Rafe’s opponent peeled away from the crowd of fighters to a chorus of cheers. He may not have been Boyd’s champion fighter, but he was clearly well known—and well liked by the audience. He stood tall, almost as tall as Rafe, though his build was lean, with a wiry kind of hardness. He was pale, with a bit of a sunburn across his shoulders and the top of his shaved head.
He didn’t seem to have any of the modifications some of the other fighters boasted, not until he turned around and Nina caught sight of the continuous injection pod on his back. It sat squarely between his shoulder blades, right over his spine.
Nina shuddered. The pods were typically used for subcutaneous or intramuscular injection, with relatively short, slim needles. From what she knew of human anatomy, it would take a longer, more robust needle to penetrate the spinal cord for drug delivery. The kind that would hurt.
This guy didn’t seem to mind the pain.
Rafe wasn’t bothered. He lazily stretched one arm across his body, smiling at his opponent’s audible snarl.
With another ringing crash of the pipe, the match began. Rafe and the bald fighter circled slowly, sizing each other up. Both had impeccable form, stances that hovered right on the line between loose and ready.
The stranger took the first swing, but Rafe landed the first hit, a quick jab that caught his opponent on the chin and snapped his head back. The man recovered quickly, getting in a jab of his own before taking another blow to the side of his head.
Nina started to breathe a little.
Beside her, Knox’s tight stance began to ease. “Whatever he’s on, he’s not as good as Rafe.”
Before Nina could reply, the man in the cage surged toward Rafe again. Lightning quick, he struck, and struck hard. The blow sent Rafe spinning, and he slammed against the chain-link wall of the cage with a force that rattled Nina’s bones.
Knox went taut, as if consciously tightening every muscle was the only thing keeping him from recoiling in horror—or diving into the cage to intervene. Stricken, Nina reached out.
She half expected him to pull away, but he let her wrap her fingers around his. For a mere moment, a fraction of a heartbeat, he squeezed her hand.
Nina’s stomach clenched.
His fingers were warm and strong around hers. Tension sparked from the contact, and the noise in the room faded a little, replaced by a low buzz in her ears. She’d thought that touching him before, with lust driving her, was affecting. But this, the intimacy of comfort, was a hundred times worse.
Or better, depending on how you looked at it.
Rafe rebounded, swinging his fists toward his opponent. They circled and jabbed, testing each other. The first time Rafe dropped his guard and took another solid hit, it looked deliberate.
The next three … didn’t.
“What the hell is he doing?” Gray muttered.
“Making it look good,” Knox growled. “Letting this guy kick his ass. I’m going to kill him.”
Maya made a harsh, choked sound in the back of her throat. “I can’t—” The words cut off abruptly, and she turned and darted off into the crowd.
Nina’s stomach twisted again, this time with worry. “Maya, wait!”
Gray shook his head. “I’ll go after her. You two watch the fight.”
He melted into the throng of bodies, and Nina bit back a curse as she turned back toward the cage. More than anything, she wanted to rush to Maya’s aid. But sometimes it seemed like Maya tried so hard to save face in front of Nina, to be strong for her, that she couldn’t express herself, or even feel what she needed to feel. She was so busy being okay that she was never truly all right.
Maybe Gray could give her the space she needed without smothering her with overprotective concern.
Nina squared her shoulders, planted her feet, and fixed her gaze on Rafe’s bloody face. She couldn’t be the one to help Maya right now, but she had a whole different job to do. Soon, Knox would be the one in that cage.
And Nina had to be ready for any dirty shit Boyd might pull.
MAYA
Maya couldn’t breathe.
Her earbuds blasted music into her ears. The FlowMac Pop revival of the 2060s had produced a lot of music with thudding bass and catchy rhythms, all with lyrics so cliched and empty that Maya had seen bar fights start over the question of whether the songs even qualified as music. After