jacket.
“You’re finished in this city, Kaine,” Dawson spits out, glancing around at the fighters who’ve formed a protective circle around us. “I’ll make sure every sponsor, every fighter, everyone knows what you are.”
The threat hangs in the air—what you are—the words designed to cut deep, to expose the very vulnerability Victor has wrestled with for months. But instead of flinching, Victor steps forward. The movement is so decisive that Dawson actually flinches.
“Go ahead,” Victor says, his voice deadly calm now. “Spread whatever you want. This is my club. These are my people. And they don’t break their oaths.”
I watch the man I’ve fallen for standing tall, claiming his truth without hesitation. This isn’t the Victor who panicked in a supply closet or fled from my bed before dawn. This is Victor fully realized, defending not just his business but us.
Dawson leaves, but the threat hangs in the air.
38
VICTOR
The drive to Theo’s place passes in a blur. My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turn white. Every few minutes, I check the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see Dawson’s car following us.
I’m not afraid of Dawson. I could break him in half without breaking a sweat. But his words—his threat—those hit harder than any punch I’ve ever taken.
“You okay?” Theo asks from the passenger seat, his voice soft.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The surge of adrenaline is crashing, leaving me feeling hollow.
At Theo’s apartment, I pace back and forth while he makes us drinks. My phone buzzes with texts from Marco and Jonah, asking if everything’s okay, saying the team has my back. I should feel comforted, but all I can think about is how fast it happened. One moment I was finally being honest, the next I was defending that honesty against someone who wants to use it to destroy everything I’ve built.
“Sit down before you wear a path in my floor,” Theo says, patting the couch beside him.
I sink down, and he pulls me against him. My body resists for a moment—old habits—before I let myself collapse into his embrace. His arms around me feel like the only solid thing in a world suddenly turned to quicksand.
“You were incredible back there,” he murmurs against my hair. “The way you stood up for us.”
“I just reacted.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears. “Didn’t even think.”
“That’s what makes it real.” Theo’s fingers trace patterns on my back. “It wasn’t calculated. It was just you.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, the weight of the day settling between us. I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of him, letting it ground me.
