It’s an open invitation.
Without hesitation, I seize a fistful of her hair, twisting just enough to yank her head forward, and I drive my knee into her face with a sickening crunch. The impact is solid. Blood bursts in a fine arc across the floor, her nose collapsing with the force. She stumbles back with a gurgled cry, disoriented and gasping as scarlet drips from her lips, her hands flailing for balance. Around us, the crowd erupts—surging forward, screaming like animals unchained. They want carnage—blood. They want an end. And I’m not in the mood to disappoint.
I step forward again, my knee rising like a guillotine and driving straight into her ribs. The crack is loud, a jarring snap that cuts through the noise, drawing hisses and howls from the spectators. She drops immediately, crumpling like a marionette with its strings cut. Her body twitches, spasming on the mat as she groans, clutching at her side. Blood pools beneath her nose and trails from the corner of her mouth. The smell of sweat, copper, and the sharp tang of adrenaline fills the air, thick and dizzying.
I step back, chest heaving, hands still curled into fists. The girl on the mat doesn’t move except to moan softly. The Janitor’s down, and just like that, the crowd has their show. The question now is who’ll be responsible for cleaning up the mess she’s left behind—because it won’t be me.
The crowd roars as the sinister host bounds onto the stage, his greasy hand locking around my arm and yanking it high above my head. “Your winner!” he bellows, feeding the bloodlust of the crowd with every exaggerated syllable. I force a cold smirk for the show, knowing anything less could look like weakness in a place like this. My chest heaves from the fight, but not from exertion—it’s the aftermath, the adrenaline dump, the thrum of violence that still sings in my veins.
As the bodies in the crowd surge forward, some jeering, others shouting praise, a sharp wave of unease claws its way up my spine. I’m drawing too much attention. That was never part of the plan. I scan the crowd under the dim, flickering lights of theunderground facility, taking in the shadowed faces smeared with bloodlust and drink. Thankfully, none of them stand out—no glint of recognition, no flared nostrils of suspicion. Just anonymity and noise. But it doesn’t slow the erratic thump in my chest. It only deepens it.
This fight was supposed to be a warmup—my slot scheduled earlier than Ronan’s, giving me time to vanish before they arrived. Now, the way eyes track me, lingering for a second too long, I know I’ve made a misstep. Even if I escaped immediate scrutiny, I’ve rattled the cage. And that’s the last thing I need when I’m on the brink of making my move.
I collect my winnings fast, shoving the bloody cash into a canvas bag and slipping into the oversized sweatsuit waiting in my locker. The hoodie goes up, shadowing my face; the pants hang low enough to hide the way my muscles still twitch from exertion. Once I’m buried under the fabric, I slink to the outskirts of the arena, disappearing into the folds of darkness that live in every corner of this place. From there, I watch. Patient. Still. Coiled.
I know Ronan’s fight is scheduled for later—just a handful of hours from now. In all the time I’ve been watching him, he’s never once shown up early. Like clockwork, he’s always ten minutes before showtime. Despite that, the risk of showing my face like this wasn’t smart. I know that. I just didn’t care.
Because tonight isn’t just about another match. It’s the night the first domino falls. The first hit against their fathers—their empire—the ones who stole everything. I can feel it crawling beneath my skin—that itch, that desperate need to move, to destroy, to do something. My pulse is erratic; my thoughts are sharp. I need release.
And since the only option tonight is to spill blood... well, here we are.
I wait for nearly an hour before circling back to the ring, staying tucked in the shadows with my hoodie drawn low over my brow and my posture slouched into invisibility. The air is heavy with the sour musk of sweat and blood, the crowd still drunk on violence and shouting over the last bout.
Good.
Chaos makes for a better cover. I’m blending in, the heather-gray hoodie hiding my hair, and the oversized clothes swallowing my frame in anonymity. No one glances twice at me now. No one sees Cupcake in the girl slipping through the crowd like a ghost.
My plan had once been clean and calculated—enroll in the same college as the guys, weave myself back into their lives organically, and make them remember what we were before everything went to hell. That path was obsolete before I even stepped foot near campus years ago, because I wasn’t ready then. Now, I hold a business degree, earned in silence and shadows,online and alone. Playing the part of a student now would be just that—a performance.
Jay’s words echo like a mantra in the back of my mind:Trust no one.He said it with conviction, carved from experience that left scars I still haven’t seen. I thought I understood him then. I didn’t. Not until the people I loved, the people I would have bled for, became strangers—worse, became the sons of monsters. Sons who stood by and let the world crumble around me. Sons who didn’t recognize the girl they’d once sworn to protect when she bled right in front of them.
