Page 86 of Dominate

“We did it,” Zane breathes, his chest heaving against mine.

“Yeah, we did.” I grip the back of his neck, keeping him close. “No more shadows.”

“No more shadows.”

Dan grabs Zane’s shoulder, yanking him backward with frantic, panicked strength.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Dan screams, his voice cracking with hysteria. “Have you lost your mind? Get off him!”

Zane rips his shoulder out of Dan’s grip. He doesn’t flinch. He stands tall, his shoulders square. The boy seeking his father’s approval dies on the canvas. The man I love takes his place.

“I know exactly what I’m doing.” Zane’s voice cuts through the noise, hard and unyielding. He turns his back on his coach. He reaches out and laces his fingers through mine.

He holds my hand up, raising our joined fists high into the air.

The camera catches the movement. Our faces flash across the giant jumbotron hanging from the stadium rafters. The image broadcasts to every bar, living room, and sports network in the country. Two bruised, bleeding fighters standing hand-in-hand in the center of the octagon.

I look out at the crowd. The shock gives way to a roaring wave of noise. The Oath corner goes wild, Victor pumping his fist, Theo pulling out his phone with a massive grin on his face.

We walk toward the cage door together.

The path forward holds a thousand obstacles. We face PR nightmares, angry sponsors, and the wrath of an old-money fighting dynasty. We face the grueling reality of rebuilding a career in the unforgiving glare of the public eye.

I squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

Let them come. Let the world throw every challenge it holds. We fought each other, and we survived. We can fight everyone else.

We step out of the cage, leaving the darkness behind forever.

27

ZANE

The loss does not hurt the way I expected.

I stand under the brutal, blinding glare of the overhead spotlights. My chest heaves as I drag the stale, ozone-tinged arena air into my burning lungs. Sweat runs down my jaw, mixing with the hot blood dripping from a cut near my left eye. My ribs ache where his hooks landed. My knuckles throb against the tight athletic tape.

I gave everything. I have nothing left to give him in that cage. I fought Micah with total commitment, holding nothing back, and he was simply better tonight. He slipped my counters. He absorbed my heaviest strikes. He pushed the pace and earned the victory on the scorecards.

There’s no shame in that reality. No failure.

Just truth.

And now comes the bigger truth.

Chaos erupts across the octagon. The Oath MMA corner surges forward in a tidal wave of pure elation. Victor Kaine lets out a massive roar, wrapping his thick arms around his fighter and lifting him off his feet. The rest of their team piles on, a chaotic tangle of limbs and joyous shouts. My own corner remains a portrait of devastation. Dan curses a blue streak at the commission officials, kicking a plastic water bucket across the mat. Ice scatters everywhere.

I tune Dan out completely. I don’t care about the ice. I don’t care about the scorecards anymore.

Micah drops back to his feet. He pushes through the celebrating Oath corner, separating himself from the pack. He ignores the hands reaching for his shoulders. He ignores the camera crews shoving massive lenses through the chain-link gate to capture the winner. A frantic sports reporter thrusts a microphone into his path. Micah sidesteps the man without breaking his stride.

His dark eyes lock onto mine.

He walks straight toward the red corner, leaving his team behind.

Dan steps into his path. Micah tells him to move and shoves past him.

We stop in front of my corner. The mat beneath our bare feet is smeared with blood and sweat. We’re both battered, both bleeding, and for once neither of us is pretending.