Page 83 of The Way We Are

Even doing things that arenotstandard in a blossoming relationship couldn’t deter me. Like being reintroduced to her father every morning and evening when I arrived to pick her up or drop her off, watching grainy fight videos to gauge our frontrunners in an underground fighting ring, and pretending I don’t see Axel’s name flash up on Savannah’s cell a minimum of five times a day for the past week.

I should have been clearer when I advised Axel to stay away from Savannah. I didn’t realize I’d need to stipulate in an electronic form as well. But there's some good that came out of the situation. While punching in the address for tonight’s event into Savannah’s cell, another message from Axel flashed up on her screen. Although his text was painstakingly long, the last sentence smothered any doubt I had that they have been in contact.

Axel:Please, babe. It’s been days since I’ve heard from you. Aren’t you missing me yet?

His message filled me with hope that one part of my pledge is going well so far.Axel? Axel fucking who?I’ve kept Savannah’s thoughts so occupied the past week, I’m beginning to wonder if she can even recall Axel’s name, much less have the chance to miss him.

“Hmm?” I say when Savannah’s singsong voice interrupts my thoughts.

The groove between my brows morphs onto her face when she murmurs, “You don’t have to do this. You can walk away right now if you want to,” mistaking my quietness for hesitation.

“Will you come with me?” I ask without pause, already knowing her answer, but hopeful she’s changed her mind.

Savannah shakes her head. “My dad won’t leave his room, and I can’t leave him, Ryan. I just can’t.”

“Then I’m staying,” I reply, issuing her the same answer I’ve given numerous times this week when she tried to talk me out of my decision. “Wherever you go, I’ll follow. If you’re here, I’m here. If you’re gone, I’m gone.”

“What if I get lost, and you don’t know how to find me?” she asks, her voice so low I can barely hear it over the hum of the crowd.

Her question causes a stabbing pain to my chest. Savannah will never admit it, but she's petrified her dad’s condition is genetic. Although tests disclosed she doesn’t have the APOE-e4 risk gene, she has read enough information on Alzheimer’s to know you could not have the gene and still develop the disease.

I sling my arm around her shoulders then tug her into my side. “Then I’ll wait for you to come home. Because no matter how hard you try, youneverforget your roots.”

Thorn is in the very last stages of his disease, yet, he still remembers Savannah. His brain is a little muddled on her real name, but the way his face lights up when he sees her makes up for the slip in name.

The heat roaring through Savannah’s body becomes obvious when I press my lips to her temple. Although my pulse thudding in my ears drowns out her next set of words, I don’t need to hear them to know what she said. The extra thump her heart gains every time she tells me she loves me makes it clear.

“But not as much as I love you,” I reply just as the lights over the ring dim, announcing the first match about to begin.

Even hearing my response a minimum of fifty times this week doesn’t stop Savannah’s lips from curling against my chest. She loves hearing it as much as I love saying it.

“What’s our total?”

Savannah tallies up the last three fights before lifting her eyes to mine. “One hundred and eighteen thousand.” The disappointment in her eyes grows when she mutters, “I’m sorry; I didn’t see that last loss coming. I got the brothers confused. They look so alike, I got flustered—”

“It’s okay,” I interrupt, my voice reassuring. “We’re still ahead, and we have plenty of time...”

My words trail off when Savannah shakes her head. “This is the last fight, and I don’t know either of the men fighting.”

After issuing a final apology by using nothing but her eyes, she glances down at two names scribbled on her writing pad. The haze that’s been clouding my mind the past four hours clears when I recognize one of the names jotted down: Max Levingston.

Ignoring the niggle in the back of my head warning me to slow down, I snag the money we’ve amassed so far tonight, then make my way to the bookies standing at the side of the ring.

When a large, balding man notices me approaching the betting circle, he steps into my path, stopping me from reaching the two men who’ve been handling my bids all night. “Bids aren’t open yet—”

“I know, but this negotiation is going to take a little longer than a standard one.”

He keeps his hand splayed across my chest as his eyes drop to the money I’m clutching for dear life. “Bets over fifty thousand require approval—”

“I know,” I reply for the second time, fighting with all my might not to roll my eyes over the obvious. “That’s why I need longer to negotiate.”

“You’re wasting your time. If you race in there with that much money, they’ll either take your money and not approve the bet, or they’ll take your money and kick you out. Either way, they’ll take your money.”

Hearing the honesty in his thick Russian accent, I tug my money in close to my chest.

“You probably don’t want my advice, but I’m going to give it to you anyway,” the massive man warns. “Cut your losses and leave.”

“I can’t do that,” I retort, shaking my head. “This isn’t enough.”

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