The truth is, I don’t know them anymore. Not really. The boys I loved grew up to be men who are buried under layers of power, corruption, and silence. I’ve been watching them long enough to see the cracks, the moments when something good still shines through—but it’s not enough. Not yet.
A part of me wants to believe they’ll come back to me, that under the ashes of who they’ve become are the boys who once held my heart. But hope is a luxury I can’t afford. Until they prove otherwise, until they earn back the right to stand beside me, they’re behind enemy lines. And I won’t hesitate to burn them with the rest.
Finally, Ronan climbs onto the stage, his broad, muscular frame commanding attention with every movement. He rolls his shoulders back, stretching out his arms with an effortless grace that somehow makes the raw power in his body seem even more dangerous. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t acknowledge the crowd—he just moves, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a predator waking from hibernation, shaking out the stiffness as he prepares for the fight. The overhead lights glint off the sheen of sweat already beginning to coat his skin, outlining the sharp definition of his chest and arms. Every line of his body speaks of discipline, of violence honed over time. He’s grown—more than just in muscle, too. There’s a controlled ferocity in him now, a stillness that whispers of past chaos and the choice to master it.
Rowen and Emerson stand outside the ring, inside The Underground’s inner circle. The crowd presses in around them, but no one dares get too close. They radiate authority, untouchable in this space that feeds on blood and dominance. Rowen’s face is carved from stone, unreadable and cold. There’s no hint of the softness he once wore like armor around me, no warmth in his eyes—only calculation. It’s like I’m looking at a different man altogether. A stranger. Emerson isn’t any better. His face is a mirror of Rowen’s—shuttered, sharp, impassive. Their boyish charm, the dimpled smiles and warm glances I used to know so well, has been replaced by the hardened masks of men forged in shadow. They aren’t the boys from the treehouse or the beach. They’re soldiers now. Enforcers.
And yet, even in the hardness of their expressions, I see flickers. Cracks. The way Emerson’s jaw tenses a beat too long. The way Rowen’s eyes flick toward Ronan like he’s the anchor tethering them both to something real. Maybe they don’t know how to be anything else anymore. Maybe they don’t rememberwho they were before the world demanded they become monsters to survive.
But I do. I remember everything. The smiles that used to be real. The promises we whispered in the dark when we thought we had forever. I remember who they were before blood and betrayal soaked through the cracks of our innocence. And now, standing by the ring like they haven’t shattered me with their silence, like they don’t have stains on their hands from what was done—I burn.
The fire inside me isn’t warm. It’s blistering. It’s not nostalgia—it’s a reminder. I’m not here to reminisce or to mourn the boys they used to be. I’m here for justice, vengeance. For the girl they left behind to rot with ghosts and bruises. For Reign.
Ronan’s opponent paces nervously on the opposite side of the ring, his eyes darting like trapped animals. He shifts from foot to foot, jaw clenched, hands trembling slightly no matter how hard he tries to hide it. I can smell fear from across the room. He’s not just worried—he’s already looking for an exit before the bell even rings. And he should be. Ronan’s calm, predatory stillness is more threatening than any fist in motion. It’s the quiet before the storm. The inhale before devastation.
I need closer. I need to see this. Feel the heat of it. But getting near the front without being recognized requires camouflage, so I grab the first attractive guy I see, someone tall with wide shoulders and a cocky grin. He’s more than happy to play along when I press into him, wrapping my arm around hiswaist like we belong together. He pulls me tighter, and when I let him kiss up my neck, the crowd shifts, giving us room. From over his shoulder, I get the perfect line of sight to the ring, to Ronan.
Then it happens. His gaze finds me.
Like a magnet snapping into place, his dark eyes catch mine through the crowd, and the world narrows to a single heartbeat. He freezes mid-step—just a breath, maybe two—but it’s enough to shift the air between us. His body tenses, the lazy roll of his shoulders sharpening into alertness. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just stares like something about me tilts the ground beneath his feet, even if he can’t quite place why.
He doesn’t recognize me. Not yet.
But there’s something—something in the way his brows pinch slightly, the way his jaw tightens as if he’s bracing for a storm. His gaze lingers, scanning me like a half-remembered dream he can’t shake. He feels the pull. The tug of something familiar beneath the surface.
I feel it too.