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“Go the spoils!” The crowd of DKS responds drunkenly.

Lavinia’s ideas make a little more sense now.

Moving to position myself behind Damon so he can take the spotlight, I’m startled when he grabs my hip with one of those big hands and pulls me close. “I keep telling you,” he says, mouth close to my ear, “stay close.”

His arm drapes over my shoulders, and I place my hand on his hard stomach. I have no idea if Damon is ready for this fight, but I’m not underestimating one of the men that hunted me down. He’s strong and fast, and that scar tells me one thing: he’s a survivor.

The speakers crackle again and the same booming voice announces, “Representing Beta Rho, and making his debut to the Fury is, Deeeeeeekaaaaayyyyyy Kemp.”

I feel Damon tense, his body stiffening against mine.

Music blasts, and he takes the first step forward, keeping me by his side.

At some point the crowd fades away, and it’s just me and Damon making the walk. Carson rushes ahead, lifting the ropes for Damon to go through. Once he’s up on the mat, the block ofseating behind the ring erupts into cheers, while the other sides fall into a deep, jeering boo. Strong hands cinch around my waist and I look back. Hunter’s lifting me up to the mat, into Damon’s outstretched hands.

“Fuck that bastard up, brother.”

They bump fists, and I’m yanked into Damon’s hard body. The move, the mat, the blinding lights, all reminds me of being on stage, and I’m struck by the truth that this is nothing more than a dance between two partners–aperformance.

That I understand. Curling my fingers into the waistband of his shorts, I tilt my head, feeling his hands, rough with tape, pressed against my lower back. Hooking my leg around his thigh, I push up on the tips of my toes, arching my back as he holds me. He looks surprised when I sweep into a dramatic arch, smiling at the Shadows behind us, who are drunk on beer and itching for the fight. My crotch grinds into him, and he pushes back–a reminder of how good this man can make me feel, and how fast he likes to take it away.

Goosebumps skitter across my flesh when he presses a hot kiss on the healing cuts.

“There she is,” he says, lips quirked into a grin. “That’s the girl who knows how to use a knife.”

The statement is bold, but true. His lips meet mine, blisteringly hot, tongue controlling. It’s a kiss that I feel deep between my legs, and when I grind into him, it’s not just for show. I let him take possession of me, showing everyone in the gym exactly who I belong to.

“Good luck,” I tell him when our mouths part. I like the taste of him, the lingering tang of whiskey. Maybe it’s not so bad after all.

He grins and stretches out his hand, tweaking the bar running through my nipple. Pain shoots through me, and a scream climbs the back of my throat. It doesn’t matter if I let itloose, no one would hear it–not over the stomping of feet and cheers from the crowd.

A second later, he glances upward, toward the balcony. Lifting my hand to fight the glare I see that the Lords and Dukes are still in their seats. Lavinia is leaning toward Story Austin, hand covering her mouth. Movement from across the balcony catches my eye.

The Baron King. He’s here, his mask a dark ebony, the horns tipped in gold. A chill runs down my spine, knowing that we’re not just under the scrutiny of the other frats, but from the King as well. After the last week, the time in the cage, the upset I caused him, I need something to go right.

A short bell chimes and the referee moves to the middle of the mat. Hunter grabs me, pulling me back on the other side of the mat. We take an empty spot just behind the railing and to my surprise, he settles me onto his lap, keeping his strong arms caged around me, like he’s afraid I’ll wander off again. My heart skips when the referee speaks to them, I assume going over the rules. The crowd around us grows impatient. They’re not the only ones. Damon's already bouncing on the balls of his feet, chin tucked, eyes locked in. His dark hair's a sweaty mess. He’s not the favorite. Not even close. He’s got that rough-edged kind of fight to him–no polish, no choreography.

Across from him, Porterfield looks like he was raised in the gym. Big, confident stance, pale skin dotted with freckles, and that red hair slicked back from where his cutslut ran her hands through it. He’s clean, but dangerous in the kind of way that’s practiced, perfected.

That’s the difference, I realize. Damon’s volatile like a loose wire. You don’t touch him wrong unless you want to get shocked. The tingling in the tit he pinched is an ever present reminder.

The bell rings.

And I swear, the world narrows down to fists and footwork.

Porterfield starts sharp–jab, cross, step out. Carson’s warning rings true.‘He also is impatient and goes for the first hit. You can either take it and go from there or beat him to it.’

Damon eats the first one, head barely snapping back. He grins. I know that grin. I saw it in the dark forest when he stumbled on Armand’s dead body and the bloody knife in my hand.

Leverage.

That’s all he needs.

Slam!

Porterfield lands an uppercut, knocking Damon further off balance. He’s got his own rhythm, dancing just out of reach like he’s showing off. Every time Damon reacts, the grip I have on the railing tightens, knuckles turning white. He’s swinging wild, looping hooks and knees from awkward angles, but nothing’s clean. Not yet.

"One, two, three, four..." I chant as they circle one another. “One, two, three, four…”