Page 28

V ictor. I always knew he was gunning for me.

Outside of class yesterday, he yelled my name, “Silas Morgan. Friday Night. You and me.” I wish I could have said no. I even tried to ignore his taunt. But then he said, “You better show up. Wouldn’t want everyone to think you’re scared of one of your own.”

My gut told me to walk away, to let him stew in his own ego, but instead, I agreed. Maybe it was the challenge in his eyes—the way he looked at me like I was already losing ground. Or maybe it was the need to shut him up once and for all.

Either way, I fucked up.

Victor’s been circling the position of frat president since the day he pledged. Hell, even before that. He’s ambitious, I’ll give him that, but my father taught me something.

Ambition without loyalty is poison.

He doesn’t care about the frat, not really. He cares about power—about standing on top of everyone else. All year, he’s been waiting for an opportunity to knock me down a peg, and now, Friday’s fight is his shot.

But it’s also mine.

To put him in his fucking place.

“Harder, Silas. Keep your form tight,” Isaac barks, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I grit my teeth, adjust my stance, and dig my feet into the mat. My fist swings out in a sharper arc, connecting with Jeremy’s glove with a loud smack. Pain shoots up my knuckles, but I ignore it. I need to win this fight.

Isaac is a long time friend of my father. But he’s a living legend from his AGU days, a former champion who practically built the foundation of the college’s underground fight scene. When he called last night, offering to watch me train, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. If anyone can make sure I’m ready for Victor, it’s him.

Jeremy lowers his glove slightly, nodding. “Better. But Victor won’t care if you’re technically sound. He’s out for blood.”

“Good,” I snap. Sweat drips down my forehead, stinging my eyes, but I don’t stop. I throw another punch, harder this time, feeling the impact reverberate up my arm. “Let him try.”

Isaac lets out a short laugh. “That ego of yours is going to get you killed, kid.”

“I can handle Victor.”

“You better hope so,” Isaac mutters, crossing his arms. His sharp, calculating gaze doesn’t leave me like he’s trying to figure out just how far I’ll let this fight push through me. “He wants your spot. And if he wins Friday, he just might take it.”

“I can’t back out now,” I say through gritted teeth. My fists tighten, the leather of my gloves creaking under the pressure. “He asked for the fight. If I don’t show up, I might as well hand him the presidency.”

“Maybe you should,” Jeremy says.

I freeze mid-swing, my fist hovering in the air. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Jeremy lowers his glove, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes the smartest move is knowing when to step back.”

“That’s not an option.”

Isaac sighs heavily.

Jeremy shifts uncomfortably beside him, his mouth a crooked frown “You’re going to need more than brute strength to take him out,” he says. “Victor fights dirty, and you know it. You’ve got to be smarter than him.”

I nod once, setting my jaw. “Then teach me.”

Isaac steps in, studying me with those sharp, assessing eyes of his. “That’s enough for today,” he says finally. “You’ve got the power, Silas. What you need is discipline. Don’t let your emotions run the show.”

Jeremy nods in agreement, pulling off his gloves. “He’s right. If Victor gets in your head, you’re done. No amount of training is going to save you if you can’t control your temper.”

“Noted,” I mutter, peeling off my gloves.

“Get some rest tonight. You’ll need it.”

I grunt in response, grabbing my water bottle and heading toward the locker room. My muscles ache with every step. I toss my gloves onto the bench and open my locker, reaching for my phone.

Something flutters on the ground.

I freeze, staring at the folded piece of paper lying at my feet. The edges are creased, the cheap white glaring against the dark tile. Frowning, I crouch down and pick it up, unfolding it carefully.

The handwriting is jagged, rushed, like whoever wrote it was in a hurry—or didn’t care to make it neat.

If you fight on Friday, it will cost you your life.

The words slam into me like a punch to the gut. My grip tightens around the paper as I scan the empty locker room, my eyes darting to every corner. Nothing. No shadows, no footsteps, no sign of anyone who might’ve left it.

I crumple the note in my fist, shoving it into my pocket. My pulse pounds in my ears as I sit down on the bench, staring at the open locker in front of me.

Victor. It has to be him. This is just another one of his games, another way to mess with me before the fight. He’s trying to rattle me, trying to make me second-guess myself.

It’s not going to work.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly. My chest is tight, my thoughts spinning, but I force myself to focus. Victor wants me to lose my cool, to walk into that ring already beaten.

That’s not happening.

But another thought creeps in, uninvited. What if it isn’t Victor?

What if someone else is gunning for me?

I shake my head, pushing the thought aside. It doesn’t matter. Whoever left the note wants me to back down, and that’s not an option.

Not for me.

Not for the guys.

Not for Sable.

I grab my phone, shoving it into my pocket as I stand. My jaw tightens as I close the locker, the sound echoing through the empty room.

Let them come for me.