Page 96 of Glorious Ruin
Silas buried his face in his hands for a split second, but when he pulled them away, his eyes were burning with a fierce, hopelessly-endearing heat. When his music finally began to rumble through the area speakers, our trance broke, and he threw his white robe back on quickly before setting his jaw.
As Silas’s theme song played, a wall of forty-six thousand voices screamed in unison. Silas stepped through the heavy black curtain first, followed closely by Evan, then the rookies.
I stood by the primary monitor in Gorilla, my arms crossed over my chest. Silas was magnificent. He walked the few steps to the edge of the stage with the Championship belt buckled securely around his waist. Every step had the gold plates catching the blinding glare of the spotlights, bathing my husband in a radiant glow. There was pride splayed across his face, which made him look exactly like the generational icon he was born to be. Someone who was completely comfortable in his skin and his position as the top star of the business.
When he made it to the beginning of the ramp, the music stayed on, maintaining the high-octane bass, but the massive titan tron video package switched. The graphics flipped from the Timeless’s gold, to the gritty black and crimson of my own package.
DEADLOCK flashed across the screen.
The pop that followed didn’t just shake the arena; it felt like a physical explosion. The crowd let out a deafening roar that was noticeably and undeniably louder than the one they gave Silas. The arena was a sea of bodies that all jumped to their feet, cameras flashing like strobe lights. They had been demanding my return for weeks, and this surprise reveal was the match that lit the powder keg.
I pushed through the curtain and stepped right up to Silas.
We stood toe-to-toe at the front of the stage, our chests almost touching, the contrasting white and gold outfits making us look like twin gods of the industry.
Deadly serious smirks were plastered on our faces, and our eyes were locked onto each other. The primary ringside cameraman sprinted up the ramp, dropped to one knee beside us, panning the lens close to capture our expressions.
In perfect synchronization, we turned our heads, looked at the ring, and began our march down the ramp, side-by-side. We looked completely lethal.
The crowd noise hit a deafening volume as we reached the apron, and I instinctively stepped up the stairs first. Without much thought to Presley’s threats, I grabbed the middle rope and held it open for Silas. He stepped through the cables with an effortless grace, turning back to wink at me as I vaulted over the top rope to join him.
We had officially stolen the show before the bell had even rung.
Now on the turnbuckle as I threw my arms out for the crowd, I saw it. My eyes scanned the crowd, the arena was completely flooded with handmade signs. Signs supporting us.Both of us.
“TIMELOCK IS REAL.”
“THE WRESTLING HUSBANDS.”
“POWER COUPLE.”
“NO ONE LIKE THEM.”
There were hundreds of signs, stretching all the way up into the rafters. The fans were devouring the reality of our relationship, obsessed with the truth behind the curtain. And seeing their devotion to us, how they supportedus…it made me furious. We’d been shoved into a separate locker room, told we couldn’t touch each other, and been under near constant threat from the office.
It was as clear as a summer's day: the fans didn’t have an issue with our love. Presley was the only one who had a problem, and it wasn’t because we were two men, it was because our love was a narrative he couldn’t control.
War Zone was an absolute marathon of pure destruction.
It lasted for nearly forty-five minutes and was a brutal, grueling spectacle that pushed our bodies to their absolute limit. On top of the physical endurance, our bodies were being hurled against the steel until our skin was scraped and bleeding.
Our developmental rookies took a massive, twenty-foot bump off the top of a ladder and through a stack of tables on the floor, courtesy of the Demolition’s captain. The medical crew was called in, and they had to be carried out on a stretcher.
Running on pure spite and adrenaline, Evan hit his finisher on the youngest Demolition member, securing our team’s first elimination. That was, of course, before Evan was violently blindsided by a chair shot to the lower back from their captain. Since Evan was now pinned, it left me and Silas alone in the ring, taking on the remaining three powerhouses.
I led the charge to clear the floor, tackling the massive Demolition enforcer through the timekeeper’s barricade. We fought our way up the ramp, where I managed to lift his 280-pound frame and powerbomb him directly through one of the announcer tables. It completely obliterated the structure, sending plastic monitors and splintered wood shooting out in every direction.
Another elimination.
The match continued on until it reached a point where it was down to the wire. Silas remained in the ring being double-teamed by the final two Demolition members. I had eliminated the fourth one in the crowd, and I knew it was time for the spot we’d practiced.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I climbed onto the apron. Running the cables, my boot found the high-tension rope, and I launched myself into the springboard crossbody. I flew through the air and collided perfectly with the two powerhouses, sending them crashing to the canvas. My landing was hard, and my ribs screamed in pain, but the spot was flawless.
Thankfully, Silas didn’t break down. He saw me hit the move, and his eyes burned with impending victory. I jumped up and hit my signature maneuver on the two Demolition member, which pinned him, leaving just the captain against me and Silas.
The final two minutes were a display of absolute, unified destruction. We cornered the captain, hitting him with a sequence of double-team clotheslines that shook the entire cage structure. Our end came when Silas pulled him into the center of the ring and executed a devastating, spinning neckbreaker that nearly embedded the man into the canvas.
Silas moved quickly, hooking his leg. His chest heaved, and his fingers dug into the man’s tights as we waited for the bell.
