Undone

ALTHEA

Like a woman on a mission, my feet don’t stop moving.

Not when I slip past the pack gates. Not when I weave through the glowing city streets. My steps are relentless, driven by a single goal.

And when the bar comes into view, I know I’ve made the right decision tonight.

Getting shit-faced.

I chose a place far from home, somewhere I’m least likely to run into anyone familiar. The sting of betrayal still burns in my chest, raw and unrelenting. I trusted him. He was the one person who wasn’t supposed to hurt me, and he shattered that trust with effortless cruelty.

It still hurts, but at least I’m brave enough to admit it. Fate has the cruelest sense of humor.

I’ve tried not to let the grief or the thoughts of my impending doom consume me, but sometimes it hits like a freight train. Tonight, I’ve decided not to fight it.

Shrugging off my bitterness, I step into the crowded pub. The room is alive with noise. There’s a lot of shouting, laughter, clinking glasses, but my focus sharpens immediately.

The first thing I notice is the sheer number of men. They dominate the space, their energy palpable and electric. It’s packed to the brim, the air thick with sweat, alcohol, and unspoken tension.

The second thing I notice is the boxing ring in the center of the room.

Most of the crowd has their eyes fixed on the ring, where an underground fight is in full swing. Two towering men lunge at each other, both equally muscled, their fists landing with sickening precision. Each punch draws roars of approval, the noise almost deafening. The crack of bone against flesh sends shivers down my spine.

I make my way to the bar, weaving through the throng of spectators. My goal is simple. Find a drink and lose myself in the burn of cheap whiskey. But even as I sit, I can’t help but glance back at the fight.

The tension in the room is electric, a hundred people all feeding off the violence in the ring. I expect one of the fighters to drop at any moment, never to rise again.

“Any more challengers?” the MC calls out, his voice cutting through the chaos.

The room quiets, a hush falling over the crowd as someone steps forward.

My gaze snaps to the stage as the new contender pulls off his satin red robe, revealing a body carved from stone. The word RED is emblazoned on the back of the robe, now discarded on the floor.

And then I see his face.

Oh. My. Goddess.

Dimples.

A dark, scruffy jawline.

A boyish smile paired with a man’s body.

A killer tan that looks like he lives under a sun no one else has access to.

My breath hitches as I drink in the sight of him. He’s classically beautiful, easily the most striking man I’ve ever laid eyes on. His black hair sticks up in a way that’s effortlessly sexy, like he casually ran his fingers through it moments before stepping into the light. His cheekbones and jawline are sharp enough to cut glass, and his long, lean frame moves with a predator’s grace.

He’s mesmerizing. Perfect. And impossibly hard-edged.

But it’s not just his looks that hold me captive. There’s something else about him, something magnetic and dangerous. Watching him feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, thrilling and terrifying all at once.

As the fight begins, he moves with deadly precision. Each punch is fast and devastating, his opponent barely able to keep up. There’s no hesitation in his attacks, no mercy in his movements. His eyes are dark and emotionless, as if the violence doesn’t even register.

And yet… there’s a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

He’s enjoying this.

My stomach tightens, a mix of unease and undeniable attraction settling deep within me. I can’t tear my gaze away as he dismantles his opponent with ruthless efficiency. The fluidity of his movements, the sheer dominance in every strike is hypnotizing.

When the other man finally collapses to the floor, the crowd erupts in cheers. The beautiful stranger stands over his defeated opponent, utterly unfazed, like this is just another day for him.

I turn back to the bar, ordering a whiskey to distract myself from the man who commands the room without even trying.

But I feel him before I see him.

“Drinking alone in a place like this?” His voice is smooth, tinged with amusement.

I glance at him, arching a brow. “You mean a place like this where men punch each other for fun? Seems perfectly safe to me.”

His smirk widens as he takes the seat beside me. “You don’t look like the type to slum it.”

“And you don’t look like the type to fight for scraps,” I shoot back.

He chuckles, low and rich, and it sends a strange warmth through me. “Touché. Let me guess. You’re here to forget someone.”

I stiffen, my fingers tightening around my glass. “And if I am?”

His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he leans in closer, his voice dropping. “That’s something I can help with.”

I should say no, and just go back home, because every single instinct I have is screaming that this man is trouble. The kind of trouble that leaves a mark. But isn’t that what I came here for? To escape, even for a moment?

The bartender slides a bowl of fruit between us. I pick out a green grape and pop it into my mouth, ignoring the strawberries mixed in. He notices, plucking one up with a cocked brow.

“What? You don’t like strawberries?” he asks as he bites into it.

I nod. “I’m allergic to them.”

“Shame,” he says, his voice dipping lower. “Strawberries happen to be my favorite.”

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, his eyes darkening with something I can’t quite place my finger on. And when he stands, holding out a hand, I know I shouldn’t take it. But I do.

I don’t hesitate.

The drive is quiet, the tension in the car thick and electric. We leave the city behind, the buildings giving way to rolling hills and open sky. When we pull up to a lavish hotel, my stomach twists.

The bellman greets him with a nod of familiarity, and I wonder how often he brings women here. As I take in the place, I can’t help but even wonder more how he can afford a place like this. Perhaps underground fighting pays better than I thought.

In the elevator, the silence stretches, and I feel the weight of the decision I’m about to make.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, his voice low and rough. I barely nod.

My breath catches as he steps closer, his eyes burning into mine.