Ria
I watched him from the stands, my eyes never straying from the cage. The roar of the crowd, the stench of sweat and blood, the intensity of it all... it faded when Lachlan stepped into that ring. It was like the world narrowed to just him. He was a force—an animal that moved with precision, each strike like it was forged from something darker than mere aggression.
I had seen fights before, but nothing like this. His opponent was a huge guy—bigger, stronger, faster than Lachlan. Or at least that's what I thought. From the moment the bell rang, it was clear who was in charge. Lachlan didn't just fight. He hunted.
His fists collided with the other man's face with brutal force, and every punch seemed to shatter something inside the arena, inside me. The first knockdown was quick. His opponent staggered back, blood streaming down his face, but Lachlan didn't let up. No mercy. Every time the man tried to rise, Lachlan was there, relentless, knocking him down again and again. It wasn't just about winning; it was about domination. And he savored it.
The look in his eyes, cold and empty, told me everything I needed to know. He wasn't just a fighter. He was something... darker. Something hungry.
I could feel a strange thrill in my chest, a pulse that beat in time with his. He was so damn vicious. I liked it. I shouldn't, but I did. There was something terrifyingly beautiful about the way he tore into his opponent, the way he didn't hesitate, didn't falter. It was as if he was dismantling a piece of the world, one punch at a time. There was no remorse in his eyes, no sign of weakness. Just the single-minded pursuit of destruction.
And then it happened. The final moment. His opponent tried to get back up, but Lachlan wasn't having it. With one last swift move, he knocked him out cold, the man crumpling to the canvas, blood leaking from his mouth. The crowd erupted, but I didn't hear any of it. My mind was too focused on the man in the ring.
He stood there, breathing heavily, eyes scanning the crowd, and for a second, our gazes locked. Something dark flickered in his eyes, something that made my heart skip, something that made me feel both alive and terrified.
The lights in the arena felt suddenly too bright, the air too thick. I couldn't look away, even as he turned and walked off, leaving the crowd behind in a frenzy.
Later that night, I found myself in my room, the fight playing in my mind on repeat. His brutality, the way he fought like he was born to tear the world apart—it wasn't normal, but God, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I had to see him again, had to know what it was about him that twisted something inside me.
I had seen both of his fights and most of is sparring sessions, watching him, studying him. The way he moved, the way he fought, the way he carried himself after each win, as though the violence was nothing more than a formality.
I couldn't explain it, couldn't put it into words. It wasn't just his strength or skill—it was the darkness in him. The part of him that didn't care. That part of him that scared me and thrilled me all at once.
It had been weeks before I saw him again, walking out of the gym after a training session, sweat glistening on his skin. I was standing outside, pretending to wait for a friend, but I couldn't keep my eyes off him. He looked so different in the quiet aftermath of a fight, in the calm that followed the storm. Yet even then, I could see it—the darkness, lingering beneath the surface.
He caught my gaze this time, and my breath hitched. He didn't say anything, just stared at me, his expression unreadable. It sent a chill down my spine, but I didn't look away.
I didn't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't that.
It was a small, almost imperceptible shift in his stance. A moment of recognition. Like he knew exactly what I was feeling.
I should've walked away. Should've turned around, left him behind. But I didn't. I stayed. Watching. Waiting. As if some part of me was desperate for whatever it was he was offering. Even if it was dangerous.
And as I walked away that day, I knew something. Something dark was blooming inside me, something I couldn't stop. I didn't want to stop. There was a part of me that longed for it. For him. For whatever dark thing lived inside of him that made my heart race and my pulse spike every time I saw him.
I didn't know how far I was willing to go for it, but I was willing to go.
To him.
The next morning, I couldn't shake the image of him. Lachlan's face, his black hair, his cold, green unreadable eyes—it replayed in my head like a broken record. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it again. The blood. The brutality. The dark satisfaction that seemed to linger in his every movement. I was both terrified and drawn to it, and it was starting to consume me.
