Page 33 of King of the Cage

The overhead music switched to something with Celtic fiddles and heavy drums. A rousing call to war. Marco clapped his hands together.

“He’s mine. I bet on him,” he said excitedly and then gasped. “Holy shit, hello Daddy. You think he takes private fight scenario requests?”

“Private fight scenarios? You can’t fight,” I pointed out.

Marco sighed. “I just really want him to step on me.”

Sol giggled. “I think Giada got stepped on last night. It’s your knight in torn denim.”

“Wait, what?” I glanced up to see what muscled moron had caught Marco’s eye in the ring and froze.

There, in all his admittedly fucking hot glory, was Bran O’Connor.

Tonight, his knuckles were wrapped in preparation for destroying his opponent, and he was wearing low-slung black jeans instead of dress pants. His opponent was fully decked out in fighting gear, from his Dri-FIT shorts to his sleeveless T-shirt, while Bran looked like he’d wandered over from the nearest pub and decided to go a round or two as a workout. His casual confidence was magnetic.

He had his hair pulled back, and it glinted in the lights above like a tarnished crown. His green-eyed gaze scanned the audience, and I nearly glanced away when he reached me, not wanting to be caught already staring.

He was too quick, though. His eyes met mine, and he stilled for a moment. A jolt ran down his powerful body, and he stopped where he was and stared.

“Red alert, I think he’s staring at us. Oh my God, this is it, my meet-cute. Wait, is he looking at me or you?” Marco rambled excitedly beside me.

I was relieved that while Marco had known I’d nearly hooked up with someone last night, he didn’t know who it was.

“You, probably,” I muttered, forcefully tearing my eyes from Bran’s.

He ignored his opponent to stare at me. I indulged in the universal save-face activity of whipping my phone out and pretending to read a message. What was it about this guy that made me awkward as hell? I chugged my drink, my skin hot and tight all over.

“He’s eyeing Giada like she’s his favorite dessert on the menu,” Sol laughed and elbowed me lightly in the side. “I still need to hear what happened last night after he showed at your place.”

“Nothing much. We talked. His minion came and got him. It was pretty tame,” I said unconvincingly.

“Hmm, sure, that’s why he can’t take his eyes off you,” Sol teased. She sounded more cheery than she had all night. That was the thing about Solaria Moroni. She might be down in the dumps, having been rejected by some loser, but she’d still beexcited and happy for her friends. She was a gem, and none of the men in this city deserved her.

The small bell rang, and the crowd cheered. It was clear that this was the fight of the night.

There was no referee, no formal rules — just a brief nod of respect before the fight erupted. Bran stood still, his opponent dancing closer, barely bothering to tilt his head from side to side to avoid blows. He looked like he couldn’t give a fuck. It clearly made his opponent more confident, because they weaved closer, bringing out fancy footwork. The crowd cheered. A blow came close to Bran, and he dodged it, grabbed the guy’s arm, and pulled him forward off-balance. The other guy stumbled, and Bran stepped away. He let the other guy catch his balance, just waiting patiently, then stepped in casually and landed a blow to his side that sent his opponent to the mat. He got back up, but he seemed hurt. Bran folded his arms over his impressive chest and shook his head at the guy, as though disappointed he’d bothered to get up.

The opponent made a big display of throwing punches and kicks. Spinning around and dancing out of reach. Bran laughed and stepped in, delivering a punch to the other guy’s abdomen that sent him spinning across the ring. He swayed, held onto his side, and then went down like a ton of bricks.

With a hard clang of the bell, the fight was over. Bran barely bothered to hold up a victorious arm, turning and striding out of the ring.

He still has my knife.The reminder came out of nowhere. That was right, Mr. Bossy Balls still had my knife. I wanted that knife back. It was special to me.

“Babe, you should go and see if he needs help showering.” Marco poked me hard in the side.

“What? No way,” I muttered, but heat washed through me at the very thought. Maybe this was my chance to get my knife back. I could go and demand it.

“He was eye-fucking you the entire fight. He could barely look away,” Marco continued.

I made up my mind to go and get my belongings. He couldn’t keep that knife. I couldn’t let him.

“He was staring at you. He didn’t get enough last night. He wants more… Elio isn’t here. No one would know,” Sol urged.

I rolled my eyes at her. “You know my brother has ways of finding out the tiniest things.”

Sol laughed. “Yeah, because you do it for him. Without your digital little spying eyes… he isn’t half as omnipotent as you think.”

I tapped my lip and considered. It was true, after all. I was the eyes and ears of the De Sanctis family. Anyone else who might tell Elio at the fight would simply be my word against his.Besides, I told myself firmly,I’m just going to get my knife back. That was all. There were no rules against that, surely? Anyway, if I’d learned anything in my twenty-seven years alive, it was that Round 2 wasn’t always a given. I wasn’t exactly an easy-to-get-along-with woman. One night might have satisfied the Irishman’s fill. I wouldn’t have been surprised at all. I could grab my knife and be done.

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