Page 17 of Big Wild Fighter

“Exactly,” he murmurs, his voice full of warmth and satisfaction.

Chapter Eight

Marlon

The roar of the crowd is deafening, a cacophony of cheers, jeers, and the rhythmic pounding of fists against the ring apron. My opponent, Rodrigo Vargas, stands across from me, his broad shoulders glistening with sweat under the harsh arena lights. He’s a brawler, all brute force and aggression, but he lacks finesse. I know I can beat him, and the thought is a steady drumbeat in the back of my mind.

But it’s not just strategy fueling me tonight. It’s her. Grace.

I glance to my left and spot her in the crowd, her hands clasped together like she’s holding her breath. Her eyes lock with mine, and even from this distance, I can see the worry mixed with pride shining in them. It steadies me, roots me.

The bell rings, and I’m back in the moment, circling Vargas. He charges forward like a bull, swinging wild haymakers that I dodge easily. He’s strong, no doubt about that, but his technique is sloppy, leaving him wide open.

I jab, a quick one-two to test his defenses, then duck under a wide hook that could’ve taken my head off if it landed.The crowd roars again, their energy feeding into the electric atmosphere.

Stay patient, I remind myself mentally.

The first round is a dance of give and take. He’s trying to corner me, but I’m too quick, slipping out of his reach and countering with sharp jabs and body shots that sap his strength little by little.

By the second round, his breathing is heavier, and his swings are slower. That’s when I press the attack.

I land a clean right hook to his jaw, staggering him, and follow up with a series of body blows that make him grunt in pain. He tries to retaliate, but I block his attempts, sidestepping and landing another punishing combo to his ribs.

The third round is mine. Vargas comes out swinging again, desperate to turn the tide, but his desperation makes him predictable. I bait him with feints, then slip in with a devastating uppercut that sends him reeling.

The referee starts the count, but Vargas stumbles to his feet at seven. He’s wobbling, though, and I can see it in his eyes—he knows it’s over.

I don’t let up. Another flurry of punches connects, and he goes down for the final time.

The bell rings, and my hand is raised in victory. The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, but all I hear is the pounding of my heart and the cheers of the crowd. I search for her face again and find her smiling, her joy cutting through the noise like a beacon.

After the post-fight formalities, I head back to my personal locker room. My knuckles throb, and there’s a shallow cut above my brow, but it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. The adrenaline still courses through me as I strip off my gloves and sit on the bench, letting out a deep breath.

The door creaks open, and I don’t have to look up to know it’s her. In the months since we found ourselves in Chile, she’s always ready to greet me after a fight.

“You were incredible,” Grace says, her voice breathless as she steps inside and closes the door behind her.

I glance up and grin, the sight of her already soothing some of the aches. “For you? Always.”

She crosses the room and kneels in front of me, her hands brushing against the cut on my brow. Her touch is featherlight, careful. “You’re bleeding,” she says softly, her brow furrowed in concern.

“It’s nothing,” I assure her, cupping her face in my hands. “You being here makes it all worth it.”

Her cheeks flush, and her lips part slightly, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans into my touch, her eyes searching mine.

“Marlon,” she whispers, and there’s something in her voice that makes my chest tighten.

I don’t let her finish. I pull her into a kiss, hard and desperate, pouring every ounce of emotion I’ve been holding into it. Her hands find their way to my shoulders, clutching at me as if I’m the only thing keeping her grounded.

The tension between us snaps like a rubber band. She straddles my lap, her dress hiking up as her legs wrap around me. My hands grip her hips, pulling her closer as our kisses deepen.

The cool metal of the lockers presses against my back as I shift, trapping her between me and the wall. Her fingers tangle in my hair, and her lips trail down my jaw, leaving a line of fire in their wake.

“Grace,” I groan, my voice rough with need.

She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, her own filled with determination and something softer, more vulnerable. “I want you,” she says, her voice steady despite the way her breath hitches.

I don’t hesitate. I tilt her chin up and kiss her again. My hands slide down her sides, fingers grazing the soft fabric of her dress until they find bare skin. The feel of her beneath my hands, warm and alive, sends a surge of heat through me. She gasps softly against my lips, her fingers tightening in my hair as I press her back against the cold metal lockers.

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