Page 35 of Knuckles & Knives
“Knockout!” the referee shouts, grabbing my wrist and raising my arm high. “Winner by knockout, Raven Blackwood!”
The arena explodes. Several are on their feet cheering. Others are throwing things in fury over lost bets, and everyone is screaming something, but I barely hear any of it because I’m looking up at four men whose expressions range from fierce pride to barely controlled desire.
Dom has both fists raised in the air, his usual stoic mask completely abandoned in favor of pure, savage satisfaction. Marcus is leaning forward in his booth, his calculated composure cracked just enough to show genuine relief and something that looks like hunger. Kieran has abandoned all pretense of sophisticated detachment. His ice-blue eyes are blazing with an intensity that makes my knees weak even through the post-fight adrenaline. And Axel is laughing with wild delight, clapping his hands like a child at a circus, completely unashamed of his joy.
They all saw me claim my place in this world. They all watched me prove that I’m worthy of the name I carry.
And judging by the looks on their faces, they all want to celebrate in very personal ways.
Twenty minutes later,I’m cleaned up and changed into jeans and a black tank top, the post-fight medical check complete and my victory officially recorded. The adrenaline is still coursing through my system, making everything seem sharper, more intense. My knuckles are slightly swollen, and there’s a small cut above my left eye from a punch that got through, but otherwise, I’m unmarked.
The locker room is supposed to be private, but this is the Obsidian, and normal rules don’t apply when you’re Vincent Blackwood’s daughter.
Dom arrives first, as I knew he would. He doesn’t knock, just opens the door and steps inside. His dark eyes immediately catalog every visible injury, his expression shifting from pride to concern.
“You’re hurt,” he says, moving toward me with that predatory grace that makes him so dangerous in the ring.
“I’m fine,” I reply, but he’s already reaching for the first aid kit mounted on the wall.
“Sit,” he orders, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
I could argue, but the truth is I like seeing this side of him—protective, focused, caring for me with the same intensity he brings to everything else. I hop up onto the bench and let him clean the cut above my eye with professional efficiency.
His hands are gentle despite their size, careful not to cause unnecessary pain as he works. This close, I can smell his cologne mixed with the leather and metal scents that always seem to cling to him. When he leans in to apply the butterfly bandage, his breath touches my cheek, and I have to resist the urge to turn my head and capture his mouth with mine.
“Beautiful work out there,” he says quietly, his voice rough with something that might be pride or desire or both. “That combination you used to set up the knockout… we drilled that sequence a hundred times, but you made it look effortless.”
“I had a good teacher,” I murmur, letting my eyes meet his.
For a moment, we just look at each other. Then he leans down and presses his lips to mine, soft and careful, like he’s afraid I might break.
The kiss tastes like victory and promises, and when he pulls away, his dark eyes are blazing with something that makes my breath catch.
“That’s from me,” he says simply. “The rest of your celebration will have to wait.”
Before I can ask what he means, the door opens again, and Marcus steps inside. He’s changed from his expensive suit into dark jeans and a fitted black shirt that makes him look youngerand more approachable. His designer glasses are gone, letting me see his dark eyes clearly.
Dom nods at him once, some kind of masculine communication I don’t understand, and heads for the door. “I’ll make sure no one else interrupts,” he says, and then I’m alone with the man who’s been protecting me from the shadows for five years.
Marcus moves toward me with that controlled grace that speaks of military training, his eyes never leaving mine. When he reaches the bench where I’m sitting, he stops just close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“I’ve been watching you fight since you were eighteen,” he says quietly. “Training footage, sparring sessions, everything I could get my hands on, but seeing you out there tonight, in front of everyone, claiming your place, fighting under your real name for yourself…” He pauses, something raw flickering across his features. “I’ve never been prouder of anyone in my life.”
His jaw tightens, and the careful control he maintains over his expression slips. Marcus doesn’t give compliments lightly or reveal his emotions easily.
“Marcus,” I start, but he shakes his head.
“Let me finish.” He reaches up, his fingers barely touching the bandage Dom applied above my eye. “I’ve spent five years keeping you safe from a distance, watching you become the woman you were always meant to be. But tonight, seeing you win, seeing you take back what’s yours… I don’t want to watch from a distance anymore.” His hand slides down to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing across my lower lip with reverent care. “I want to be here, with you, for whatever comes next.”
When he kisses me, it’s different from Dom’s careful tenderness. Marcus kisses like a man who’s been denied something he’s wanted desperately for too long, with controlled hunger that makes my toes curl in my boots. His other hand fistsin my still-damp hair, holding me exactly where he wants me as he takes my mouth with thorough possession.
By the time we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. For once, Marcus kisses like he’s not calculating anything at all.
“That’s for tonight,” he says, his voice rougher than usual, “and for five years of wanting something I thought I could never have.” He steps back before either of us can do something that would complicate the evening further, straightening his shirt with practiced ease. “Kieran’s waiting outside. Try not to let him do anything too dramatic.”
I’m still processing the kiss when the door opens for the third time tonight. Kieran enters like he owns the entire building, which he very well might. The Sterling Syndicate has investments in half the underground establishments in the city.
He’s loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, concessions to the informality of the setting, but he still looks like he stepped off the cover of a business magazine. Except for his eyes. Those ice-blue depths are burning with something that has nothing to do with business.
