Jacob
Renata’s house is packed wall to wall with bodies celebrating my victory. The liquor flows freely, music pumping through expensive speakers that vibrate the floorboards beneath my feet. Everyone wants a piece of the champ tonight. Everyone except the one person whose attention I actually want. Riley stands across the room, whiskey in hand, smiling at something Renata says. They look way too comfortable together, her hand resting on his forearm as she laughs. The sight twists something in my gut that I don’t want to name.
I grab another beer, my third of the night, though I’m barely feeling it. The adrenaline from the fight is still coursing through my system, keeping my senses sharp. My eyes keep drifting back to Riley despite my best efforts to look anywhere else.
He looks out of place among the fight crowd—too refined, too put together. But that’s part of what makes him so fucking magnetic.
“There’s our champion!” A high-pitched voice breaks through my thoughts. I turn to find three women standing way too close, looking up at me with glassy eyes and carnivorous smiles. I recognize them immediately: regulars at the Red Corner, always hanging around after fights, hoping to snag a winner.
“Ladies,” I nod, keeping my face neutral. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
The blonde in the middle, with fake lashes and a tight dress, presses her hand against my chest. “Renata invited us. Said the champ deserved some special attention tonight.”
Of course she did. Renata’s been trying to hook me up with women since I started fighting for her. Thinks I need to “blow off steam” after matches. Usually, I’d be game. Take one of these girls home, work out the post-fight energy between the sheets, then send her on her way before sunrise.
But not tonight. Tonight, my eyes keep drifting to the doctor across the room.
“That fight was amazing,” the redhead gushes, stepping closer. “The way you took down The Crusher? So hot.”
I force a smile, letting them cluster around me while I scan the room over their heads. Riley’s looking our way now, his expression unreadable as he takes a slow sip of his whiskey. Something flares in his eyes when the blonde slides her hand down my arm.
Interesting.
“Can I touch it?” the third girl asks, pointing at the fresh cut above my eye. “Battle scars are sexy.”
Before I can answer, her fingers are on my face, tracing the edge of the wound that will definitely scar. I don’t pull away, but my attention is across the room, watching Riley watch us.
His jaw tightens. His knuckles go white around his glass. When Renata leans in to say something to him, he barely seems to hear her.
I smirk. Looks like I’m not the only one feeling possessive tonight.
“You want another drink, champ?” the blonde asks, pressing her breasts against my arm.
“I’m good,” I tell her, but she doesn’t back off.
“We could find somewhere quieter. Celebrate your win properly.”
A few weeks ago, I’d have taken her up on it without a second thought. Now, the idea leaves me cold. All I can think about is Riley.
“Maybe later,” I lie, knowing there won’t be a later.
The redhead pouts. “Don’t make us wait too long. We’ve got plans for you.”
I let them believe they have a chance, nodding along to their chatter while keeping one eye on Riley. He’s engaged in conversation with Renata again, but his gaze keeps drifting our way. Each time he looks over, his expression darkens a little more.
Good. Let him see how it feels to watch someone else’s hands on what he considers his.
Not that Riley’s claimed me. He ran away, left me naked and confused in my own bed. But the way he’s looking at me now tells a different story.
The party swirls around us—fighters mingling with sponsors and friends, everyone riding the high of my victory. I circulate through the room, shaking hands and accepting congratulations. But I’m always aware of Riley’s location. Alwaysconscious of the electric current that seems to connect us across the crowded space.
An hour passes. Then another. The girls stick close, growing increasingly handsy as they drink more. I don’t discourage them, not when Riley’s watching with that stormy expression. When the blonde “accidentally” spills her drink on my shirt and offers to help clean it, I laugh it off but let her dab at my chest with a napkin. Riley looks like he might shatter his glass.
“You should come back to my place later,” she whispers, leaning in close. “I can give you a proper massage. Work out all that tension.”
The word “massage” hits differently now. Images flash through my mind, and my face grows hot.
“Thanks, but I’m good,” I say, a bit more firmly this time.