Night Of The Hunter

Secret Admirer

I backed up just a few inches from the center of the ring, sweat already cooling on the back of my neck as the air shifted around us. Connor mirrored the movement, stepping with calculated precision. His focus flicked briefly to his friend at ringside—tall, wiry guy with a jittery knee and darting eyes—muttering something low. The muscle along Connor's side flexed with the motion, taut and defined, drawing my eye to the black and grey tattoo inked into his ribs—a skull cradled in flames, coiled in a way that looked like it had been born from his skin. It was beautiful and dangerous, and I hated how much I noticed.

Okay, fine. I'll admit it. Connor Shaw was hot. Like, drag-me-into-an-alley-and-make-bad-decisions hot. That sandy blond hair damp with sweat, those electric blue eyes that practically sparkled with mischief and ego, and a beard that looked like it had been sculpted by some sadistic grooming god. His abs? Forget it. Carved. Defined. Tempting. If this wasn't a fight, I'd already be plotting how to undo that belt with my teeth.

But then I saw the other tattoo.

Outer thigh. A skull crowned with a Special Forces beret, two arrows crossed behind it. A mark I recognized far too well. Frank had the same one—exact placement, exact design. It wasn't just some tribute ink. It was earned. Shaw wasn't just muscle and swagger—he was ex-military. That explained the stance. The discipline. The barely concealed edge of violence he carried like a second skin.

A voice slipped through the noise—a whisper, barely audible over the crowd's roar. "Good luck."

It was light, almost playful, but it threaded through the air like a signal meant just for me. I paused, turning my head slowly, eyes scanning the sea of bodies packed tight around the ring. The rush of bodies made it impossible to track where it had come from. Could've been anyone. But something about it felt familiar. Like a ghost brushing past my shoulder.

Daisy Dukes rang the bell with her usual flair—leaning forward on the rope just enough to flash cleavage and mischief—and the crowd erupted.

And then, just as quickly as I'd paused, I snapped back into the moment, awareness slamming back into me like a cold slap. I shook the chill off and settled into position, forcing the voice out of my mind—at least for now.

We stepped forward again, into range. My guard was lower, looser. His was textbook high. Picture perfect.

"Don't cry when you lose, sweetheart," he said with a cocky smirk, the kind of look that could strip paint off a wall and still look charming.

I tilted my head, circling, my smirk colder. "You know who the first undefeated fighter in this place was before you strutted in like a golden god?"

He pretended to think. "Let me guess... you?"

"Ding ding ding."

I didn't usually throw first, but the temptation was too sweet. My right hook came fast and sharp, slicing through the air and landing square on his cheekbone. His head snapped sideways, body wobbling like a pendulum before he corrected.

Blinking.

Stunned.

Shit. That might've been a little too hard. I meant to pull it. Honest. Just enough to rattle—not destroy. I always tried to be careful. Humans were so damn breakable. And when my instincts kicked in, sometimes they came with the full force of old training and suppressed rage.

The crowd lost their minds. I caught the flicker in his eyes as he straightened—surprise, sure. But also something darker. Confusion. A sliver of suspicion.

"Nice shot," he muttered. Then he lunged.

His right missed by inches as I tilted my head back, just enough to let the wind of his punch kiss my chin. His left followed—sloppy, angry. I caught it midair, twisted hard, and swept his legs with a kick behind the knee. He went down hard, a grunt leaving his chest as he hit the mat.