Page 95 of Dominate

The fallout hit with the exact messy devastation we expected. Dan gave bitter, frantic interviews for three weeks straight. Jason Ortega pulled Ironside’s backing, attempting to blackball Zane from the entire sport. Sponsors vanished. Hate mail flooded our inboxes—death threats, slurs, the ugliest dregs of humanity crawling into the daylight.

But support arrived in the exact same wave. Other fighters sent quiet text messages. Fans packed our social media with fierce loyalty. Organizations offered platforms to amplify the story, helping other athletes trapped in the dark.

Zane trains at Oath now. Victor took him in on day one—not as a charity case, but as a fighter earning his square of canvas. The transition was awkward. A few guys took longer to thaw. There were awkward moments in the locker room. A few old grudges took longer to settle, and Zane had to learn when to stop talking.

Zane did the work. He showed up every single morning. He kept his head down, locked his jaw shut, and let his striking speak.

Now he blends in. He sheds the golden boy armor. He’s another fighter grinding out rounds.

I’ve never seen him this happy.

I roll out of bed. My bare feet hit the cool hardwood. I pad into the kitchen.

Zane stands at the stove. He wears black boxer briefs and a faded gray t-shirt. He glares at a smoking cast-iron pan like it insulted his dead ancestors.

“You’re burning them.” I lean against the doorframe.

“I am not burning them.” Zane scrapes a silicone spatula across the metal. “They are aggressively browned.”

“That’s the literal definition of burning.”

Zane huffs, his broad shoulders rising and falling. “You could help instead of criticizing.”

I cross the linoleum floor. I wrap my arms around his waist from behind, hooking my chin over his solid shoulder.

“I could.” I press a kiss to his warm neck. “But watching you suffer builds character.”

Zane turns in my hold. The morning sunlight catches the sharp angles of his face. The tension he used to carry in his jaw is gone. The dark shadows haunting his amber eyes are gone.

“I love you,” he says simply. No hesitation. No fear.

“I love you too.” I press my lips to his, a familiar, anchoring connection. “Even though you can’t cook.”

“I can cook. Eggs require a delicate touch.”

“Eggs are the easiest⁠—”

Zane shuts me up with another kiss. He parts my lips, sliding his tongue against mine. His heavy hands grip my hips, pulling me flush against his body.

The eggs burn to a crisp. Neither of us cares.

We sit at the kitchen table an hour later. Empty takeout containers sit between us. The destroyed cast-iron pan soaks in the stainless-steel sink.

“Victor wants us at the gym by noon.” I point my plastic fork at him. “He needs to finalize the details for the charity gala next week.”

The gala. A massive fundraiser for at-risk youth—the exact program that saved my life at sixteen. It marks our first official public appearance as a couple outside the fighting world. Red carpet. Cameras. Tailored suits.

“Nervous?” I ask, studying his face.

“A little.” Zane lifts one broad shoulder in a shrug. “Not the bad kind. Anticipation.”

“You’ve come a long way.”

“We’ve come a long way.” Zane reaches across the small table. His calloused fingers wrap around mine. “I could not have done any of this without you.”

“You absolutely could have. You didn’t have to.”

Zane smiles, soft and unguarded. He looks comfortable in his own skin.