Page 93 of Dominate

“Twenty minutes.” Victor nods. “Theo has been pacing near the stairs. Do not make him wait.”

The door clicks shut.

Micah turns around. He leans against the wood, holding the coffee cup in one hand. His dark eyes search my face, assessing the damage Dan’s words just inflicted.

“You okay?”

“Dan is trying to erase me.” I throw the tangled sheets off my legs. I stand up, ignoring the sharp protest of my bruised knees. “He wants to erase what we did. Blame it on a head injury.”

“He can try.” Micah walks over and hands me the coffee. “He will fail. The camera caught the way you looked at me. Nobody fakes that.”

I take a sip. The liquid burns my tongue, black and bitter. It grounds me.

“Shower.” I set the cup on the nightstand.

The bathroom is barely large enough to fit one person, let alone two massive welterweights. The tile is old and cracked. The plumbing groans in protest when Micah turns the knob. The showerhead spits a weak stream of lukewarm water.

It feels like a luxury resort.

We step under the spray together. We keep our faces out of the spray. Micah washes the remaining sweat from my shoulders, careful around the dressed cut. The water washes away the last remnants of the Ironside armor.

Micah takes a bar of cheap soap. He works it into a lather between his calloused hands. He turns me around, pressing my chest against the damp tile wall.

“I got you,” he murmurs.

He washes my back. His hands glide over my shoulders, careful around the swelling bruises. He traces the deep purple mark on my left ribcage. His fingers work the soap into the tension knotted at the base of my neck. I let him take his time. I close my eyes and let my head drop forward. I don’t have to do anything except stand here.

I don’t have to be the apex predator in this room. I don’t have to be the weapon. I can just be a man nursing his wounds.

“Turn around.”

I turn. I take the soap from his hands. I return the favor.

I wash the dried blood from his jawline. I keep the washcloth away from the closure strips above his eye. I trace the heavy ridges of his chest. He leans into my touch, a soft, content sigh escaping his lips.

We don’t rush. The world waits outside the door, sharpening its knives, but the world cannot reach us in here.

We step out into the steamy bathroom. We dry off with faded cotton towels.

I pull on a pair of clean sweatpants from my duffel bag. I grab a dark t-shirt. The fabric hangs loose over my bruised frame. Micah dresses in similar clothes. We don’t wear our gym logos today. I’m done wearing Ironside’s crest. Micah will be back in Oath gear tomorrow; he has never needed to leave his gym to be himself.

We walk into the kitchenette.

Micah pulls a box of generic cereal from the cabinet. He takes two bowls from the cabinet and a carton of milk from the refrigerator. We sit at the tiny table tucked against the peeling wallpaper.

Breakfast is terrible. The cereal is stale. The coffee from Victor tastes like burned dirt.

It’s the best breakfast I have ever eaten.

I chew the cardboard flakes. I look across the table at the man who completely derailed my life. His dark hair curls damp against his forehead. The fierce, arrogant challenger who staggered me in the fifth round is gone. The man sitting opposite me is simply my partner.

“Theo is going to want a joint interview,” Micah says, stirring the milk in his bowl.

“I know.”

“He will want us to sit on a couch and answer the questions. The real questions. About the fight. About the press tour. About the closet.”

“I know.”