Page 73 of Dominate

“Eat the eggs, Zane.” Micah taps his plastic fork against the rim of his own ceramic plate.

“I am eating.”

“You are staring at the wall.”

I drop the toast and look across the table. Micah sits there in his faded tank top, looking as though we have all morning. I wish I could borrow some of that calm.

“Dan is going to lose his mind.” The words slip out of my mouth, a dark confession disrupting the quiet morning.

Micah takes a sip of his black coffee. He doesn’t flinch. “Dan will survive.”

“He will use my father.” I trace the chipped edge of my coffee mug. “He will invoke the ghost. He will stand in the locker room while they tape my hands and tell me I owe the bloodline a knockout. Jason will threaten the sponsors. He will remind me what happens to fighters who embarrass the brand. The media will tear the title fight apart. They will call it a staged work. They will call us frauds.”

“Let them.” Micah sets his mug down. The ceramic clinks against the laminate table. “They hold no power over the truth. They only control the lie. We kill the lie tonight.”

I stare into the black liquid in my cup. The dark reflection stares back. A man living two fractured lives. The arrogant, untouchable Ironside champion. The man hiding in a cramped apartment on the wrong side of the city, terrified of losing the only real connection he has ever known.

My father, Richard Butler, built his empire on a foundation of toxic, unyielding masculinity. He despised weakness. He viewed anything outside his rigid parameters as a disease to be eradicated. I spent my entire youth carving out pieces of my soul to fit into his mold. I let him write his narrative over my own. I let him make me write his initials on my wrist.

Today, I burn the mold. Today, I take the ashes of his expectations and scatter them across the canvas.

I pick up my fork. I force the eggs down my throat. The protein settles heavy in my stomach.

We clean the plates in silence. Washing dishes feels absurdly ordinary before a night like this. I rinse the ceramic under the weak stream of the faucet. Micah dries them with a faded kitchen towel. Our arms brush. Each time he brushes my arm, I remember he’s here.

He leans his hip against the counter, tossing the towel over his shoulder. He watches me dry my hands.

“You are overthinking the mechanics.” Micah crosses his arms over his broad chest.

“I am mapping the fallout.”

“You are borrowing misery from tomorrow.” Micah reaches out, wrapping his long fingers around my wrist. He traces the faded black marker initials on my wrist. The brand I rewrite before every bout. “The bell rings. We handle the business. We take the microphone. The rest is just noise.”

“The noise is deafening.”

“Only if you listen to it.” He pulls my hand up, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the pulse point on my wrist, directly over my father’s initials. “Listen to me instead. I’m not going anywhere.”

A sudden, fierce protectiveness flares in my blood. I want to shield him from the incoming blast radius. The sports journalists will dig into his past. They will drag Oath MMA through the mud. They will question Victor Kaine’s integrity.

“I’m going to hit you hard tonight,” I warn him, my voice dropping an octave.

Micah grins. The fierce, feral expression transforms his face. “You better. If you pull a single punch, I will walk across that canvas and choke you out.”

“I will aim for the scar.”

“I will aim for the liver.”

My hands stop shaking. He can still get under my skin. Good. I want him to bring that into the cage tonight.

I pull my jeans on. I grab the heavy Ironside hoodie from the back of the solitary wooden chair. The fabric feels like a lead vest. I pull it over my head. The thick cotton shields my body from the outside world. I adjust the drawstrings, pulling the hood up to shield my peripheral vision. The armor snaps into place.

The transformation occurs in real time. I lock my jaw. I flatten my expression. I build the impenetrable wall behind my eyes. I become the weapon Jason Ortega demands. I become the undefeated king.

Micah watches the shift. He recognizes the armor. He knows the persona is required for the next twelve hours.

“You look ready to murder someone.” Micah leans against the wall, a wicked spark lighting up his dark eyes.

“I’m ready to defend my record.” I adjust the cuffs of the hoodie.