Page 31 of Endo

My opponent climbs into the ring, and my stomach tightens. The guy is massive, at least six-four, with arms like tree trunks and a chest that looks like it’s carved from stone. His shaved head gleams under the dim lights, a faint scar running from his temple to his jawline. He sneers at me, bouncing on his feet with the kind of swagger that says he’s done this more times than he can count.

The bell clangs, and he comes at me fast. His fighting style is brutal, all power and speed, no finesse. His fists fly at me like wrecking balls, and I barely have time to raise my arms before the first punch connects with my jaw. Pain blooms sharp and immediate, grounding me in a way nothing else can. It’s not pleasant, but it’s real, and for a second, it’s all that matters.

I stagger back, shaking off the hit, and the crowd erupts into cheers and jeers. They want blood. They want a show.

“Come on, pretty boy,” my opponent taunts, his voice a low growl. “That all you got?”

The words fuel something in me, and I charge forward, ducking under his swing and driving my fist into his ribs. He grunts, but he barely flinches, spinning around to catch me with a backhanded punch that sends me reeling. The taste of copper fills my mouth, but I spit it out, wiping my lip with the back of my hand.

The fight blurs into a series of blows and blocks, his sheer strength against my speed and determination. He’s relentless, raining punches down like a storm, but I don’t stop. I won’t.Each hit I take chips away at the weight in my chest, and each punch I throw is a desperate plea for release.

I catch him with a jab to the jaw, then follow it with a hook to his temple. He stumbles, and the crowd roars. They’re on their feet now, screaming and chanting, their voices a chaotic mix of encouragement and bloodlust.

I don’t stop. I can’t. I drive my fist into his gut, feeling the impact reverberate through my arm. He doubles over, and I seize the opening, slamming my elbow into the side of his head. He goes down hard, crashing onto the concrete with a thud that silences the crowd for a moment.

The ref steps in, raising my arm in victory, but I barely notice. My chest is heaving, my fists trembling as I stare down at my opponent. He’s out cold, blood trickling from a split lip, and for a second, I feel something close to satisfaction. But it fades as quickly as it came, leaving me hollow.

The crowd erupts again, and I climb out of the ring, my head pounding. My knuckles are raw and bloody, and every muscle in my body aches. I’m halfway to the locker room when a voice cuts through the noise.

“Hey, champ.”

I turn to see a girl standing near the edge of the crowd, her copper colored hair teased into loose waves that tumble over her shoulders. Her low-cut tank top leaves little to the imagination, and she’s holding a beer in one hand, offering it to me with a coy smile. Her eyes rake over me, lingering on the blood smeared across my jaw.

“That was one hell of a fight,” she says, stepping closer. “You’re... intense.”

I take the beer from her, the cold bottle soothing against my raw knuckles, but I barely register her words. Her voice is just background noise, something to fill the silence. I take a longswig, the bitterness washing over my tongue, and nod vaguely in her direction.

“You wanna—” she starts, but I cut her off with a sharp shake of my head.

“Not tonight,” I mutter, brushing past her.

I don’t look back, and I don’t hear whatever response she has. My thoughts are elsewhere, tangled up in a pair of sharp green eyes and the memory of a voice that’s both a balm and a blade. Lena. Her name lingers in my mind like a whisper, even though it shouldn’t.

The guilt sits heavy in my chest, twisting with every step I take toward the exit. I shouldn’t be thinking about her. Not like this. Not when every second feels like I’m betraying Cruz. But no matter how hard I try to push her from my mind, she’s still there, her voice cutting through the noise and grounding me in a way the fight never could.

The night airbites at my skin as I step out of the warehouse, the noise of the Iron Pit fading behind me. My hood’s up, my hands shoved into my pockets, but the cold still seeps into my bones. My knuckles throb, and my jaw aches, but it’s nothing compared to the hollowness in my chest.

I’m halfway to my car when I hear it.

“Reign.”

The voice is sharp, cutting through the quiet. I glance back and feel my stomach sink. Draygon and Wolfe stand by the exit, their expressions as grim as the air around us.

Draygon looks like he always does—sharp and put together, but with that edge that makes you think twice. Black jeans, a button-down left open just enough to show off the ink onhis chest—Korean script mixed with some intricate designs. His hair’s slicked back, and his jaw’s tight, that fire in his eyes unmistakable.

Next to him, Wolfe leans casually, his shaggy blonde hair falling over his face like he didn’t bother to do a damn thing with it, yet somehow the fucker still pulls it off.

He’s puffing on a joint, the smoke swirling around him as he stands with an easy, laid-back stance. Dressed in jeans and a simple white T-shirt, he looks like someone who doesn’t care to be noticed—but the intensity in his eyes says otherwise. His family’s back home in Canada, and when he first came here, he didn’t know a soul. He was just another stranger trying to find his place in a world that didn’t feel like home. We’re all he’s got.

“What now?” I mutter, turning away and heading for my car.

“Man, fucking stop,” Draygon snaps, his voice like a whip. “What the fuck are you doing, Reign?”

I don’t stop. “None of your business.”

“Like hell it isn’t.” Draygon’s footsteps echo behind me, quick and angry. He cuts in front of me, blocking my path with that same damn self-righteous glare he always uses when he’s pissed. “What is this? You think we don’t hear about what you’re doing? The fights, the drinking—this crap ends tonight.”

“Move,” I growl, my fists clenching.

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