Chapter 1 - XANDER. Hands off
Xander
The fighter in red hit the floor on the third punch.
Not the cleanest ending I’d seen in the Pit.
Not the worst.
His knee gave first, then his pride, then the rest of him followed with a wet, ugly sound that made the front row roar like they’d paid extra for the impact.
They probably had.
Money changed hands along the rail. Drinks lifted. Someone laughed too loudly from the VIP tier. Down in the lights, the fighter in blue stepped back with blood on his knuckles and enough discipline not to take the extra hit.
Good.
I disliked waste.
I lifted two fingers.
Fight over.
Dominic was already moving before the referee looked at me. Through the gate, into the Pit, one hand on the victorious fighter’s shoulder, the other warning the crowd back without seeming to move at all.
The room obeyed.
It always did when Dominic entered a space with that expression.
Dexter leaned beside me at the upper rail, jacket open, grin lazy, eyes bright with the kind of pleasure that usually came before poor decisions.
“Blue took longer than he should have,” he said.
“Red dropped early.”
“Coward.”
“Smart.”
“Boring.”
Jude gave a soft laugh from my other side. “Not every man exists to satisfy your appetite for theatrical injury.”
Dexter smiled. “They should. I have very simple needs.”
“Violence and praise?”
“And occasionally someone pretty to watch while violence disappoints me.”
I should have ignored him.
I had meant to.
Then the next girl walked into the ring.
And the Pit shifted.
Not stopped.
Not quietened.
Worse.
Noticed.
The crowd took one collective breath and forgot to give it back.
She stepped between the ropes with the next round card held low in one hand, black hair falling over one shoulder, mouth dark, eyes forward. The uniform was standard Pit floor: black fitted crop top, white shorts, boots, the Hollow crest small at the waist.
On most girls, it looked like work.
On her, it looked like a threat wearing bare skin.
The shorts sat high on the curve of her ass, riding higher with each step. The black top left her stomach exposed beneath the brutal lights, all warm skin and deliberate composure. She didn’t rush. Didn’t giggle. Didn’t perform the nervous little smile new staff wore when they realised the Pit was not a room so much as a mouth.
She knew they were looking.
Every man at the lower rail.
Every drunk with money.
Every fighter breathing hard through blood and adrenaline.
She knew.
And the slow sway of her hips said she had already decided what their attention was worth.
My hand tightened on the rail.
Dexter went very still beside me.
Then, softly, with real admiration, “Who the fuck is that?”
I looked at him.
He did not look away from her.
I disliked that.
Immediately.
Violently.
Unreasonably.
“No,” I said.
His grin arrived before his survival instinct. “No what?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking Rhea deserves flowers.”
“You’re thinking with organs that have never improved a situation.”
“Not true. I’ve improved several evenings.”
Jude’s glass paused halfway to his mouth. His gaze tracked her across the ring, not crude, not obvious. Worse. Interested.
Jude did not look at beauty like a starving man.
He looked at it like a lock he already knew how to pick.
“She’s new,” he said.
“She’s leaving the ring,” I said.
Dexter laughed under his breath.
“Oh, I love when you become irrational before introducing yourself.”
“I’m not irrational.”
“No,” Jude murmured. “You’re gripping the rail because of staffing standards.”
I released the rail.
Slowly.
Below, she reached the centre of the Pit and lifted the card.
The room answered like dogs hearing a whistle.
Men leaned forward.
A few women watched too, eyes sharp, assessing the new girl with the same calculation they gave fighters and rivals. Someone wolf-whistled from the east rail. Someone else said something filthy enough to make the men around him laugh.
The girl turned her head.
Not startled.
Not flattered.
She looked at the man who had spoken, smiled faintly, and said something back.
I couldn’t hear it.
I saw the effect.
His grin died.
Dexter made a sound like someone had handed him a present wrapped in sin.
“Oh, she talks.”
“She shouldn’t have to,” I said.
Both of them looked at me.
I ignored them.
The new girl lowered the card and turned for the ropes. One hand touched the top strand. She stepped through with calm precision, one boot finding the outside floor, then the other.
The movement pulled the shorts higher.
Half the lower rail noticed.
I noticed half the lower rail noticing.
That was the problem.
A man in a grey shirt leaned close as she passed. Drunk. Expensive watch. Too much confidence for a face I could forget in three seconds. His hand lifted from the rail, fingers angling towards the back of her thigh.
He did not touch her.
Dominic caught his wrist first.
No drama.
No raised voice.
Just his hand around the man’s wrist and the sudden, absolute understanding that the wrong movement would become a permanent regret.
“Staff are not for touching,” Dominic said.
The man nodded too quickly.
The girl glanced at Dominic’s hand.
Then at the man.
Then up.
At me.
The look hit harder than it should have.
She did not look grateful.
