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I sigh in contentment. This is exactly what I need. I can either work on new pieces for my art or beat the shit out of people. And art really isn’t on my mind at the moment.

Training with Summer helped, but I still pull my punches when we spar.

Same for her. We know we shouldn’t. Mack usually yells at us, saying we’ll get complacent and might even pull a punch in an actual fight.

Which I think is complete BS, but I’m not about to tell him that.

Mack’s scary when he’s pissed. And usually when we’re pulling punches, that sets him off pretty good.

But Mack gets me. He must have known I needed to do something other than just sit. Sure, I might not be showing any emotion or freaking out as much as others might expect of me, but it’s still there, just in the form of extra energy. And I need to expel it.

I should have probably just asked Domino to fuck me again. I might still, even if his King Kong dong both scares and pleases me. He fits inside me like he’s glued in, filling every part, pushing the boundaries to the extreme. I’m sore, but in a way that I’m completely okay with.

I hear the first bell go off from my makeshift dressing room.

Really, it’s just a cornered-off section of the warehouse separated by curtains.

There’s more privacy in an emergency room than here, but underground fighters really can’t be picky.

And me more than anyone else. Mack got this last- minute match because another fighter got sick.

Instead of having someone else pull out, he offered it to me.

I might not have prepped fully for this one like I usually do, but I’m in good enough shape to pick one up like this every now and again.

It also helps that the person I’m fighting isn’t in the main circuit.

Just like with real boxing, there are levels in the underground.

We’ve got the new kids, the mature ones, and the senior league—aka, the ones who know how to knock someone out with one punch.

I’m usually in that last one, but tonight I’m just here for fun.

If I win or not, it won’t go against any of my stats.

This is a trial period really, to test out the ones who want to get into the new kids’ group.

Yup, you heard that right. Gotta try out to get your ass kicked.

No one wants to pay money to just see a person cry after getting hit once.

Which happens. A lot. Especially with chicks.

I mean, come on, there’s a reason it’s not something most women find on their guidance counselors’ desks as options after high school.

But a guy might get to be a professional athlete, specialize in wrestling, join the military—pretty much anyone who can take a hit and get back up again.

I’ve been the veteran before in these trial fights, so I know the drill: Hold back, but only to the range of what they’re capable of.

If they come out swinging, I swing back.

Hell, if they piss me off, I lay them flat on their back.

Really, it’s on the fighter and how they play the game to see what I do.

The curtain opens and I look up, smiling as soon as my brain registers who it is .

“You need to stop,” Domino says as I’m mid-hop off the table I was sitting on.

I laugh lightly as I give him a hug. But when he doesn’t return it, I pull back and look up at him. He isn’t laughing at all. “Wait, are you serious?”

His nod has me glaring, and all the joy I felt five seconds ago vanishes.

I step back and rest my ass against the table, crossing my arms, instantly on the defense. “This got something to do with the photos?”

“And the two dead bodies. Or did you forget that part?” He gives me a look that instantly has me wanting to elbow-drop him. It’s something you give a child who says something so stupid and ridiculous that you have to think they’re joking.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Just because I let you fuck me doesn’t me you get to tell me what to do.”

“It should,” he mutters as he looks away.

I might let most things go. When I worked in the corporate world, I moved up fast and took on supervisor roles.

Roles that should have paid more, but somehow those who reported to me made more money than me.

It pissed me off, but I couldn’t control anything beyond leaving, and I did when I chose to.

Even when I go to trade shows and metal events, I get a bit of hassle from people telling me I’m in the wrong business and that my shit sucks, or that it’s a man’s field and I must be a dyke or some shit.

’Cause apparently only lesbians can wield a hot poker.

That or someone with a dick. Whatever. People are morons and can think and say what they want.

I’ve got no issues with that, just let it roll off my back.

But when you come and tell me what to do?

Tell me what should or shouldn’t matter? Yeah, I can’t be the bigger person.

“Excuse the fuck out of me? What did you just say?” I stand and am in his face a second later.

