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My nerves feel on the edge of snapping.
Chloe and I are close to the ring, four rows back. Vibrating with near tangible anticipation, a wall of spectators rises like a dark modern colosseum behind us. This is no underground fight. This is the stadium. A spectacle.
I press my hand to my chest and run my fingers over the pendant of my necklace. It saysprincess. I find my palms and skin clammy from nerves, shaking slightly with anticipation.
The rows directly in front of us are less rowdy than the wall that flanks us—more trained to the stage. I scan the backs of heads, and my eyes land on Charles Young leaning forward with a man at either shoulder, uttering close to his ear.
I sneer at him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the moment we have all been waiting for, sweating for, ladies gettin’ wetter for,” the presenter roars from within the ring, causing a surge of screams to race across the wall on spectators. “This is where legends are made! You know what you’re here for.”
The overhead television comes to life. Clips of Xander boxing in past matches, training, covered in blood and bellowing, unlike a man but akin to an animal, flash across the display as the presenter thunders, “The New Legend, Xander—The Butcher—Buuuuuuutcherrr!”
The display is now recording live. Drums beat, the power in them culminating inside my bones.
A camera suddenly slices to a corner of the ring where fire shoots from the floor just as Xander strides out to the thunderous tempo.
He’s followed by two bouncers, three suits, and his dad. His hair is shorter and wet, too. A mouthguard fills out his lips, his teeth gnashing on the rubber, a film of sweat already coating his muscular physique, and he’s fucking beautiful, brutally, so.
He leaps into the ring with that panther-like prowess and bounces around; the proceeding screams sit low in my abdomen, and my fists turn white under the gripping jealousy.
I hear shrieks.
“I want to have your babies!”
“You’re a god. Kill him for us!”
One cries, “Let me suck your cock after your fight!”
Another begs, “I’ll let you put it anywhere. Any. Where!”
I’ll knock you the fuck out, bitch!The. Fuck. Out.
I gasp angrily, jealousy feigned as outrage. That acupuncture sensation needling through my veins. So, these are boxing groupies? Every mouthy bitch in here volunteers to finish him after the fight, their knickers clearly drenched from the sight of Xander—The Butcher—Butcher. Spurring him on, fuelling him for violence, with their enraptured catcalls and praise andugh. Sluts.
While the men call, “Make him bleed, Legend!”
“We want blood, Butcher!”
Suddenly, I picture his crooked grin distorted by the mouthguard and disguised by the scowl. The dark floppy hair that used to always hang in his lashes. The clear blue gaze that is my air. The soft touches. The brilliance he spouts. And the tattoo on his wrist comes to mind: “monsters are made.”
Sadness creeps in.
My heart beats harder behind my hand as Xander revs himself up, nodding to his dad, who stands in the corner of the ring reciting something to him. His brothers are there, Clay, Bronson, and Max, too, just outside the ring.
Behind the Butcher Boys, in the first row, are their wives or friends. I know this as I recognise Stacey and the blonde one wearing all pink—Cassidy.She’s the District’s Golden Girl. The ballerina who fell in love with Max Butcher. The entire city followed their love story.
I pan back to Xander. Even from this distance, I can see every muscle carved from his flesh, contracting, bulging, leading down to his red satin shorts.
I flush with heat.
God, I’m not one of these girls.
Control your cat, Kaya!
The presenter goes on, “In the other corner, the contender, Davos—The Beast—Briiiittonnnn!”Introducing the man they callThe Beast, who seems thicker than Xander but a similar height.
A slideshow of Davos now fills the screen, but I’m watching Xander as he skips without a rope, warming up his thighs and calves.