That would have been easier.
She looked amused.
As if she had known exactly what the man intended, had been prepared to deal with it herself, and was now deciding what kind of room required a monster at the rail to enforce manners.
Then her eyes held mine.
Dark.
Direct.
Entirely too steady.
There was heat in that look, but not softness. Not invitation. Not yet.
Assessment.
Challenge.
The kind of look that said she had noticed I gave the order without moving, noticed Dominic had acted without being told, noticed the entire Pit had reacted to my reaction.
Good.
Clever girl.
No.
Dangerous girl.
The thought came fast enough to irritate me.
Then her mouth curved.
Not much.
Barely enough for anyone else to see.
I saw.
Of course I fucking saw.
My body answered before sense could intervene.
Immediate.
Hard.
Low.
Want hit like a fist under the ribs, and for one ugly second I imagined crossing the Pit, taking her by the jaw, and finding out whether that mouth stayed clever when it had something better to do.
I did not move.
That was why I was in charge.
Dexter exhaled slowly beside me.
“Xander.”
“No.”
“I didn’t ask anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to ask if I may introduce myself.”
“No.”
“Admire from afar?”
“No.”
“Exist in the same room?”
“Carefully.”
His grin turned feral. “There he is.”
Jude’s smile had gone quieter. More thoughtful.
That bothered me more.
Dexter wanted because Dexter wanted anything sharp enough to cut him.
Jude wanted to understand.
Understanding lasted longer.
“Careful,” I said without looking at him.
Jude’s brow lifted. “With?”
“Thinking.”
His smile widened. “That may be the most possessive thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Don’t make me repeat it.”
Below, the girl handed the card to a runner. Rhea appeared at the staff gate, speaking fast, probably already apologising for throwing a temporary girl into the Pit without clearance.
I touched my earpiece.
“Rhea.”
There was a crackle, then a sigh. “Before you begin, I was short.”
“Get her off Pit floor.”
A pause.
“She’s been out there one round.”
“That was one too many.”
“She handled herself.”
“I saw.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
A man near the bar turned to watch the girl walk away.
Then another.
Then grey shirt, still cradling his wrist like Dominic had politely introduced him to mortality.
The problem was that every man in the room was looking at her like the uniform made her public.
The problem was that I had seen her for less than two minutes and already wanted to make them stop.
The problem was that she had looked back at me and made stopping them feel less like management and more like instinct.
“Xander,” Rhea said, too dry. Too knowing.
“She’s unvetted.”
“So are half the men bleeding for your amusement.”
“They’re not wearing staff colours.”
“No, they’re wearing stupidity and mouthguards. Fine. Where do you want her?”
“Hostess.”
Rhea laughed.
Actually laughed.
Dexter turned away, shoulders shaking.
Jude hid his smile in his glass like a coward.
“Hostess?” Rhea repeated. “You want to remove her from the ring because men are looking and put her on VIP floor, where men speak?”
“I know what hostess means.”
“I’m beginning to question that.”
“Move her.”
“Yes, sir. Shall I also blindfold every guest with a pulse, or are you pretending this is about procedure?”
“Rhea.”
“Moving her now.”
The comm clicked off.
Dexter’s grin was obscene.
“Hostess,” he said. “Bold. Terrible. Inspired. Do you want her closer, or are we all pretending you’ve discovered feminism between rounds?”
“I want her off the ring.”
“Yes, you said. Very convincingly. My cock wept at your commitment to workplace safety.”
I looked at him.
He smiled.
“Too much?”
“Always.”
Jude leaned on the rail, watching the girl follow Rhea towards the side corridor.
The new girl did not hurry.
Even being removed, she looked like she had chosen the route herself.
That walk.
Christ.
Not exaggerated. Not performed.
Worse.
Natural confidence. Soft hips. Straight spine. A body comfortable with being seen and a face that said looking was not the same as having.
“Xander,” Jude said.
“No.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“You were going to say she is interesting.”
“She is.”
“I know.”
That came out too fast.
Dexter’s head turned slowly.
Jude’s smile sharpened.
Bastards.
The girl reached the corridor entrance.
Before she disappeared, she glanced back.
Not at the room.
At me.
One last look.
A small smile.
A challenge wrapped in dark lipstick.
Then she was gone.
The Pit roared for the next fight.
I heard none of it properly.
Benedict appeared beside us, tablet in hand, looking faintly offended, which meant information had arrived and had the audacity not to please him.
“Name,” I said.
“Amara Veyne.”
Amara.
Again.
Worse the second time.
“Postgraduate law. Clean file. Emergency hire through Mila Kade, bar staff. Rhea processed her thirty-one minutes ago after Lacey Thomas quit mid-shift.”
“Why did Mila contact her?”
“Amara asked to be notified of vacancies.”
