And now…
Now I’m looking at this wild thing in the ring. This feral, gorgeous, unapologetic hurricane of a woman.
She’s not the soft girl we used to know. Not the sweet, innocent thing who used to smile like sunshine and glue our broken pieces together.
But my gut? My fuckingdick?
They’re screaming the same thing:
It’s her.
Changed. Hardened. Unleashed.
And suddenly, I don’t know if I want to kiss her… or fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness—for letting her go, for not finding her when she needed me most. Even though I never stopped searching.
Not then or now.
Not for a single damn day.
These people don’t know who she is. Not really. Not like I do. They don’t know that the same hands breaking noses and drawing blood are the same ones that once clutched my shirt and held me together on nights when I should’ve fallen apart.
And they sure as hell don’t know that she’s mine.
My little Pixie.
My Cupcake.
My beautiful, brutal fucking salvation.
My Berk.
The second the fight ends, she vanishes—pulled off stage and swallowed by the crowd like some kind of magic trick.
Gone. Just like that.
Again.
And I still can’t get a good look. Just flashes—purple hair whipping as she disappears backstage, boots stomping with purpose, shoulders squared like she owns the world. Not blonde anymore. Not that soft, sunlit gold I used to know. But I’d bet my fucking soul it’s her.
And I’m not telling my brothers.
They wouldn’t believe me anyway.
It’d turn into another goddamn fight—more fists, more shouting, more bullshit.
And for what?
They don’tdeserveto know.
Not if it’s really her.
Not after they gave up.
They let go so easily—believed every half-assed story fed to us like obedient little pups. Didn’t question the ashes. Didn’t fight for her name.
Me?
I never let go.