Kairus' POV :
I wasn't supposed to be here.
But when has that ever stopped me?
The crowd roared, echoing through the old abandoned theater now turned underground fight pit. A metallic tang of blood hung in the air, sticky and raw. Sweat clung to the walls like ghosts. Bodies pressed together—drunk on violence, on power, on the thrill of watching someone break.
I hated places like this.
Too loud. Too chaotic. Too human.
But Mikhail, my bodyguard and oldest friend, leaned close with a grin. "One round. Then you can go back to brooding in your tower."
"Remind me to fire you tomorrow," I muttered, sliding my gloves off and tucking them into my coat pocket.
"You say that every week."
I didn't answer. Instead, I scanned the crowd, bored. Restless. This was his world, not mine. Mine was filled with silence and strategy, not blood-soaked rings and broken noses. But then—
I saw her.
She wasn't in the ring. She wasn't shouting like the others. She stood near the back, half-hidden by shadows, a whiskey glass in her hand and a look in her eyes that didn't belong in a place like this.
It was her stillness that caught me first.
Everyone else moved—vibrated with noise and life—but she was carved in stillness, like a poem written in ink no one else could read. Her eyes locked with mine for the briefest moment, and something inside me shifted.
Snapped.
I took a breath.
And for a second, I forgot how to exhale.
Mikhail was saying something. A joke, probably. I didn't care. My world had narrowed to her. I didn't know her name. I didn't know why she was here. But I knew one thing with sudden, terrifying clarity—
She didn't belong in this world.
Which meant neither did I.
Which meant, somehow, we belonged to each other.
Mine.
The thought came uninvited. Possessive. Dangerous. I hadn't even touched her, hadn't heard her speak, and yet—I knew. Somewhere deep in my chest, where color never dared to bloom, I knew.
Mikhail followed my gaze and gave a low whistle. "You interested?"
I turned to him slowly, my voice laced with frost.
"I'm curious. That's worse."
Because interest fades. Curiosity? That devours.
"Who is she?"
He shrugged. "Don't know. New face."
I did not like that answer. Not one bit.
I watched her sip her drink, eyes scanning the fighters below like none of this impressed her. Like she was waiting for something… or someone.
My throat tightened.
Don't look at anyone else.
Don't smile at anyone else.
Don't leave before I know your name.
I turned to Mikhail, voice low. "Find out who she is."
His smirk faltered. "You're serious?"
Deadly. Always.
"Now."
And as he moved, I kept my eyes on her.
In a room full of violence and chaos, she was the calm before a storm I hadn't prepared for.
And whether she knew it or not, her life had just changed.
Because I had seen her.
And Kairus Vasiliev doesn't let go of what's his.
The next match was announced with a snarl, some never lost a match fighter—"Raven."
My fingers twitched.
I didn't expect it to be her.
But then I saw her step into the ring, and my entire goddamn world tilted.
Same girl. Same whiskey-glass elegance. Only now she was in the center of the storm. No shadows to hide in. No silence to cloak her.
She wore black, all black—tank top, wraps over her knuckles, shorts that showed off those long legs carved by war. Her boots thudded heavy on the blood-stained mat. The way she walked—owned—made the crowd go still. Hungry.
So was I.
My eyes never left her.
Her opponent was built like a wall, covered in sweat and tattoos, snorting like a bull on a leash. But she didn't even flinch. Didn't blink.
She just smiled.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't shy. It was lethal.
And then the bell rang.
She moved like the air owed her something.
I'd seen trained killers. I'd made them. Paid for them. Built men from monsters. But nothing prepared me for her. Her movements were a melody of muscle and rage. She didn't fight like she was surviving—she fought like she was meant to destroy.
A low hook. Duck. Elbow to the jaw. A spin that shouldn't have looked elegant but somehow was. Her braid flew like a whip behind her, and I could almost feel the wind of it.
Every strike she landed, I felt it in my bones.
Every time she danced away from a blow, my breath caught.
God, the way she fought—there was no mercy in it. No hesitation.
It was art. Violent, beautiful art.
The crowd roared. My blood boiled.
I sat perfectly still, the coldest man in the room. But inside?
Chaos.
I wanted to pull her out of that ring.
I wanted to ask who taught her that level of pain and why the hell they let her bleed in front of wolves.
I wanted to break the arms of the man who dared to land a punch.
But I did none of it.
I only watched.
Watched how she dropped the man in the third round.
Watched how she stood over him like a queen over a fallen knight.
Watched the smear of blood across her cheek and thought, red suits her.
The bell rang again. Victory.
No smile this time. Just a nod to the crowd, a flick of her wrist, and she was out of the ring before I could blink.
Raven.
Of course that was her name.
Dark. Elusive. The kind of bird that only flew over graves.
I leaned back in my chair, watching her vanish into the back corridor.
I was still watching the hallway she disappeared into, like she might come back out. She didn't.
But Mikhail did.
He slid into the seat beside me, his expression unreadable—except for that flicker in his eyes. The one he gets when he knows something I don't.
"Found something," he said.
I didn't respond. Just lifted my hand, fingers flexing in that silent cue.
Speak.
"She's not entirely off the grid. Her name's Raven Moreno. Twenty-two. Lives with her brother in the southern block. Works nights at a garage, fights underground on occasion. No affiliations. But…"He paused. "Her brother—Riot Moreno—is another story."
I tilted my head slightly, the only sign he had my attention.
Mikhail continued. "Riot's racked up a debt. A big one. Owes us nearly seventy grand from a job gone south last year. Drugs. Weapons. I didn't bother collecting—he was a nobody."
I let the silence stretch, just enough to draw the weight of his words.
But inside, something clicked into place.
A thread.
A noose.
A door.
Her brother is mine. Which means… she will be too.
I didn't smile. I never do.
But something in my chest felt a little too still.
"Interesting," I said finally, voice smooth as glass, edged with poison. "And she doesn't know?"
"Doubt it. Girl seems clean. Keeps her head down."
I watched the empty ring, where blood still stained the floor beneath the flickering lights.
Clean? No. She wasn't clean.
She was fire hiding in soot.
She was violence wrapped in poetry.
And now… she was within reach.
"Mikhail."
"Yeah, boss?"
"Get Riot. Bring him to me. Don't touch him—yet."
"And the girl?"
I looked at him. My voice was silk-wrapped steel.
"She's not to be approached. Not spoken to. Not followed. Not even breathed on without my say."
I reached for my lighter, flicked it open, but didn't light a cigarette. Just needed the flame. Just needed to feel something.
Because for the first time in years, I wasn't bored.
And that was dangerous.
I closed the lighter.
"Keep her close," I said. "But don't let her see us watching."
And Raven…
Raven had just become the most hunted secret in my city.
Mikhail nodded, his grin sharp. "Understood."
He walked off to set the trap.
And me?
I stayed seated in the shadows of the ring she lit up like a warzone.
Because now, I wasn't curious anymore.
I was invested.
And when I'm invested…
Things burn.