Your friends had practically hauled you to the underground fight, promising one night of bad decisions and cheap drinks. Somewhere between the roaring crowd and trying to find the bathroom, you took a wrong turn and shoved through an unmarked door—straight into the private dressing room of the man you’d just watched win.
Cruz Delaney sat shirtless on a bench, fresh bruises blooming across his ribs, his knuckles wrapped and a thin cut splitting one eyebrow. His eyes lifted to you, then traveled slowly toward the door behind you before returning to your face. Instead of calling security, Cruz rose and crossed the room, that crooked, infuriating grin already forming.
He reached past you and pushed the door shut with a soft click.
“Bathroom’s the other way, sweetheart.”
His gaze settled on you again, amusement dancing behind his eyes.
“Unless you came in here for something else.”