To his credit, he doesn’t flinch or back up.

Most people do when I get unhinged like this.

And there’s zero doubt that I’m off my rocker.

I don’t respond well to being told what to do. Never have, never will.

I watch his jaw twitch a second before he speaks, low and angry, and with just enough grit that it makes parts of me wet. “It should matter. I should matter. It should matter if I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“Don’t go all chick on me, Domino. If the roles were reversed, you’d call me a silly woman and tell me to get over it.”

“No, no, I wouldn’t.”

“Oh please. Yes, you would.” I roll my eyes.

“Men have got no problem finding sport in a boxing ring or just for shits and giggles. But as soon as a woman steps in, you get all put out about it. If only half the world showed that much concern for the fairer sex when it matters. Like when it’s her right to choose or equal pay and whatnot.

I don’t need you to fight my battles, but if you want to, start there.

Start where it matters for someone who has no voice or can’t defend themselves.

I fight because I can and ’cause I like to.

Nothing more. So get on board or get the fuck out.

I don’t need you in my head like this before a fight. ”

He narrows his eyes before doing an about-face and leaving, brushing past the curtain so fast that it blows in the breeze on the way out.

“Damn. I really didn’t think he’d leave.” Mack enters in his wake, and I can’t control the glare I throw at him. Of course he heard. Probably everyone in this damn place did.

“Neither did I.” And it hurts, but I shake it off. It’s just fuel to fire me into the next round.

How dare he get in my head like this. Fucking asshole.

“Relax, Viv. He didn’t say that because he doesn’t think you can win. He just doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

I huff at Mack, hating that he can read me so well. But if Summer were here, she’d say the same thing. Maybe I’d listen better to her than a man right now.

“Well, then, he should find some other girl if that’s what he’s looking for. Getting hurt is part of the job. You take me for who I am, or you don’t take me at all.”

“Whoa, babe, don’t come after the messenger. I’m just talking.” He holds up his hands in surrender, and I just shake my head at his antics.

“Well, quit it. Start taping up my hands and keep the merry thoughts to yourself, will you?”

Mack raises an eyebrow at me before nodding to the foldout table. I hike myself up on it and hold my hands out as he grabs the tape and starts wrapping me up.

“I should knock your ass out right now for talking to me like that. But we both know you’d be shit for me when you go down.” He smirks, and I continue to glare. We really don’t know who’d win, and till he lets me get in a real hit, we’ll never know.

I grunt at his words, but it does the trick.

My lips twitch in amusement. Sometimes Summer and I get in the ring with others, but mostly it’s just us sparring together.

The first time we fought, before we knew what we were actually doing and just playing, we got messy.

Neither of us was willing to concede. She might have more power in her hits, but I’ve got the speed.

We’re a good team when we fight duos, but if it was ever just us and one had to walk out a winner?

I don’t know which one it’d be. Mack makes sure we never face off against each other in a paid event, even going as far as not putting us in the same weight class.

I have to keep just under and her just over so it never comes down to the two of us.

Even when it’s the yearly all-in fight and weight range doesn’t matter, only one of us goes in each year.

One of Mack’s guards who protects us fighters—Henry is his name, I think—pops his head into the closed-off curtain room. “Five minutes, boss.”

Mack nods, and Henry gives him a chin lift. Then he smiles at me, and I return it. The guy’s been watching my back for a while now. I might not talk to him, but the least I can do is smile and acknowledge the man.

Once I’m taped up, Mack slaps his hands down on mine, and then I do the same to his. It’s a small ritual I do before every fight. Everyone is different, but it’s what sets me up.

Hopping off the table, I hear the last bell notifying the fighters to head to the “ring.” It’s different pretty much every time, be it an actual boxing ring, a cage, or just chalk on the floor; regardless, it’s the perimeter we have to fight in.

I already got a glance at it before we came into the fitting rooms. We actually have a full boxing ring this time.

Not big and fancy, but high enough for the fighters to be lifted off the ground for everyone to see.