Chapter 1
Leah’s POV
People assume I want to be a photographer because I like pretty things. Sunsets. Smiles. Couples who somehow coordinate outfits without discussing it first.
They’re wrong.
I want to be a photographer because time is a thief.
One day you’re in the middle of something, and the next it’s remember when?
A photograph is proof that a moment existed. That someone stood there and did something worth remembering. Crossed a finish line. Kissed the right person. Won the fight. Lost it.
I like the idea of catching it in the act.
But if I want real jobs—proper jobs, the kind that pay actual money instead of exposure and a lukewarm thank-you—I need a varied portfolio. That’s the rule. Apparently, talent alone isn’t enough. You also need proof. Preferably in high resolution.
So far, I’ve been winging it.
Lucas has been my unofficial fairy godmother. He works in marketing, and he’s gotten me into gigs—events, launches, all that shebang.
All great practice.
All very unpaid.
I’ve also been shooting for a local free newspaper, which sounds impressive until you realise the payment is mostly recognition and the occasional byline, my mum proudly screenshots. Again, not money. Just my name in small print and the quiet hope that someone important might notice.
I’ve only just finished my Associate Degree in Photography, which, in theory, means I’m qualified. In practice, it means I’m underqualified for every job and for being taken seriously.
Landing work in the field has been less about career progression and more about an emotional obstacle course. Doors close. Emails go unanswered. That sort of thing.
Thankfully, I have a good group of supportive friends. Lucas, who lands me the gigs, Millie, who is my childhood friend, I practically know her since we were in diapers and Nat, who is the wisest of all of us, the more head-on-the-shoulders type of girl.
I know what I need. More range. More risk. More chances to shoot things that scare me a little.
So today, I let Lucas drag me straight into a hall full of testosterone and blinding white light. The second I step inside the PFL launch event, my senses overload like someone’s cranked the saturation all the way up. Music thunders through the speakers, vibrating in my chest like a second heartbeat. Bodies press in from every direction, heat radiating, sweat and different perfumes, mixing into something almost dizzying.
I freeze for half a second.
It’s loud. It’s chaotic. It’s… a lot.
My hand tightens instinctively around my camera strap. This is an MMA meet-and-greet event. Not really a press conference, but the start-up of this year’s national tournament.
I’ve photographed bands sweating under stage lights, DJs behind neon-lit booths, influencers posing with drinks they don’t even like, events where everyone pretends they’re not terrified of being irrelevant. But this?
Never. Not once.
I half expect someone to stop me, tap my shoulder, tell me I’ve wandered into the wrong universe. That girls like me—girls who dream in apertures and angles and golden-hour lighting—don’t belong here.
Everywhere I look, bodies move around me with purpose. The fighters smile politely, take photos with fans, but they are imposing, massive shoulders stretching fabric, veins mapping forearms like roadways. Their confidence rolls off them, aggression and anticipation mixed like a Molotov cocktail about to explode.
These men look like they were carved, not born. Like pain is something they greet by name.
I swallow.
Okay. Maybe I notice them more than I should.
Lucas bumps my arm lightly, grinning like this is his personal playground.
“Breathe, Leah,” he murmurs. “You look like you’ve just walked into a room full of naked people.”
Lucas has been my friend for more than three years now. I met him outside a club, on the curb, while I was waiting for Millie to finish exchanging numbers with a guy who looked deeply convinced they were at the beginning of a great love story. I don’t know whether Lucas noticed I was in a state of advanced intoxication, which I very much was. I was crouched beside a parked car, earnestly singing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star to a snail that appeared to be searching for housing security beneath the tyre.
He may have thought I was vulnerable. Or unhinged. Or possibly both. Whatever the case, after that night, we kept running into each other at the same clubs. One day, we exchanged numbers, and the rest was history.
Lucas has never once tried anything with me. Not even accidentally. He is very, very gay and entirely uninterested in my particular species.
He’s tall and lanky, with dirty blond hair cut in a crisp, deliberate style—short on the sides, longer on top—and he always looks like he has stepped out of a well-considered outfit plan, even at two in the morning.
I snort, adjusting my lens. “I’m fine,” I mutter. “Just—there are… a lot of abs.”
He laughs, delighted. “Welcome to my Super Bowl.”
“I feel underdressed and emotionally unprepared.”
“Relax. You belong here. You’ve got a camera. That’s basically a passport.”
Despite myself, I laugh, and some of the tension cracks. Lucas always has that effect—like he knows exactly when to poke the bear and when to pull me back.
I lift my camera, and the chaos starts to make sense. Through the lens, everything sharpens. Frames line up. The noise fades into the background texture.
