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5

Autor: Eliza whitton
last update Data de publicação: 2026-09-13 10:02:16

Across the city, in a gym that smelled of sweat, rubber, and determination, Leon Grant was putting a young fighter through his paces when he noticed the stranger.

The man was asking questions. Casual, careful questions, but Leon hadn't survived two tours in Afghanistan and a decade in the private sector by being oblivious. He watched from the corner of his eye as the dark-haired man in the leather jacket spoke to the gym's owner, then to a few of the regulars.

Leon was a mountain of a man—six
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  • Fight or flight beauty   6 found. Emma pov

    Emmaline's hands were shaking as she lowered her phone.Five years. Five years of looking over her shoulder, of building a new life, of becoming someone her father could never control. Five years of freedom, hard-won and carefully maintained.And now someone was asking about her.She was in her apartment—a tiny studio in a building that had seen better decades. The walls were thin, the plumbing was questionable, and the neighbors were loud, but it was hers. She'd paid for it with money she'd earned, not with her father's blood-soaked cash. That mattered.Her heart was racing, her breath coming too fast. She forced herself to slow down, to think. Leon had said the man was connected. That could mean anything in this city. There were a dozen organizations, families, crews. It didn't necessarily mean her father.But the timing was too coincidental. She'd been fighting in those clubs for six months without incident, and suddenly someone was asking questions?Principessa.She could a

  • Fight or flight beauty   5

    Across the city, in a gym that smelled of sweat, rubber, and determination, Leon Grant was putting a young fighter through his paces when he noticed the stranger.The man was asking questions. Casual, careful questions, but Leon hadn't survived two tours in Afghanistan and a decade in the private sector by being oblivious. He watched from the corner of his eye as the dark-haired man in the leather jacket spoke to the gym's owner, then to a few of the regulars.Leon was a mountain of a man—six-foot-three, two hundred and thirty pounds of muscle earned through years of military discipline and maintained through obsessive routine. His dark skin was marked with scars, souvenirs from a life spent in combat zones. His head was shaved, his beard close-cropped and graying at the edges. At forty-two, he'd seen enough violence to last several lifetimes.Which was why he'd recognized a kindred spirit in Emmaline Rossi the moment she'd walked into his gym five years ago.She'd been eighteen,

  • Fight or flight beauty   4 Matteo

    Matteo Valentino stood in the warehouse, watching the space where Il Assassino had disappeared, and felt something he hadn't felt in a long time.Intrigue.He'd been coming to these fights for two years, ever since his uncle had tasked him with keeping an eye on the underground scene, making sure no one was moving in on Valentino territory. He knew every fighter, every regular, every face in the crowd.But her? She was new. And she was different.The way she fought—it wasn't the brawling style most cage fighters developed. It was precise, controlled, and lethal. She'd taken down Razor, a man twice her size, without breaking a sweat. And those eyes...Amber. Unusual. Unforgettable.There was a story there. A mystery. And Matteo had never been good at leaving mysteries unsolved.He pulled out his phone and dialed a number."Yeah, it's me," he said when the line connected. "I need you to find someone. Fighter at the warehouse. Goes by Il Assassino. Woman, early twenties, amber ey

  • Fight or flight beauty   3 Emma pov

    "Gonna break you, little girl," he said.Emmaline didn't respond. She just settled into her stance, weight balanced, hands up.The bell rang.Razor charged like a bull, all aggression and no strategy. Emmaline sidestepped, letting his momentum carry him past her, and snapped a low kick into the back of his knee. He stumbled but didn't go down, spinning to face her with a snarl.He swung, a haymaker that would have taken her head off if it connected. She ducked under it, stepped inside his guard, and drove her elbow into his ribs. Once, twice, three times, feeling something crack on the third strike.Razor roared and grabbed for her, but she was already moving, circling, staying light on her feet. He was strong, but he was slow, and she'd learned long ago that speed and precision beat raw power every time.She let him chase her, let him tire himself out throwing punches that hit nothing but air. And then, when she saw the opening, she took it.A feint high, then a sweep low, tak

  • Fight or flight beauty   2 Emma pov

    The evening shift at Rusty's was always the same. The regulars filtered in first—Old Joe, who nursed the same beer for three hours while he watched whatever game was on the TV above the bar; Maria and her girlfriend, who sat in the corner booth and spoke in low, urgent Spanish; the construction workers who came in still covered in drywall dust and ordered shots of whiskey with beer chasers. Then, as the night deepened, the clientele changed. The dangerous ones came out after dark. The dealers who conducted business in the bathroom. The gangbangers who eyed each other across the room, hands never far from their waistbands. The women with hard eyes and harder lives who drank to forget. Emmaline watched them all. She'd learned to read people in the five years since she'd run—learned to spot trouble before it started, learned when to call Rusty (who was never actually at Rusty's but who would show up with a baseball bat if things got really bad), learned how to defuse a situation with

  • Fight or flight beauty   Nightmares. Emma pov

    The nightmare always started the same way. Emmaline stood in the marble foyer of her father's estate, her heart hammering against her ribs like a caged bird desperate for freedom. The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, casting long shadows that seemed to reach for her with grasping fingers. She could hear his footsteps—heavy, deliberate, furious—echoing from the study. "EMMALINE!" Her father's voice cracked through the house like a whip, and she flinched, her fingers tightening around the strap of the duffel bag slung over her shoulder. Everything she needed was in that bag. Everything she could carry. Everything she was willing to take from this gilded prison. The study door slammed open, and Richard Ashford emerged, his face purple with rage, veins bulging at his temples. Behind him, she could see him—Marcus Blackwell, the man her father had sold her to like a piece of property. Forty-three years old to her eighteen. Cold eyes that had looked at her like sh

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