Page 87 of Dominate

“Hell of a fight.” I force the words past my bruised lips, keeping my voice low.

“Hell of a fighter.” Micah flashes a crooked, split-lip grin. The fierce energy of the fight still vibrates in his posture.

He reaches out. His gloved hand cups the back of my neck. He pulls me forward by the waistband of my shorts. I offer no resistance. Our foreheads press together. I lean into his touch despite the ache in my jaw.

The noise in the arena shifts drastically.

The noise changes. People are still shouting, but the ones near the cage have gone quiet. They’re watching Micah’s hand on my neck. I know what it looks like. For once, I don’t care.

They can watch.

“You okay?” Micah asks. His voice is a soft rumble, meant only for me.

I bring my own gloved hand up. I mirror his gesture, cradling his bruised jaw. My thumb traces the sharp line of his cheekbone, slick with petroleum jelly and sweat. I map the familiar contours of his face, finding the exact features I memorized in the dark of his cramped studio apartment.

“Better than okay,” I breathe the truth into the narrow space between us. “You won.”

“We both did.”

Behind me, the reality of my old life attempts to intervene.

“Zane!”

Dan’s voice cuts through the ambient noise of the stadium. It carries the sharp, frantic edge of a man losing his grip on his most valuable asset.

“Zane, get over here, we need to—” Dan shouts from the red corner, his tone escalating into panic.

I ignore the command. The voice that dictated every meal, every training session, every public statement for my entire adult life sounds remarkably small. It lacks all authority. The invisible leash snaps.

“You ready?” Micah asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

For a second, I think of the penthouse waiting for me. The empty bed. My father’s name above the gym door. I know exactly what going back would mean.

Micah waits. He lets this be my choice.

“Yeah.” I tighten my hand at the back of his neck. “I’m ready.”

He kisses me, and I stop thinking about going back, as he claims my mouth in front of every broadcast camera in the building. In front of Dan Kendall, Jason Ortega, and the entire crumbling foundation of the Ironside legacy.

I kiss him back.

I keep my hand at the back of his neck and pull him closer. I open my mouth, meeting the demanding slide of his tongue. I taste the metallic tang of our shared blood and the heavy salt of the fight. I pour twenty-eight years of repressed existence into kissing him. I hold nothing back. I drag him closer, not wanting to let him go.

The arena completely loses its collective mind.

The noise turns deafening. A massive wall of sound crashes over the octagon. Cheers, boos, and shocked exclamations all blend into a continuous, chaotic roar that shakes the cage walls. Camera flashes detonate in a blinding, erratic strobe effect. The intense white light washes out the stadium seating, turning the crowd into a sea of flashing bulbs. Somewhere near the broadcast table, a commentator screams into a headset, his voice cracking as he narrates the unprecedented scene unfolding live on national television.

I don’t hear the announcer. I don’t hear the crowd.

I focus on Micah’s mouth. On his hands at my shoulders. Dan is shouting somewhere behind me, and for the first time I don’t try to hear what he wants. I kiss Micah harder.

We stay locked together. We anchor each other in the center of the storm. The referee hovers near our periphery, totally unsure of his role in this uncharted territory. Security guards freeze at the edge of the cage. The entire production crew scrambles, caught entirely off guard by the demolition of the bitter rivalry narrative.

When we finally break apart, our chests heave in unison.

Micah is grinning. His dark eyes shine with pride. He looks at me like I’m the only man in the entire building.

“No going back now,” he says.