Page 102 of Knot Heirs: Serenity's Reign

"I won't be a prize in your pissing contest," she said, but the crowd's energy told her the challenge had already taken on a life of its own.

Alexander leaned in, close enough that only she and Ronan could hear. "Your father would be disappointed to see his empire protected by a man who won't even fight for what's his." His eyes flickered to Ronan. "Or isn't she yours, Drake? Just a business arrangement?"

Serenity felt Ronan's chest rumble against her back, a sound more animal than human.

"When I break you," Ronan said quietly, "remember you asked for it."

Ronan's fingers loosened from Serenity's waist as he stepped forward, rolling his shoulders with methodical precision. The crowd sensed the shift immediately, their whispers cascading into a thunderous roar that echoed off the concrete walls. Bodiespressed forward, money changing hands as odds were called out in frantic voices.

"Clear the pit," Ronan commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos.

He stripped off his tailored jacket, handing it to Serenity without looking at her. His white shirt stretched across his broad shoulders as he worked his neck from side to side, the scars visible along his forearms catching the harsh overhead lights.

"You don't have to do this," Serenity whispered, close enough that only he could hear.

Ronan's green eyes locked onto hers, something primal and possessive burning behind them. "I do." His voice dropped lower. "This isn't about you being a prize. This is about him learning what happens when you touch what's mine."

Alexander was already shrugging off his own jacket, tossing it carelessly to his brother. The crowd parted like a sea as both Alphas moved toward the circular fighting pit—a depression in the concrete floor bordered by a three-foot wall, stained dark from years of spilled blood.

"Rules?" a grizzled man with a scarred face called out, presumably the referee.

"None," Alexander answered immediately.

Ronan shook his head. "Traditional Alpha combat. No weapons, fight ends with submission or knockout. Any objections, Beaumont?"

The crowd whooped and hollered at this, their bloodlust temporarily dampened by the promise of a structured fight rather than a potential death match. Serenity watched as spectators climbed onto chairs and tables for better views, their faces twisted with savage excitement.

Ronan and Alexander circled into the pit from opposite sides, the audience's screams reaching a fevered pitch as they descended the short metal steps. The referee moved betweenthem, checking each fighter briefly before backing away toward the edge.

"This isn't a regular occurrence," a voice said beside Serenity. A woman with sharp eyes and a fighter's build had appeared at her side. "Drake never participates. He owns the rings, doesn't fight in them."

Serenity swallowed hard. "Then why now?"

The woman's mouth quirked. "Look at his eyes. That's not the businessman in there tonight."

When the referee dropped his hand, Alexander lunged forward with explosive speed, aiming a vicious right hook at Ronan's jaw. Ronan pivoted, the punch grazing his cheek as he countered with a sharp jab to Alexander's ribs.

The impact made a sickening crack that Serenity could hear even over the crowd's frenzy. Alexander barely flinched, pressing forward with a barrage of strikes that forced Ronan to give ground, his back nearly touching the pit wall.

"Still fighting like you're in the gutters, Drake," Alexander taunted, landing a glancing blow to Ronan's temple. "All that money can't buy class."

Ronan said nothing, his focus absolute as he blocked, parried, and absorbed Alexander's attack. To an untrained eye, he might have appeared on the defensive, overmatched by the younger Alpha's aggression. But Serenity noticed the calculation in his movements—each step precise, each block economic.

He was learning Alexander's patterns.

Alexander overextended on a lunging punch, and Ronan struck like a cobra. His fist connected with devastating accuracy to Alexander's sternum, followed by an uppercut that snapped the challenger's head back.

Blood sprayed from Alexander's nose, spattering across the concrete as he staggered. The crowd's roar intensified, money changing hands as the odds shifted.

"You think I don't remember you, Beaumont?" Ronan's voice carried over the din, controlled despite the violence of his movements. "Street fighting in Monaco while Daddy paid your gambling debts?"

Alexander's face contorted with rage. He charged forward recklessly, walking directly into Ronan's counter-attack—a brutal combination that targeted his liver, kidneys, and finally his jaw.

Serenity winced at the wet crack of knuckles against bone. She'd witnessed violence before—her father's empire hadn't been built on diplomacy alone—but never this intimate, this raw. What disturbed her most wasn't the brutality, but her own reaction to it: the way her pulse quickened watching Ronan move with lethal grace, how something ancient and instinctual responded to his dominance.

Alexander recovered, charging low and driving Ronan back with a tackle that slammed them both against the pit wall. The impact knocked the air from Ronan's lungs, his face momentarily contorting in pain.

"You're nothing but a stray dog my father should have put down years ago," Alexander snarled, attempting to pin Ronan's arms.

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