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The bell chimes, ending the first round. He returns to the corner, bleeding from his eyebrow. Rob and Carson are ready, tossing a towel at him to wipe his sweaty face and squirting water in his mouth. I lurch up, but Hunter’s arms tighten, holding me back.

I twist to look at him. “I need to talk to him.”

“Let the guys do their job.”

“No, I need to tell him something.” I fight against him, and finally he relents, letting me loose. I climb over the railing, lunging for the ring. I wobble, but keep upright, shuffling over.

“Baroness,” Rob says, when he sees me. “It’s not safe up here.”

I ignore him. “Damon, look at me.”

Blood oozes from his eyebrow. I grab the towel and press it against the wound.

“One, two, three, four…”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he mumbles.

“All dances have beats,” I explain. “Rhythms. One, two, three, four… this fight? You and that guy are in a dance. To win, you just need to find your rhythm.”

I wait for him to tell me to shut up, that I’m stupid and crazy and to go back to my seat, but he just takes a step back, nodding slowly.

When the bell rings for round two, I’m back in Hunter’s lap and Damon is back on the mat, circling Porterfield. That’s the thing I’m learning about him–he doesn’t break. He bends. He absorbs. He adapts.

And then, somewhere in that mess of punches, he finds the rhythm.

It’s not pretty.

But it works.

He starts cutting angles, forcing Porterfield toward the ropes. Dirty boxing, clinch knees, short elbows. He’s fighting ugly–and after the mess before, ugly is beautiful.

“Yes!” Hunter shouts, when he lands a right hook that stuns the redhead. On the mat, Porterfield stumbles. Just a blink. But Damon sees it and pounces, the darkness in him releasing in a fury of hard-hitting fists. He follows it with a knee to the body. Porterfield grunts, shifting to defense. He takes another hook that sends him staggering back before he drops, hard and shattered.

The ref points to Damon and the roar of the crowd hits me like thunder in my bones.

My Baron just stands there, chest heaving, blood smeared across his cheek. His eyes find us across the ropes and he gives Hunter and I a smug grin.

The ref comes over and lifts his arm. Every Beta Rho in our section jumps to their feet, including Hunter, who lifts me in his arms.

“Memento Mori!”Damon shouts, lifting his other fist. His eye, already swelling, catches mine. I smile, caught up in the sheer enthusiasm of the night–of how great he did out there. Standing over Porterfield, who seems to be grimacing in both pain and humiliation, he can’t seem to help but add, “There’s only one victor in the house tonight, and it’s a goddamn Baron.”

If I thoughtthe gym was chaotic before the match, after it’s close to a riot. Damon hopped down from the ring only to get instantly swarmed by fans and haters, both shocked at his win. But like all winners, everyone seems to want a piece of him–to bloody him a little more or to lavish praise. The members of DKS huddle around menacingly, outraged at the loss, but they’re not actually aggressive. There’s an unspoken tension in the air, like they’re just waiting for someone to screw up and give them an excuse.

It’s a different kind of ferocity that comes from the females. Damon’s name is a screeching cry on their red-painted lips, clawing out with cat-like nails. They don’t want a piece of him, they want his attention. His power, no matter how sweaty and bruised.

A blonde in a sequined tube top pushes her way through the Shadows, clinging into his side. “Can I get your autograph?” she asks, thrusting a pen in his hand.

He looks up, eyes a little glazed from the fight. “Yeah, sure?”

“You can sign right here,” she says, pulling down her top to expose her tits. They’re small, but perky, and he scribbles hisinitials across her flesh. “Thank you!” She slowly drags her top back up. “I’m Audrey, by the way, let me know if you want a private celebration. I can make that happen.”

Her eyes flit past me when Carson drags her off, the grin on her face telling me that our little pre-fight show did nothing to assert my claim. Did it seem fake? Superficial? Could they all tell that Damon doesn’t care for me? That the King finds me disloyal. I’m a murderer. A liability. The list goes on and on. That truth nags at me as we reach the back hall, an area blocked off to the main crowd.

“Kemp,” a voice calls, “hold up a minute.”

I turn and am instantly struck off balance at the man walking toward us, a crescent haloed around his head. He gets closer, his long legs wrapped in leather, his shirt unbuttoned down to his waist. Pale skin covered with ink. His shoulders are broad, but he’s lean and I’m certain he’s an angel, but there are no wings. A demon then? No, not that, a nephilim, I decide, both.

“Maddox,” Damon says, pulling at the bloody tape on his hand, “come to finish the job?”