When he’s regained some balance and strength, Caleb lets him connect. A right hook to the temple that would drop anyone else. I can scarcely watch as Caleb's head turns with the impact, then he wipes his mouth with the back of his taped hand, checking for blood while the crowd cheers. Finding none, Caleb looks almost disappointed as he squares his shoulders and steps forward once more.
The next exchange is brutal and one-sided. Caleb puts him down twice more, waiting each time for the man to drag himself back to his feet, and the crowd is feral, screaming for the finish, but Caleb won't give it to them until he's ready. He's performing, but he’s not enjoying this. It’s like he’s making this so cruel, so one-sided, that it will ruin the experience for anyone who enjoys a fair fight.
While his opponent tries to drag himself to the corner, crawling along the floor with a long smear of red behind him, Caleb’s eyes flick to the VIP section once, briefly, and I follow his gaze to Sophia, who’s gripping the arm of her chair with white knuckles, lips pursed and eyes wide.
When Caleb finally ends it at the start of the next round, it's almost merciful. A short, clean hook that I’m pretty sure he could have unleashed in the first few seconds if he’d wanted to, turns the Jailer's legs to rubber, and the referee waves it off with a grimace before he even hits the sawdust.
The crowd erupts, but Caleb is already ducking through the ropes, unsmiling, and certainly not celebrating as he pulls up his hoodie, uninterested in the applause. Someone whispers to him as he goes to leave, and after a beat, he changes direction and heads straight for the VIP section where Mr. Black is on his feet, clapping slowly, a tight, menacing smile on his face.
He enjoyed that way too much.
Mr. Black extends a hand. Caleb takes it, a brief, firm shake, his posture respectful but not deferential. He stands with his hands clasped in front of him while Mr. Black talks, nodding at the right moments, answering questions I can't hear from this distance. His body is angled toward the older man, but his attention is elsewhere. Mr. Black claps him on the shoulder, says something that makes the men around them laugh, and waves him away.
As he turns, his gaze sweeps past Sophia, sitting dutifully beside her father, watching Caleb and the exchange intently. Caleb doesn't look at her, not once, while he's standing in front of her father, not until she reaches out and touches his arm.
He stops dead and waits.
She withdraws her hand quickly, as if she didn't mean to do it, but gives him a nervous smile.
"Good fight," she seems to say, looking up at him from behind dark lashes.
Caleb’s eyes dart to Mr. Black, who’s watching their exchange, before returning to the young woman, one eyebrow raised as he replies softly, "Is there such a thing?"
Sophia's eyes drop, and he pulls away, expression dour as he turns his back on the VIP section and pushes through the crowd.
But he doesn't head for the back where the other fighters are. He moves through the crowd with purpose, his hooded head turning slightly, testing the air.
“Shit, he’s staring right at me,” I mutter, easing backward, trying to let the crowd swallow me up as an eerily familiar pair of dark eyes tracks my every move while he pushes through the throng of people toward me. “He’s coming this way.”
Beau’s voice comes over the line. “He can scent you. Or more specifically, meonyou.”
“What?” I hiss, not understanding what the hell he’s talking about.
Is that code for something?
Leaning against the bar, my back to the room and head ducked, pretending I want a drink, I watch from the corner of my eyes as Caleb's hooded figure navigates the packed room, his path weaving as people stop to congratulate him and shake his hand, though not deterring him from heading in my direction.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up when he comes to a stop right behind me, voice low and close enough that his breath hits my scalp. “Your hair is kind of hard to hide.”
Finally admitting defeat, I turn and give him my most flirtatious smile. “Well, hello, champ. Want to buy me a drink?”
There are eyes on us, and without Tripp here at my side, I figure playing the part of an adoring fan is as good a plan as any. Turning slowly, I find myself looking at a chest. My gaze travels up. He's even bigger up close, sweat still drying on his skin, the cut above his eye already not bleeding anymore.
"You shouldn't be here. Tell Beau I’m not leaving."
A cold spike of adrenaline runs down my back, his angry words and annoyed demeanour setting alarm bells off in mymind. How does he know who I am? Or that Beau’s anywhere near here?
Caleb’s hoodie is pulled up again, shadowing his face, but those amber eyes are locked on mine. Spotting my confusion, he tilts his head, nostrils flaring. "My brother's all over you."
He curls his lips, like that’s not a good thing.
My pulse is hammering now, but I keep my face neutral. "I don't know what you're talking about."
He steps closer, reaching for my arm, so I brush my hair back and subtly tap my earpiece, making sure Caleb sees me do it.
"I'm here looking for a friend."
His expression doesn't change, but his eyes flick to the men around us, looking for anyone paying attention, then after a quick glance toward the VIP section, he leans in, his massive frame towering over me, and dips his head, his mouth close to my neck.