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For the first time in weeks, the nightmares stay away. I don’t dream about steel cages or bloodlines or my father watching me fail. I don’t dream about Jason’s cold threats.
I dream about sunlight. I dream about wide, open spaces. I dream about a future that does not feel like an inescapable prison.
When morning arrives, the light spills through the hotel window. I open my eyes. The panic does not immediately kick the door down.
Micah is still there. He sleeps peacefully beside me, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. I watch his face for a long time, listening to the quiet sounds of the city waking up outside.
The media tour waits. The title fight looms closer every day. Soon I’ll have to face Dan again.
But as I press my forehead against Micah’s shoulder and close my eyes again, the fear recedes.
For now, this is enough.
14
MICAH
Fight week begins with a low, constant ringing in the ears. Six days until the cage door locks.
The furnished studio Victor rented for fight week smells like industrial carpet cleaner and stale air. A kitchenette, a narrow sofa, and a low bed share one room above a closed storefront. It costs less than the arena hotel and gives me somewhere to cook. I sit on the bed, watching the muted television cycle through our faces.
My jaw looks set in stone on the broadcast. Zane stares out from the screen with flat, dark eyes.
Fourteen hours of cameras. I’m sick of my own fucking face.
Separate places to stay. Zane is at the arena hotel; Oath has this third-floor rental and rooms nearby. Staggered arrival times at the media centers. Handlers directing traffic to ensure we never cross paths off camera. We communicate through cheap burner phones bought with cash at a corner store back in Ravenwood Hollow before we flew out. Every public interaction requires a masterclass in deception. We play the roles of professional rivals perfectly. Two top-tier welterweights hungry for blood and the world title.
I’m tired of pretending we hate each other.
“The tension seems personal. What is really going on between you two?”
The memory of the afternoon press conference replays in my skull. A reporter shoved a microphone right under my chin. Flashbulbs blinded my periphery. Two seats down the long table, Zane went completely rigid. I saw the muscles in his forearms jump under his tailored jacket.
“Just two competitors who want to prove they are the best.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek until it bleeds. I’m so fucking tired of that answer. Theo stood in the wings all day, watching my every move, managing the chaos with a forced smile. He knows the toll this takes. He knows how much I hate the shadows.
My burner phone vibrates against the glass nightstand. The sudden noise jolts through the quiet room.
I snatch the plastic device up. The screen glows harsh and white in the dim light.
Can I come over?
My thumb hovers over the tiny keypad. We agreed on the rules before we boarded our flights to Chicago. No risks during fight week. One slipped photo, one lingering look caught by a roaming fan, and the entire narrative spirals out of our control. Jason and Dan are circling like vultures, waiting for a single misstep to ruin us both.
Risky. Someone might see.
The three dots bubble on the screen. The wait stretches my nerves tight. I think about my last relationship. David wanted to move slower. He wanted to take his time. I ended it because I refuse to live half a life. Yet here I am, sneaking around hotel corridors like a criminal.
I don’t care. I need to see you.
A heavy breath escapes my lips. My chest aches with a dull, constant throb. I share my location and toss the phone back onto the table.
Twenty minutes bleed away. I pace the room. Four steps to the window. Four steps back to the door. Every footstep in the hallway sends my heart hammering against my ribs. We have six days of the cut ahead of us. I’m already tired of measuring meals and watching the scale.
A soft, rhythmic knock sounds at the door. Two quick taps. One slow.
I twist the deadbolt and pull the heavy wood inward.