Dexter whistled low. “So she wanted in.”
Jude looked towards the corridor.
“Not for the uniform.”
“No,” Benedict said. “Not only.”
I stared at the door she had vanished through.
The Pit had thousands of appetites.
Most were easy.
Money. Blood. Sex. Status. Revenge. Escape.
Amara Veyne had walked into the ring carrying something colder than want and warmer than fear.
Purpose.
That made her more dangerous than pretty.
Pretty distracted men.
Purpose ruined them.
“Find out why,” I said.
Benedict’s fingers moved.
“Already started.”
Dexter pushed away from the rail.
“I’ll ask her.”
“No.”
“I’ll ask politely.”
“No.”
“I’ll ask Jude to ask while I provide moral support and cheekbones.”
“No.”
Jude laughed softly. “You do realise forbidding him from speaking to her only makes him worse.”
“I’m counting on your survival instinct being better.”
“My survival instinct is excellent,” Jude said. “My curiosity is simply more attractive.”
“Keep it in your trousers.”
Dexter made a wounded sound. “That was directed at both of us, and somehow I feel singled out.”
“You usually are,” Benedict said.
Dominic came up the stairs, eyes moving from me to the corridor.
“She knew he was reaching.”
“I saw.”
“She would have handled it.”
“I saw that too.”
“Then why move her?”
He asked it without challenge.
That was Dominic’s gift. Brutal questions laid flat enough to look like observation.
I looked down into the Pit.
The next fighters circled, blood from the last bout still dark on the black floor.
“Because she’s not ring staff.”
“And if Rhea says otherwise?”
“Rhea is wrong.”
Dexter laughed.
Dominic did not.
Jude watched me.
Benedict kept typing.
All four of them heard the lie. Not because it was badly told. Because they knew me too well.
I disliked that almost as much as I disliked the memory of Amara Veyne’s bare thigh within reach of that drunk idiot’s hand.
Almost.
The staff corridor door opened again.
Rhea emerged first.
Then Amara.
She had changed.
The Pit uniform was gone.
Her hostess dress was black, one-shouldered, fitted tight to her waist and hips, hem high enough to make morality irrelevant but low enough to claim innocence with a straight face. It was hers. Not uniform.
I wouldn't have allowed her to wear that either, if it had been.
The room noticed again.
Of course it did.
But this time, the attention changed.
Less crude.
More curious.
The ring had made her body obvious.
The dress made her dangerous.
She said something to Rhea, then stepped onto the VIP floor with a tray in one hand, mouth curved like she had just been inconvenienced into a better vantage point.
Rhea was right.
Hostess had been a mistake.
From the ring, men could watch her.
On VIP floor, they would talk to her.
Worse, she looked like she knew it.
Dexter leaned towards Jude and murmured, “I give him three days.”
“To fire her?” Jude asked.
“To fuck her.”
My head turned.
Dexter’s grin widened.
“Too generous? Two?”
“Keep talking,” I said, “and you’ll need Benedict to calculate how many teeth you have left.”
Benedict did not look up. “Thirty-two.”
Amara moved between tables.
Smooth.
Unhurried.
Tray balanced easily. Smile small. Eyes active.
She listened when one guest spoke, laughed softly at another, deflected a hand at her waist with a turn so clean the man probably thought it had been his idea not to touch.
Then she looked up again.
At me.
Not long.
Enough.
My pulse hit once, hard.
Possessive did not begin to cover it.
Possession required a claim.
This was uglier.
Earlier.
Instinct without permission.
Want without introduction.
Mine before reason had built the lie to justify it.
No.
Not mine.
Not yet.
The word sat in my throat anyway, sharp and unreasonable.
Dexter saw my face and laughed softly.
“There he is.”
Jude’s smile was quieter. “She’s going to be trouble.”
“She already is,” I said.
Benedict looked up from the tablet.
“Then remove her.”
Sensible.
Obvious.
Correct.
I watched Amara Veyne lean slightly towards a VIP table, dark hair falling over one shoulder, smile cutting just enough to make a man with too much money sit straighter and try harder.
She had wanted in.
Now she was inside.
And every instinct I possessed, civilised or otherwise, had already decided that sending her away was unacceptable.
“No,” I said.
Dexter’s grin turned delighted.
Jude’s eyes sharpened.
Dominic said nothing.
Benedict sighed like a man forced to watch bad decisions dressed in excellent tailoring.
I kept my eyes on her.
“Watch her.”
Dexter opened his mouth.
I cut him a look.
“From a distance.”
He smiled. “Cruel.”
“Alive,” Jude corrected.
Down on the VIP floor, Amara laughed at something a man said.
Too soft.
Too convincing.
Too useful.
My fingers curled once at my side.
Yes.
Definitely a mistake.
But not one I was ready to correct.
Not yet.