This is what I chase. Moments before they happen. The split second when adrenaline flickers across a face. When someone’s dream is standing right in front of them, demanding to be claimed.
My chest tightens.
Because that’s me, isn’t it?
Twenty-three years old, still shooting for free half the time, still introducing myself as an aspiring photographer, like it’s a disclaimer. I love it. God, I love it so much it hurts. The way light bends, the way truth sneaks into an image when people forget they’re being watched. I want this to be my life—not a side hustle, not a hobby, not something I explain apologetically at family dinners.
I want to be paid for seeing the world the way I do.
This event isn’t just a job that Lucas snagged me a pass for. This is my chance to show that I can step into unfamiliar spaces and make them mine.
I want this to be my life. Not someday. Not hypothetically. Now.
I drift through the hall with my camera up, snapping, pivoting, weaving between bodies as if I belong—which is half a lie and half a spell I’m trying to cast on myself.
The chaos grows louder the deeper I go. Press everywhere. Lenses bigger than mine. People with credentials swinging from their necks like medals. PR smiles stretched tight, conversations shouted over music, assistants herding fighters from one place to the next.
It’s intoxicating. And intimidating as hell.
“Hey,” Lucas says, falling into step beside me. “You’re doing great.”
“I feel like a raccoon that wandered into a fashion week afterparty,” I murmur. “But thank you. Seriously. For this.”
He bumps my shoulder. “You earned it. Also, I enjoy watching you pretend you’re not internally screaming.”
“I am absolutely internally screaming.”
I glance around again. There are lots of women present, following these Gods of war, as if they worship the hustle, clinging to their arms, shouting their names, laughing too loudly, dressed as if the event were a nightclub rather than a controlled explosion of violence.
God. This world is loud.
I peel away from Lucas near one of the corners, angling for a shot of a fighter leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, surrounded by his crew. He catches my lens—and his mouth curls into a smile that immediately sets off every internal alarm I possess.
“Well, damn,” he says, loud enough for everyone around him. “What’s a beauty like you doing in a place like this?”
I freeze. I’m all for capturing the life in front of me, but when the attention shifts to me, I’m a mess.
I force a polite half-smile, the one I reserve for men who think confidence is a substitute for manners. “Working.”
He chuckles like that’s adorable. “Yeah? That right?” He glances sideways at one of his guys. “Is she the peace offering?”
Every man in his crew laughs wholeheartedly.
My stomach drops in a quiet, humiliating way where your body reacts before your brain has time to put armour on.
Okay. Think, Leah. Say something sharp. Something clever. Something devastating and Instagram caption worthy.
Nothing comes.
Instead, I stand there like an idiot, my thoughts scrambling. I hate it that my usually reliable brain decides now it’s the time to abandon ship.
The guy stands, slow and lazy, swagger baked into every step as he closes the distance between us. Too close. Way too close, buddy.
He reaches out and—oh God—adjusts the strap of my tank top where it’s slipped off my shoulder.
My skin crawls.
I don’t move. I don’t know why. Shock, maybe? Or the sudden awareness of how small I am compared to him.
Say something. Say anything.
Before I can, a shadow cuts between us.
A man dressed entirely in black steps into my space—an earpiece tucked discreetly into his ear.
Uh, oh!
“Miss,” he says calmly, eyes flicking briefly to the fighter before returning to me. “Mr Winters would like to see you.”
I blink.
Mr. Winters? Who’s Mr Winters?
My heart jumps straight into my throat.
Oh God.
He must be the head of security or something. Found out that Lucas got me a VIP ticket, and I’m not even press. How mortifying. Hopefully, I won’t have to go down with a bang.
I imagine being escorted out, my camera confiscated, my ego scrunched right here next to a stack of promotional banners.
But the relief hits just as fast.
Anywhere is better but here.
I nod quickly, clutching my camera like a shield. “Yes. Okay.”
I don’t look back at the sleazy guy and his pack of wolves. But behind me, the guy’s voice cuts through the noise.
“When you’re ready to play with the real men, come find me.”
I keep walking.
My pulse is racing, my face burning, my thoughts tangled.
The man in black slows, then turns toward me like he’s just remembered basic manners exist.
He holds out his hand. “Hi, I’m Tyson”
Uhm, okay. He’s not interested in me, is he? I know there are far more elegant and good-looking women around us, but given my hereditary gift from my grandmother, one blue eye and one slightly brown, it’s not new for a male to show sudden interest in me.
I blink once, then take his hand. “Leah. Nice to meet you.”
