Owned by the Fighter

Belle hurried to keep up with the men in front of her. Her shoulder brushed against strangers pushing past each other more than once. The air inside the dimly lit warehouse reeked of tobacco and sweat.

Eager for the show to begin, the restless crowd roared so loudly that it made her ears ring.

She broke free from the crush of bodies, desperate to be in the front row.

Suddenly, a firm hand gripped her shoulder and half-dragged her forward.

"Don't space out," the light-brown-haired man at her side muttered.

Belle didn’t bother to defend herself.

What was the point? It had been her idea to come here; she had begged for it. If that made her look slow, so be it.

With a sigh, she sank down beside her brother, Anthony, who was surrounded by his rowdy friends, shouting at the top of their lungs.

The atmosphere was electric, with adrenaline charging the air. But Belle shrank in her seat, already questioning whether this had been a mistake.

Anthony pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and exhaled a thin stream of smoke. Belle coughed softly when the smoke reached her.

"You should've worn a mask. You start coughing over nothing,” Anthony remarked coldly.

A mask? Wearing just her hoodie already made Belle feel stifled. A mask would have suffocated her.

Still, she didn’t regret coming. Not as much as she wanted to be at this illegal underground boxing match.

At eighteen, Belle Watson told herself that she was an adult now. She was old enough to see the world her brother had tried so hard to keep from her.

Their ten-year age difference made Anthony overly protective, but Belle insisted that she could take care of herself.

This was her birthday wish—her brother’s reluctant gift—a glimpse into his hidden world.

But Belle hadn’t come just for the fight. She was there for Bastian, her childhood crush.

“Hey, Belle, wanna sit on my lap?” Nick, one of Anthony’s friends, teased.

Anthony’s glare shot across the row like a knife.

“Just kidding, man,” Nick laughed nervously.

Belle gave a faint smile. She was used to their teasing. Despite their rowdiness, Anthony’s friends had always been protective.

Nobody dared mess with Belle—not with the Blackfist gang watching her back. There was her brother, Bastian; Nick; Kyle; and Peter, better known as Pooh.

“There he is,” said Kyle, pointing at the man stepping into the arena.

Bastian strode forward. He was dressed in black cargo pants, combat boots, and a sleeveless shirt that showed off his sculpted arms. His hands were wrapped in black cloth.

"Win this one, buddy! Knock his teeth out!" Pooh yelled.

As cold as a frozen lake, Bastian only nodded. His gaze shifted and locked on Belle. Their eyes met.

"Oh, Sparrow came," he said, ruffling her hair as if she were a puppy.

Belle hated that nickname—Sparrow. She wasn’t a child anymore.

Underneath her oversized hoodie was a woman’s body. Her wavy chestnut hair glinted under the lights. Her lips were full. Her almond-shaped eyes were too sharp to be overlooked.

“She insisted,” Anthony said flatly.

Bastian leaned down until his face was level with hers. Too close. She instinctively pulled back.

“Are you strong enough to watch this, Sparrow?”

Belle swallowed hard. "I'll try."

A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Okay. Don't regret it."

He straightened up.

Belle clenched her fists. Don’t regret it? Did he really think she was too weak for this?

Maybe she was, in his eyes. Perhaps she always would be—just Anthony’s little sister, never a woman in her own right.

“Cover your eyes if you're scared,” Bastian whispered in Belle's ear as he passed. And stepped into the ring.

Belle's only answer was a sharp huff as she folded her arms across her chest.

The bell rang. The fight began.

Bastian moved like a predator: quick and ruthless. Jabs landed; his opponent staggered. Then, fists clashed, and Belle saw a splash of red hit the floor. Her stomach dropped. Her hands turned icy. Her face paled like the moon.

"Stop...please stop," she whispered hoarsely.

Blood. Blows. Violence. She had never seen this side of Bastian before—his dark, feral side.

“Belle?” Anthony touched her shoulder, noticing she was trembling. "Come here. Don’t watch if you’re scared.”

Tears slipped down Belle’s cheeks as she folded into her brother’s arms. She couldn’t take it. This wasn’t her world. It never would be.

If she couldn’t handle this, how could she ever convince Bastian that she was more than fragile?

“Let’s get you out of here,” Anthony said firmly.

“No,” Belle shook her head quickly. "I'm okay."

"You don't have to force yourself. Being an adult doesn’t mean seeing all the ugliness in the world.”

But you see it, Anthony, Belle thought bitterly. He didn't just see it—he lived it.

“Not everything is meant for you, Belle.”

Her brother stood up, and she had no choice but to follow him. Pushed along by the crowd, she stepped out into the night air and gasped as if she had been drowning.

Anthony unlocked the truck. “I’ll take you home.”

“Why can’t I stay until the match is over?” she protested.

“What for? You couldn't even stand to watch." He sighed and tossed her the keys. "Stay here, then. But don’t move. Got it?”

So Belle waited, sulking in the truck until midnight passed. Her eighteenth birthday was over. What a pathetic celebration—stuck in a car and missing everything!

Finally, growing restless, she climbed out and walked back toward the warehouse, tossing her hoodie aside. Eyes followed her—hungry eyes.

Her tall, slender figure made her stand out. A group of men stepped in her way. She tried to slip past, but another man blocked her path.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

"Ooh, feisty. I like feisty.”

"Not many pretty girls come here. Alone, too. Need some company? I can warm you up tonight."

Belle folded her arms and shook her head in disbelief. "Before you try lines like that, maybe you should take a shower. And brush your teeth."

One of them grabbed her chin roughly. Belle shoved him back on instinct.

"You bitch!" he snarled. His fist swung at Belle before she could move.