The ring itself was unimpressive: ropes scavenged from somewhere in the warehouse, a mat that once might have been blue but was now faded and stained, barely a memory of its original color. Old blood layered over new, absorbed so deeply it had become permanent.
I stayed back and leaned against a support beam, hidden in the shadows. Ben’s lessons echoed in my mind: Don’t call attention to yourself. Watch the exits and figure out a route to them. Aim to blend in as much as possible.
That last one wasn’t necessary as hard rock blared from the speakers, and I realized no one was paying the slightest attention to me. Everyone was focused on the man who had just entered the room and was making his way toward the ring.
CHAPTER FIVE
TARYN
Beck Maddox stepped into the ring like he owned the space.
He was tall—at least six-four—and had a long, muscular build that was tough and intimidating, with muscles tightly packed under skin that seemed almost ready to burst with aggression. His black hair, pulled back with a rubber band, fell to his shoulders, revealing the sharp contours of his face. His arms and chest were covered with tattoos, some of them layered over what appeared to be old scars, though I couldn’t tell for certain from this distance.
Under the harsh warehouse lights, his green eyes looked almost unnatural—bright, focused, and empty of anything that made him human.
Much as they looked that night, several weeks ago, when I stumbled upon him doling out his own form of justice.
He rolled his shoulders once, loose and ready, knuckles already bruised from previous fights, some of which may or may not have taken place in this ring. Sweat tracked down the ridges of his arms, highlighting muscles shaped into weapons, and my eyes followed the droplet on its journey, involuntarily.
“Damn,” I murmured, my mouth dry at the sight.
Beck was every bad boy fantasy that I’d ever had all rolled up into one.
The men nearest the ropes shifted instinctively, clearing space the way animals did when something higher on the food chain entered the vicinity.
Beck didn’t acknowledge them.
His attention stayed on the man who had entered the ring before him.
His opponent was older. Late forties, maybe. Thick through the shoulders, belly soft with age, face marked by a life filled with drink and women. The kind of man who’d been strong once and refused to believe he wasn’t anymore.
The bell—if you could call it that—rang.
The older man rushed him.
Bigmistake.
I moved closer unconsciously. Drawn to the strength this man exhibited. I’d seen him around school but never like this.
Beck didn’t back up. He slipped sideways, let the punch pass close enough that I heard it cut the air, then drove his elbows into the man’s ribs with a sound like a bat cracking wet wood.
The man grunted. Staggered.
Beck followed with his knees—hard, precise, merciless. Each strike was placed where it would hurt most, slow reaction time, and make breathing a problem. He wasn’t showing any signs of rage. Just pure cunning.
I respected that.
The way Beck’s fists landed—controlled, deliberate—dragged something loose in my chest.
I’d buried the memory deep.
It had been hard to watch, but I’d pushed through, knowing the leverage might come in handy one day. Seems that there was still a touch of a normal eighteen-year-old girl left inside me.
Ben would be so thrilled.
SIX-MONTHS AGO
The road had been empty that night.
