Page 90 of Dominate

“Not today. Not ever again.”

We reach the entrance to the locker room. Two massive security guards block the door. They wear yellow arena polo shirts, their arms crossed over their chests. They look at my swollen eye, the blood drying on my jaw, the black Oath shirt.

“No entry.” The guard on the left steps forward, raising a flat palm. “Team only.”

“I am his team now.” I step into his space. I stop when my chest brushes his hand. “Move.”

“Sir, I can’t let you in.” The guard shifts his weight, dropping his hand to his radio. “Ironside gave strict orders. Nobody crosses this door.”

“Open the door,” Victor commands, stepping up beside me. “Or I move you myself.”

The guard hesitates. He measures Victor’s size, does the math, and reaches for the door handle.

He never gets the chance to turn it.

The heavy wooden door rips open from the inside.

Zane emerges.

He looks like he walked through a meat grinder. His left eye is swollen nearly shut, a deep purple bruise blooming across the cheekbone. A fresh dressing covers the cut near his eye, and dried blood marks his jaw. His bottom lip splits wide open, swollen and raw. He wears a pair of gray sweatpants and a dark t-shirt. The fabric clings to his damp skin. He holds a duffel bag gripped tight in his right fist.

Behind him, the locker room resembles a disaster zone. Metal chairs lie overturned on the tile. Rolls of athletic tape scatter across the benches.

Dan Kendall stands in the center of the wreckage. His face burns a violent, mottled red. Sweat shines on his bald head. Saliva flies from his lips as he screams.

“—walking away from everything your father built!” Dan’s voice cracks, shrill and desperate, echoing into the hallway. “Everything I did for you! You throw it all away for a stunt! You’re a disgrace to the legacy!”

Zane does not flinch. He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t offer a single word of rebuttal.

He simply grabs the brass handle and pulls the door shut.

The heavy wood clicks into the frame. The latch catches. The screaming cuts off instantly, muffled into a faint, pathetic drone behind the thick barrier.

Zane stands in the corridor. He drops his duffel bag onto the floor.

The tension bleeds out of his wide shoulders. He drags a ragged breath into his lungs. He looks up.

His uninjured amber eye locks onto mine. He looks relieved to see me. The Ironside mask is gone. He doesn’t look back at the door. He looks battered. He looks exhausted. He looks absolutely beautiful.

The chaos of the corridor fades. The flashing lights at the end of the hall disappear. The security guards melt into the background. The entire world narrows down to the three feet of linoleum separating us.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice dropping low.

A slow, genuine smile curves his split lip. The movement clearly hurts, but he doesn’t stop smiling.

“Yeah.” Zane lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh. “I am now.”

I don’t wait another second. I close the gap.

I pull him in. I wrap my arms around his broad back, holding him close. I bury my face in the curve of his neck, and Zane wraps his heavy arms around my waist. He holds on with a desperate, anchoring grip, burying his face in my shoulder.

We stand right there in the corridor. In front of the security guards. In front of Victor. In front of the gathering crowd of reporters hovering at the edge of the hallway, their camera shutters clicking in a frantic, unbroken rhythm. I don’t care who watches. I don’t care who snaps the photo.

He belongs to me. I belong to him.

I press a kiss against the pulse point jumping in his throat. I feel the steady, strong rhythm of his heart beating against my ribs.

“Let’s get out of here,” I murmur directly against his skin.