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Because the gym was home.

As I walk through the back halls, that’s what I feel. It’s a comfort I’ll never feel inside the Purple Palace, and I hold it close, letting it lift my chin, square my shoulders.Poised. Ever since I stepped foot in East End, something has felt askew inside of me, but right now, it’s right where it should be.

Because this is my turf.

I may not know how to act like a Princess, but I do know how to support my man at a Friday Night Fury.

There’s a stutter to the sound of the crowd when I push through the doors, but I don’t pause long enough to see their reactions. My gaze is trained on the ring ahead and I strut up the crimson carpet to where my Princes are waiting, Wicker and Lex by the corner Pace is sitting in.

The one time Whitaker Ashby gave me an orgasm was right after I slammed a frying pan into a girl’s head for flirting with him at a party. That, and the need to claim me in public, ignited something in Wicker that’s been lost these last few weeks. If Story and Lavinia are right, I’m the one in control.

I can change it.

It takes them a long time to even notice me, Pace’s gaze fixed to his black high-tops as he tightens the laces. He’s still wearing his sweater, hood pulled up, head down. His brothers are ducked close together, seemingly discussing strategy. Lex points to the center of the ring as Wicker shakes his head, turning to gesture at something.

Blue eyes skate over me and then snap back, Wicker’s arm suspended halfway in the air. It drops slowly, and I see more than hear him say, “Holy fuck.”

Lex sees me next, his amber eyes zeroing in on my breasts, which are covered by two sparkly purple triangles that don't leave a lot to the imagination. The bikini top is paired with something that can only barely be called jean shorts. They’re ripped, frayed, and probably showing the entire bottom half of my ass cheeks, which are covered only with the pair of fishnet stockings I’m wearing underneath.

The final piece of the outfit is the tiara Ashby himself gifted me. Rushed here by a very befuddled Danner, it sits proudly atop my head, my hair having been hastily pulled into two french braids.

The eyes of the crowd follow me as I approach the ring, struggling to keep my stride confident and unhurried. Although I’ve watched hundreds of matches, I’ve never been a proper ring girl. My mother never let me wear anything that may have given the slightest hint that I was anything other than virginal.

I almost falter when I see her–Mama B–across the ring. She’s looking at me with such barely-restrained fury that I feel the immediate instinct to hide.

I don’t.

I waltz up to my Princes and say, “Almost ready?”

It’s only then that Pace looks down from his seat, his black eyes freezing as they see me.

Lex is the first to speak, the dazed shock disappearing from his gaze. “What the fuck are you doing,” he growls, grabbing my arm.

“I’m being your Princess,” I answer, not allowing myself to be cowed.

“A Princess would never dress like that.” His gaze travels my body, and then he huffs, shrugging out of his jacket. “You look like one of those gutter rats out there. Cover yourself.”

But when he goes to drape the jacket over my shoulders, Wicker’s hand shoots out, pushing it away. “Hey, let’s not be hasty here. I mean…” His blue eyes drop to my chest, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I can always peel them off her later. How many hours ‘til midnight?”

His words hang heavily in the air, because there’s no question as to what I’m putting out here.

My break is over.

“Stop,” I tell them, unsurprised at the conflicted reaction. I shoot Wicker a glare. “This isn’t for you.” Then shift to Lex. “Oryou. I’m dressed to support our fighter.” I lift my chin at Pace, meeting his intense gaze. “You ready?”

There’s a long moment where he just stares back at me, his jaw tensing and untensing.

And then he reaches out, offering me his hand.

Relieved, I slip my hand into his, letting him lift me up into the ring. As I feel the heat of him, I try to remember that these men, for better or worse, are mine. That’s what I'm thinking about as I stand before Pace. He’s so tall that I have to tilt my head back to gaze into his stony expression.

“Nervous?” I ask, my own nerves shining through.

“About Maddox?” He scoffs, glancing at Remy across the ring. “Nah.” His gaze returns to me, eyebrow arching. “Are you?”

“I know whose side I’m on tonight.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up, but his eyes narrow with suspicion. “You even managed to say that with a straight face.”