Page 67 of Dominate

“You okay?” I trace the dark ink of his father’s initials on his wrist.

“I have never been better.” He presses a lingering kiss to my sternum. “I feel like I can finally breathe.”

We lie in the quiet dark. The orange streetlamp casts long shadows across the peeling paint of the baseboards. Tomorrow night, the cage door locks. Tomorrow night, we step under the blinding arena lights and wage war in front of millions of people. We will throw punches intended to break bones. We will perform the violence our contracts demand.

But the war in his head is over.

“We give them a show tomorrow,” I tell the empty room.

“We give them the best fight this division has ever seen.” Zane intertwines his fingers with mine. “I’m going to drop you in the third round.”

I laugh. The sound rumbles deep in my chest. “In your dreams, Butler. My chin can take your best shot.”

“We’ll see.”

He closes his eyes. The exhaustion finally claims him. I watch his breathing even out, his features relaxing into a youthful, unburdened calm.

I stay awake a little longer, listening to the quiet sounds of the sleeping city. I hold the man I love against my chest, anchoring him to the earth. The looming threat of Dan Kendall, the media circus, the inevitable explosion of our public coming out—none of it matters right now.

We survive tomorrow.

And then, we take on the world.

21

ZANE

Aspring digs into my back when I shift, waking me. The mattress is shit. Micah is still awake beside me, and I reach for his hand.

Tomorrow we have to do this for real.

Above us, the ceiling fan ticks with every rotation. I lie there listening, counting the hours we have left.

“I’m going to try to hurt you tomorrow.” Micah breaks the heavy silence.

“I know.”

“If I see an opening⁠—”

“Take it.” I turn my head on the flat pillow, meeting his dark gaze in the shadows. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

“And you’ll do the same.”

“Yes.” I don’t hesitate. “Whatever we are outside that cage, inside it we’re competitors. That’s what we both deserve.”

Silence. The ceiling fan clicks overhead. The humid air wraps around our cooling sweat.

A few hours ago, he was holding me while I fell apart. Tomorrow I have to fight him. In less than twenty-four hours, the referee will drop his hand. I will step across the canvas to knock Micah out. I will aim my shins at his ribs. I will target the scar cutting through his eyebrow. I can’t reconcile any of it.

It grounds me instead.

Micah demands my absolute best. If I pull a punch, if I soften my guard to spare him pain, I insult the blood he spills to stand in that octagon. He earned a war. I plan to give him one.

“What happens when the fight ends?” I ask the ceiling.

“We talked about this.”

“I know. But I need to hear it again.”