I take a second to actually look at him now that my heart rate has dipped below escape velocity. Black trousers, tailored within an inch of their life, sit low on his hips and do absolutely nothing to hide the fact that his body was built, not stumbled into. He’s tall, fit, not built like the fighters around us, but still very much someone who could remove a problem efficiently and without paperwork.
Or at least, he could kick a kitten up its butt and out of the room.
“So,” I say, trying for casual while powerwalking through my own nerves, “who’s Mr Winters? He owns the place or something?”
Tyson’s mouth twitches. “Asher Kade?”
It’s a question. Definitely a testing-the-waters question, like I should know who this guy is. Maybe everyone who gets a pass shook his hand at least once.
“The Reaper?” Lucas asks from behind me.
My eyes nearly fall out of my face.
The Reaper?? Right.
My brain immediately jumps to conclusions it has no business making. Grim Reaper. Angel of Death. Big scary man here to escort me out for crimes such as existing without VIP credentials and breathing near important people.
Oh God. I haven’t even taken enough photos to justify getting kicked out.
I lift my shoulders like this is fine. Like, I’m not internally composing an apology email to Lucas and a dramatic group chat message to Nat and Millie titled “I Brushed with the Famous Once.”
Tyson keeps moving, and I follow, threading through the crowd. We cut past clusters of people, flashes popping, laughter erupting, names being shouted. The chaos parts, and my stomach tightens just as we reach another meet and greet booth.
Oh.
Oh no.
Heat pools low in my body, like my system just flipped a switch I didn’t know existed. Is it possible to feel so aroused just by watching?
I’m staring at a man who stands with his arms flexed tight, as some girls who just came out of a fashion magazine, take selfies with him.
He’s massive. Broad, round shoulders that stretch his shirt without trying. Tanned skin. Arms like tree trunks—inked and powerful. His dark hair is pulled back, a few strands loose at his temples.
My pulse stutters.
I raise the camera. I bring him into focus through the lens—and it’s like the world narrows to just him. Light kisses the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. His eyes—blue, intense pools of ocean—look like they’ve stared down worse things than these crowds.
Click.
The shutter snaps, loud in my ears.
His eyes land on me, and I forget how to breathe.
It’s not just that he’s attractive, because hell, he’s the most gorgeous man from this hall, or any other universe I’ve ever visited. It’s that his gaze feels deliberate. Like he’s not just looking at me, but he’s peeling back layers, stripping me back of clothes, sure, but also defences. Walls. Down to the version of me, I never show strangers.
My throat goes dry. I bite my lip without realising it, suddenly very aware of my body, my clothes, my existence in this space. I stand there, mute and transfixed, as if my brain has blue-screened. My sex clenches tight, and I hate that he seems to know it.
I become painfully aware of the room again. Of eyes flicking toward us. Of people noticing. My cheeks flare hot, aroused and infuriated by the confusing feelings that take over me.
God. Nat and Millie are never going to hear the end of this.
The silence stretches.
How long has it been? Seconds? Years?
Then, I hear Lucas from behind me.
“Oh, my God. Asher Kade,” he says, stepping forward with all the subtlety of a dropped cymbal. “I’m a huge fan. Can I get a photo?”
I almost groan out loud.
Asher’s gaze hesitates—like it physically resists leaving me. I’m trained to see the small things not everyone would usually notice, so it doesn’t escape me the flicker of annoyance, quick and controlled, that crosses his face.
But it’s gone as quickly as it came.
He schools his expression, slips an arm around Lucas’s shoulder, and nods. “Sure.”
Lucas beams, lifting his phone.
I do the only thing I know to do when attraction threatens to turn me into a puddle.
I hide.
I lift my camera.
The lens clicks into place between us, my favourite kind of shield. Through it, I can breathe again. I frame Lucas and Asher together. Lucas is beaming like he’s just met Santa Claus if Santa could kill a man with his bare hands.
I adjust the focus.
God. Asher Kade photographs obscenely well.
The lines of his face, the quiet confidence in his stance, the way the light kisses his cheekbone like it knows him personally. My finger hovers, then—
Click.
Lucas checks his phone and grins. “This is going straight to my story.”
“Make sure you tag me,” Asher says easily.
Lucas laughs, thanks him again, and steps away, still buzzing and ready to replay this moment in his head for the next six months.
And suddenly—
It’s just me.
And Asher.
I’m very aware of him now. Of how close he is—too close for my nervous system to pretend this is normal. There’s an invisible line between us, taut and vibrating, and I swear if either of us leans an inch the wrong way, something is going to snap.
My skin feels tight. Awake.
“You’ pointing that thing at me without asking?” he says.
