Her Fighter, Her Rules

Olivia's POV

The fluorescent lights at Stellar Sports Management buzzed overhead. I pushed my glasses up and refocused on the athlete termination agreement glowing across my monitor, its dense legalese blurring before my tired eyes.

Three hours earlier, my supervisor had dropped this legal disaster on my desk with all the care of someone discarding yesterday's trash. "Hayes," he'd said, his voice dripping with condescension, "since you're so eager to prove yourself, why don't you take on the Morrison case? Shouldn't be too much trouble for someone with your... ambition."

The memory of Derek's condescending smile made my jaw tighten, and I caught myself pressing my tongue against those slightly misaligned canines, the ones that stubbornly refused to grow straight. A genetic defect that never let me forget what I really was. For all my NYU degrees and my near-flawless track record in contract negotiations, in the eyes of the higher-ups I was still just the Omega who'd gotten lucky with a hire during a diversity push.

My phone erupted in a series of violent buzzes from inside my leather briefcase, the vibrations loud enough to echo in the empty office. I glanced toward the glass partition separating my cubicle from the senior partners' offices, confirming that the last of the Alphas had finally left for their evening plans, before fishing out my phone with fingers that had gone slightly numb from typing.

Three messages from Ethan filled the lock screen, each with more exclamation marks than the last—my personal barometer for his emotional state.

Liv, tonight at the Madison Abyss! Got a spot on the card!

$2000 purse if I win! I'm taking it!

Don't worry, the matchup's good. I can take this guy!!!

According to the scale I'd developed over two years of watching my brother chase his dream through increasingly dangerous venues, three meant he was confident, which paradoxically meant I should be terrified.

I let my head fall against the cheap chair and ran the calculations that had become second nature. Dad's treatment was due Tuesday, and even with insurance, the out-of-pocket costs would run at least eight hundred dollars. My portion of the rent was three hundred short this month after I'd covered Ethan's emergency room visit when his rib had cracked in his last fight. If he could actually win tonight, if he could walk away with two thousand dollars intact and relatively uninjured, we might—might—make it through another month without having to choose between medication and groceries.

But the Madison Abyss didn't hand out two-thousand-dollar purses for easy fights.

I opened my eyes and typed out a response with thumbs that had started to tremble slightly, though whether from exhaustion or anxiety, I couldn't quite tell. Don't do anything stupid. Wait for me to get there.

The reply came back almost instantly. Already signed in. First bout starts at 8. You know I got this, Liv.

"No," I whispered to the empty office, my voice barely audible over the hum of the lights. "You really don't."

I shut down my computer with practiced efficiency and grabbed my briefcase and coat in one fluid motion born of too many emergency exits. The elevator seemed to take an eternity, and when the doors finally opened on the ground floor, I nearly collided with Derek, who was apparently returning from whatever happy hour had pulled him away from actual work.

His eyes—that particular shade of Alpha amber that seemed designed to remind people like me of our place in the hierarchy—tracked down from my face to my waist with the kind of leisurely assessment that made my skin crawl. "Leaving so soon, Hayes? Hot date?"

I stepped around him without breaking stride, my voice flat and professional in a way that had taken years to perfect. "I have a prior commitment." His laugh followed me out into the lobby, and I heard him mutter something to his companion that I chose not to process.

The Madison Abyss announced itself long before I reached the actual building, a converted warehouse in a neighborhood where the streetlights had given up pretending to work and the sidewalks were more crack than concrete. The bass from whatever music was playing inside thrummed through the ground like a second heartbeat, and even from half a block away, I could smell the particular combination of sweat, blood, and cigar smoke that clung to these places like a warning.

Two Beta security guards stood at the entrance, their arms crossed over barrel chests, and they straightened slightly as I approached, their expressions shifting from bored to confused. I was acutely aware of how I must look—pencil skirt, blazer, sensible heels, briefcase clutched in both hands like a shield—and I lifted my chin in a way that I hoped projected confidence rather than the bone-deep dread that was currently making my stomach churn.

"This isn't really the place for—" the taller guard started, but I cut him off with the same professional voice I used on difficult clients.

"My brother Ethan Hayes is fighting tonight. I'm with his corner." The lie came easily after two years of practice, smoothed into truth by repetition and necessity. I didn't have any official credentials, nothing that would hold up to scrutiny, but I'd learned enough from patching Ethan up after dozens of fights that the title felt more honest than not.

