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The fights lulled him to sleep like a baby in a rocking chair, violence and blood his personal lullaby.

Lying flat on his back on a bench in the middle of the change room of the Chopping Block, Darien slept like the dead. One knee propped up, fingers laced on his chest. He woke up only once—just long enough to crack open his eyes to see the blue-lit change room surrounding him—before drifting off again.

He'd lost all sense of time and place when something stirred him awake. The bench creaked with movement that wasn’t his own.

“Cassel.” A boot nudged his, making him grunt. “Cassel.”

Darien cracked open his eyes. When he caught sight of the male face leaning over him, he recoiled, a curse word floating off his lips.

Where the hell was he?

The Butcher’s face sharpened into view. “I looked a lot better last night, hey?” he joked.

“Ha-ha,” Darien grumbled, slinging a hand over his eyes to block out the bluish light. “Very funny.”

“Don’t tell me you slept here.” A frown coated the Butcher’s words. He glanced about, the rubber of his giant boots squeaking on the floor.

“Fine,” Darien slurred. “I won’t tell you.”

“Jeez, Cassel. When did you become such a wreck?”

“The day I was born.”

“Pretty sure it doesn’t work that way, kid. But I admire your pessimism.” He kicked his boot again, hard enough to jar the bench, sage-green paint flaking off in strips. “Get up, will you? Unless you’d like to wake up in an hour with a bunch of sweaty and bloody men surrounding you.” Boots pounded against the walls as he walked away.

When Darien peeked at him from under his wrist, the lights stung his eyes. “You’re hosting daytime fights?”

Casen turned to face him, trench coat swaying. “Daytime? It’s six o’clock.”

Darien lifted his head. “P.m.?”

“Yeah, fucking p.m.”

Darien sat up, clutching his head as the room spun. He glanced down at the clothes he was wearing to find they were clean. At least he’d showered before passing out, but he had no memory of that.

The door creaked as the Butcher pushed it open.

“If you want me to fight again, I could go for a round,” Darien called.

Casen paused, one big hand propping the door open. “How about in a couple hours? It might get too predictable if you keep ripping all the guys apart when the night’s barely begun.”

“I’d say I’m sorry, but if I did I would be lying.”

The Butcher flashed him a wicked grin. “Fuck off for a couple hours, and the floor is all yours.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” In the meantime, he had a job to do.

It was time to return that briefcase to Gaven’s warehouse. And while he was there, he planned on doing some more searching.

—

“You got any naked photos of her?” Malakai’s voice pulled Darien’s attention away from his phone screen—and the photograph of Loren.

They were in his truck again, waiting for the watch to switch at one a.m. so they could sneak the briefcase back into Gaven’s warehouse and see what else the stupid prick kept in there.

“What?” Darien demanded, shooting Malakai a cold stare.

“You got any naked photos of her?”