His voice is lower than I expected. Calm, but definitely not joking either.
I lower the camera just enough to peek over it, tilting my head. “You going to throw me out?”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Depends.”
“On?”
He takes a step closer.
Just one.
It shouldn’t matter. It does.
“Whether you make me look good.”
Then he smiles. Not the polished one he gave Lucas. This one is boyish. Crooked. Like he knows exactly what effect it has and enjoys pretending he doesn’t.
“Confidence problem?” I ask lightly, grateful my voice doesn’t betray the way my stomach flips.
His eyes darken—just a shade.
He doesn’t look away, then I start shooting again. I admit, I’m confused by this man. Most people do the opposite—they perform, or stiffen, or suddenly forget what to do with their hands. Asher watches me. Like he’s studying the way my mouth tightens when I concentrate, the way my weight shifts when I adjust my angle.
Like I’m the subject.
Click. Click.
He takes another half-step closer.
Close enough that I can smell him. Clean. Warm. Something faintly spicy underneath. My brain files it under dangerously distracting.
“You always look this serious when you work?” he asks.
“I’m focusing,” I say, circling slightly, the camera steady even though my body isn’t. “Try not to move.”
“Not easy when you’re circling me like that,” he says, voice lower now.
I flick him a look over the lens, my heart thudding harder than it should. “You volunteered.”
A beat stretches.
Then, “Let me see.”
I pause mid-click.
“Excuse me?”
“My photos,” he adds, stepping just close enough that I can feel the heat of him, smell something clean and dark on his shirt. “Let me see what you’re doing to my face.”
I blink, suddenly very aware of how near he is. “You don’t trust my artistic eye?”
“I’m just curious.”
“That’s what insecure men say.”
His laugh is low, close, and it sends a shiver straight down my spine. “Bold assumption.”
I tilt my head, forcing composure while my pulse skids. “So, which is it?” I ask lightly, though my breath feels thinner than before. “Curiosity… or control issues?”
He crosses his arms—casual, but it makes his biceps flex in a way that does dangerous things to my core.
“You can look,” I eventually say, and take a step closer, tilting my camera towards him.
He studies the photos in silence. His jaw tightens, then relaxes. His expression shifts—not impressed exactly, but… caught. Like he’s seeing himself through a lens he’s never trusted before.
“You make me look…” He trails off.
“Human?” I offer.
His eyes lift to mine. “Dangerous.”
“Same thing.”
Silence stretches.
“What’s your name?” he asks instead, voice softer now.
I look up. “Leah.”
He nods once, like he’s filing it away somewhere important.
“So,” Asher says, casual as if he hasn’t been steadily dismantling my nervous system for the last five minutes. “You coming to the afterparty?”
“The… what?”
I blink at him, then glance over my shoulder at Lucas like maybe I missed a memo. Lucas lifts both shoulders in a helpless shrug, eyebrows raised, very much don’t look at me.
Asher’s gaze drops—to my chest.
Specifically, to the laminated VIP pass hanging from my neck.
“That didn’t come with an invitation?” he asks.
Oh.
Oh no.
“What news agency are you with?” he adds, eyes lifting back to mine.
Caught. Red-handed. Mid-crime.
My brain scrambles. Reuters? No. Too serious. ESPN? Absolutely not. Local girl sneaks into an MMA event with a borrowed pass, and vibes doesn’t feel like a strong answer.
I bite my lip.
Stupid reflex. Terrible timing.
He catches on to it and straightens slightly, like something’s just clicked into place.
“Elton,” he says, turning his head slightly toward a man who had been standing patiently behind him.
“Get her an entry for the afterparty.”
My head snaps up. “Wait—what?” I laugh softly, breathless. “I—I mean, thank you, but can my friend come too?”
I gesture toward Lucas, who freezes like he’s just been called on in class. He’s been watching this whole thing from two steps back, eyes ping-ponging between us like a tennis match.
Asher turns his attention to him.
Lucas straightens a little. I can’t read what Asher’s thinking, only that his gaze sharpens, cautious in a way that reminds me again exactly what he is.
Then he looks back at me.
Another beat.
“Fine,” he says finally. “He can come.”
Relief floods me so fast it’s almost dizzying.
“Thank you,” I say quickly, meaning more than just the invite.
He steps back, giving me space at last—but not distance. “Hope I see you there, Leah.”
When his tongue wraps roughly around my name, his voice dropping into something sinful and indulgent, heat coils low between my thighs. His eyes stay locked on mine, dark and possessive, and it makes my stomach flip. I’ve never been looked at like this—like I’m something he intends to take his time with.
