“The tattoo on his chest, Bella.” He purrs my name in a joking way.

My brows hike up my forehead. “You did that?”

He nods proudly. “Thought it was fuckin’ weird that he wanted ‘beautiful’ tattooed on his chest. Gave him shit about it for a few months. Then I saw him drawin’ you. Connected the dots after that.” He shrugs.

The lighting changes before I respond, then Rico pulls me onto my feet without warning.

Copper comes running in wearing a red silk robe when the MC calls out his name. True to his name, Copper has copper hair. How original. The crowd goes wild as he waves his hands and beats his chest like a neanderthal. Girls giggle, and men cheer, some chanting his name. There isn’t a single person here other than the two men beside me who isn’t eating up his performance.

His face is riddled with the evidence of his battles. Scars mar his porcelain skin, cutting through his lip and splitting his brows. Another sits on his crooked nose. What’s more daunting is the patchwork of tattoos covering his fingers and arms, especially the Oskal tiger baring its teeth on his neck. The man is a full-blooded criminal.

I think I’m going to throw up.

How is Mickey going to win against him?

There's no grandeur or cheering when Roman—Ares—comes out. No one is jumping up in their seats, the air not buzzing with electricity or excitement the way it did for Copper. Because Ares isn’t walking out from the shadows. He stalks out of it. The darkness seems to follow as he moves, reaching for him and blending into his obsidian robe. The air around him vibrates with danger; not even a knife could cut through it.

Copper may command the room, but Roman owns it.

Like an apex predator, he prowls toward his prey, eyes narrowed, lips peeled back into a sinister grin.

His focus doesn’t shift when he bends beneath the rope and into the ring. Not once does his attention stray anywhere other than on Copper.

Until it does.

In a split second, the air vanishes from my lungs because his predatory stare falls onto me. His eyes immediately notice the arm wrapped around my shoulders.

Rico plasters me to his side and taunts the beast in the ring. “I got your girl, chico.”

The key, the winning ticket. The men sandwiching me are handing it to him.

And they’re showing everyone here where to hit Roman to ensure he gets hurt.

Murder flashes in Roman’s eyes. Gone is the hunter playing with his prey; he’s ready to go in for the kill.

Rico leans down to my ear, keeping his eyes on the man who’s a heartbeat away from tearing his throat out, as he whispers, “Like I said, best friends.”

Roman barely reacts when the referee introduces him or when Copper goes to the corner to get ready. His stare belongs to the madman beside me.

“He’s gonna kill you,” I mutter.

Rico’s chest shakes against my shoulder with his chuckle. “No, bella. He’s gonna kill Copper while wearing your li’l bracelet.”

I’m not sure whether I should feel sick or elated by this knowledge. Right now, I’m feeling both. Maybe my stomach is turning because I feel chuffed. In the ring in front of at least a hundred people, to Roman, having me marked on his chest isn’t enough. He wants to win while he’s holding a part of me. He’s going to beat a man while showing everyone who he belongs to.

Roman breaks his stare off with Rico and hulks to his corner, where a stool and bottle await him. When he removes his robe, all I can see is the scar between his shoulder blades, half concealed by ink. I can just imagine how much shit Rico would have given him if he knew that he was shot by an old lady.

I’m barely aware of what’s happening, when a minute later, fists wrapped in white bandages meet skin. The crowd erupts into madness because the men don’t waste time circling each other first. They’re here to do one thing: annihilate.

My eyes are on Roman, not because he told me to, but because I can’t look away. He’s hypnotic. He’s… smirking.

Roman’s muscles ripple with each motion, hitting, blocking, sidestepping. Each move is practiced and executed with perfection and vicious grace. There’s no hesitation, no regret. This is his element, and we are in his arena.

He’s beautifully fit for his name. Ares, God of War.

The slick sheen of sweat coating his skin makes the scene all the more entrancing. The defined V-line above his low-hanging shorts is distracting. I wish I could have felt it in the woods. I know Mickey would let me do what I want if I just asked, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

Rico is losing his mind beside me, screaming instructions at the top of his lungs.

Block.

Fuck him up.

Uppercut.

Get him, motherfucker.

Roman staggers back from a blow to his face. Blood flies from his mouth, but he recovers faster than I can blink, sending Copper backward with a kick to his chest. Mickey is on him a second later, laying punch after punch, making crimson explode from Copper’s face.

It doesn’t take long before the other man is on him. More red colors the scene, splattering onto the platform and onto sweat covered skin. Then Roman hits the floor.

I wrap my arms around my middle, regretting the beer.

He’s back on his feet before his opponent can pounce, swerving away from each attack, letting a hit or two land like he isn’t trying to avoid them. Why isn’t he moving out of the way? Why isn’t he hitting him back?

Over and over, they throw punches and the occasional kick at each other. Roman’s arms are up, attempting to block the hits, but he’s waning. Even his punches are weak, barely stirring Copper. Roman’s hunched over, focused on retaining this balance, cornered against the pillar.

The crowd’s elation is potent, and Copper must taste it, too. A slow, victorious smile etches across his pale skin.

We’re going to lose. Roman is going to lose.

“I told you he’s going to win.”

I startle, forgetting Damien is there. What the fuck? “How?” They’re both covered in blood; I’m not sure whose blood is whose. And Roman looks like he’s barely holding on.

Damien nods. “He’s putting on a show.”

Rico leans forward until his breath tickles the side of my face. “He’s fuckin’ with the pendejo’s head.”

Roman’s eyes flicker my way for a split second. Out of nowhere, and with energy I thought he no longer possessed, he delivers a clean blow to the other fighter’s jaw. Copper’s head whips to the side, and an audible gasp rips through the arena.

The boys weren’t kidding.

This is a game, and Roman has Copper right where he wants him; tired, shaken, and delusional.

That’s my man up there.

“Go, Mickey!” I yell with every bit of energy I have.

Roman’s smile isn’t slow or weary; it detonates across his face. But he isn’t looking at his opponent like he’s the prey. He’s looking at me like I’m the one he wants to ruin.

Before Copper can recover, Roman uses the momentum to send him careening back. Gone is the fighter who took the blows. Ares is a god here to remind Copper that metal is nothing in the face of the divine.

Murderous energy vibrates from Roman as he lands hit after hit, after hit, until the Russian is backed into a corner. Ares is acting like a madman. An absolute lunatic.

“If Copper loses, he doesn’t get to fight tomorrow,” Rico says.

“Tomorrow?” I squeak. He means I have to go through all this again? I have to witness Roman getting his ass kicked again?

I can practically smell the Bratva’s anger from here. A fight means money. Roman is making them lose money.

Oh God.

This isn’t just a fight anymore. This is a death wish. What if they retaliate for losing? What if the next fight kills him?

Copper doesn’t tap out, even though he can barely block Roman’s punches anymore. One right after the other, Roman descends his fists onto his prey. People with eyes filled with bloodlust wince, but they don’t look away from the massacre.