The guard's skepticism was evident in the way his eyes narrowed, but something in my expression must have convinced him that I wasn't going to leave quietly. He stepped aside with a grunt. "Stay out of trouble. We're not responsible for what happens inside."

The door was heavy, industrial metal that required both hands to pull open, and the wall of sound and sensation that hit me when I stepped inside was almost physical in its intensity. The warehouse had been gutted and reconfigured around a central octagon cage, the kind that had become standard in underground venues trying to capitalize on the mixed martial arts trend.

My eyes adjusted slowly, picking out details in the controlled chaos. The cage itself was surrounded by a crush of bodies, men in expensive suits standing shoulder to shoulder with men in work-stained jeans, all of them holding cash and shouting odds. Beyond them, in the slightly clearer space near the far wall, I caught sight of a familiar silhouette, and my heart lurched with the particular combination of relief and terror that had become my default emotional state.

Ethan was in the prep area, stripped down to royal blue fighting shorts that made his pale skin look almost translucent under the harsh lights, and he was wrapping his hands with the methodical precision that I'd watched him perfect over countless training sessions. Even from a distance, I could see the old scar tissue above his left eyebrow, a white line against his skin that hadn't quite healed right after his last fight, and I felt my jaw clench with the familiar urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him.

I made my way through the crowd, ignoring the catcalls and the way certain men's eyes tracked my movement with interest that made my skin crawl. When I finally reached the prep area, Ethan looked up and his face split into a grin that was equal parts excitement and guilt.

"Liv! You made it!" His voice carried the particular brightness of forced enthusiasm, the tone he always used when he knew I was about to lecture him and was trying to head me off at the pass.

I dropped my briefcase on the floor with more force than necessary and crossed my arms over my chest, fixing him with the look that had worked when we were children and had lost none of its effectiveness in adulthood. "You said you were going to try out for the boxing club. You promised me, Ethan. You said you were done with this."

His grin faltered, and he went back to wrapping his hands, his fingers moving with practiced efficiency even as his eyes refused to meet mine. "They want me to sign with his prep league, but that's at least two months of training before I even get a shot at a real bout. Dad's medicine fee is next week, Liv. We can't wait two months."

The we in that sentence hit like a physical blow, because he was right and we both knew it. I sank down onto the bench beside him, suddenly aware of how the exhaustion from the day was settling into my bones like lead. "Your last fight, you cracked two ribs. The doctor said if you take another heavy hit to the torso, you could puncture a lung. Is two thousand dollars worth dying for?"

"I'm not going to die." His voice was quiet but firm, and when he finally looked at me, I saw the same stubborn determination that had driven him to give up a stable accounting job to chase this impossible dream. "And I'm not going to let you carry everything alone anymore. This match is good, Liv. The guy's a second-rate brawler with no footwork. I've watched his tape. Two grand, in and out, and then we can breathe for a while."

I wanted to argue, wanted to drag him out of this place by force if necessary, but the truth was that I understood the math as well as he did. My fingers found my lower lip again, teeth catching the soft flesh as I fought against the tide of helplessness that threatened to pull me under. Finally, I released a breath that felt like surrender and reached for my briefcase, pulling out the small emergency medical kit that I'd started carrying everywhere after Ethan's third fight.

"Fine. But you keep your guard up, you protect your ribs, and if anything feels wrong—anything at all—you throw the fight. Do you understand me?" I pulled out the supplies I'd need—antiseptic wipes, butterfly bandages, an instant cold pack, gauze pads—and arranged them on the bench with the kind of methodical care that helped me feel like I had some semblance of control.

Ethan's hand covered mine, his fingers warm and slightly rough from the hand wraps, and when I looked up, his expression had softened into something that made my throat tighten. "I know you're scared. But I've got this, Liv. I promise."

The announcement system crackled to life, a voice rough with cigarettes and Brooklyn accent calling out the first match of the evening, and Ethan stood, rolling his shoulders and bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet in the way that meant he was centering himself. I watched him transform before my eyes, the anxious older brother who still called me when he had nightmares fading away to reveal the fighter underneath, all coiled energy and focused aggression.

The crowd was getting louder, money changing hands with increasing frequency, and I heard Ethan's nickname being chanted with the kind of bloodthirsty enthusiasm that made me understand why ancient Rome had been so fond of its gladiators. "Golden Lightning! Golden Lightning!" They wanted violence dressed as sport, and my brother was giving it to them because we needed to eat.