I didn't expect to see him again so soon. I'd thought I'd have more time to build up some courage—or at least more time to convince myself that I should just walk away and let it go. But that was never going to happen. Not with him.
I was walking down the street near the gym when I saw him.
He was standing outside, leaning against the wall of the building, his arms crossed, his eyes scanning the street with that same intense, calculating gaze I'd seen in the ring. He hadn't seen me yet, but the sight of him made my heart stutter. For a moment, I thought about turning around, walking in the other direction, pretending I hadn't seen him. But the thought of running, of hiding from him, was worse.
I didn't want to hide. Not from him.
I straightened my back and walked toward him, my feet moving faster than my brain could keep up with. When I was close enough, I stopped. I could feel the heat radiating off him even from a few feet away. My breath caught, but I didn't let myself show it.
Lachlan's eyes flicked to me, almost too quickly, like he'd been waiting for me. He didn't smile, didn't greet me. Just looked at me, studying me, the same way he had in the ring. His eyes were still as cold as they'd been when he'd knocked his opponent out, but this time… something else was there too. A flicker of curiosity. Or maybe something darker.
"Did you enjoy the fight?" he asked, his voice low, avoiding my gaze.
The way he said it made my stomach twist in a way I couldn't explain. Like he was daring me to say something. Like he already knew the answer.
"I… I did," I said, my voice coming out quieter than I intended. "You were… intense."
He didn't laugh. Didn't even react, just stared at me for a long moment. The air between us thickened with tension, like something unsaid was hanging there.
"Thanks for coming though." He said with a forced smile. "It was nice seeing you in the crowd."
"I'll be at every fight." I responded with a real smile, "Just call me your biggest fan."
"My only fan." He corrected with a laugh.
"For now." I responded," I'm happy to carry the weight til then."
Lachlan only smiled as he and I walked toward Chiron. It was awkward. But I enjoyed it still, despite him being an ass a few months ago. I couldn't hate him. Maybe my fatal flaw? No, I don't know. I just wanted more.
The kitchen was dim, lit by the buzzing overhead light and the weak gray spill of morning through the frosted window. Chiron stood by the sink, drying a mug with that too-clean towel he never replaced. The speakers played low—some old grunge track humming behind our footsteps.
Lachlan didn't even hesitate. He moved around the counter like it was muscle memory, grabbing his mug off the dish rack, pouring himself some stale coffee. He lived here, after all.
"Morning, sunshine," Chiron muttered, not looking up. "Ria, you finally come to drag this stray out of my kitchen?"
"I wouldn't call it dragging," I said, leaning on the counter. "More like... checking he's still human."
Lachlan sipped his coffee and smirked. "Debatable some mornings."
Chiron glanced between us. "You two talking again now?"
There was no point in denying it. "Sort of."
Lachlan was quiet, watching me over the rim of his mug. His hair—messed up, shorter—caught the light just a little. I remembered when he got it cut. I remember wishing he'd kept it long.
Chiron let out a short breath, shaking his head. "Whatever this is, don't let it mess with training. This gym's not a soap opera."
"Could've fooled me," Lachlan said. "You yell more than anyone on daytime TV."
Chiron raised a brow. "Keep sassing and you can sleep on the roof tonight."
I smirked. "I thought he already was. Place smells like someone's been cooking tuna in here."
Lachlan looked genuinely offended. "That was one can. You try living on protein powder and angst."
Chiron laughed, a short, gruff thing that warmed the space more than the microwave ever did.
I watched Lachlan for a beat longer. He was still brash, still irritating—but softer around the edges. Quieter in the mornings. A little more tired.
"You actually training today or just hanging around for the ambiance?" I asked.
"Training," he said. Then, after a second: "You holding pads?"
"Only if you don't throw wild like last time."
"No promises."
Chiron gave us both a look like he was already regretting letting this happen. "Just don't bleed in my kitchen. I'm not mopping again."
I grabbed a bottle of water off the counter and tossed one to Lachlan without looking. He caught it, barely.
As we headed for the door, he walked a little closer than before. Not touching. Not saying much. But close.
And somehow, I didn't mind it.