Page 52 of Goldsin

Eleanora shouts, “Are you ready for this?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Watching Julian fight has always had a weird effect on me. It’s the push and pull of seeing him bleed that makes me both worried and captivated.

Valentine didn’t approve of me attending university, so I had to settle for taking Fine Art classes in the safety of our home.

One day I overheard two of the Harrows’ guards discussing Lucian’s disappointment in Julian for spending thousands of dollars on an underground fight club instead of focusing on the family business. That conversation ignited something within me—a desire to break free from my sheltered existence and experience the same reckless abandon Julian seemed to embody.

Yet I’ve never dared to defy Valentine’s wishes. Not after he took me in and treated me as his own.

Besides, there was always something deeply satisfying about the moments when he would hang my artwork on our kitchen walls—a daily ritual we both cherished. I couldn’t give that up back then. And I guess he couldn’t either, because he still asks for them from time to time. In his typical, detached manner—but he misses my drawings nonetheless.

I never stopped painting; I just keep my art to myself. The first time I read my mother’s diary, something shifted inside of me. My artwork portrays the dark turmoil in my head now, and I don’t want him—or anyone, for that matter—to see it.

A guy double my size—no, triple—enters the ring.

Shaking off the memory, I turn my attention back to the present and the guy going up against Julian. The crowd’s reaction is mixed as he steps in, with some cheering and others remaining silent, waiting for their fighter to make his appearance.

The guy—Fury, the announcer calls him—does some jabs in the middle of the ring, making a little show of it. His face is painted with streaks of red and orange as if he’s on fire, and he wears red shorts and matchingshoes. He isn’t wearing any MMA gloves. Julian hates not feeling his opponents’ skin breaking under impact, so he abolished them. The club is his, so he makes the rules.

“God, this is ridiculous. Do they seriously not know how to dress for the occasion? That shade of red isnothis color,” Eleanora complains, her voice barely audible above the roar of the crowd.

“Introducing the reigning champion, the Ripper!” the announcer bellows, whipping the crowd into a frenzy.

Julian steps through the crowd, his muscular body, adorned with tattoos, straining as he jumps into the ring. He’s wearing black shorts and matching shoes. My heart skips a beat as his eyes, almost silver under this light, catch me in the audience.

A skeleton is painted on his lower face, and he smirks at me before turning and opening his arms, calling for the audience to go feral.

“Well ...” Eleanora begins, but I slap her on the arm before she can continue, rolling my eyes at her drooling for him. He’s undeniably attractive, but I’ll die before admitting that—or having my best friend admit it for me.

The bell rings and Julian stalks forward. His fists are clenched, knuckles white, his muscles flexing under the bright lights as he takes his stance, dark eyes fixed on his target.

They circle each other like predators, their movements calculated and precise.

The sound of fists hitting flesh echoes through the arena as they exchange blows. Julian seems to anticipatehis opponent’s every move, countering with swift strikes that leave the other guy reeling.

I can’t tear my eyes away from the brutal dance unfolding before me. My heart races with adrenaline as I watch Julian dominate the fight with ruthless ability.

“Hey, I’m going to grab something to drink,” Eleanora shouts over the noise. “Want anything?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I yell back, masking my eagerness to escape the crowd’s intensity for a moment. “I can get it for us.”

“Are you sure? You’ll miss the rest of the fight.”

“It’s fine. Julian will win like he always does. I won’t miss anything new.”

I tear my gaze from the entrancing sight of him dominating his opponent in the ring and head toward the bar, weaving through the crowd.

When I finally reach the other side of the room, the bar is packed with people ordering while watching the fight. I squeeze between two men in suits and lean against the counter, trying to get the bartender’s attention.

The atmosphere is thick with thrill and a hint of sweat, leaving me feeling intoxicated despite not having had a drop of alcohol yet.

The sleek, polished counter of the bar gleams in a rich navy-blue hue, catching the light and reflecting it back in a mesmerizing dance. The shelves behind the counter are lined with endless rows of bottles, reaching all the way up to the high ceiling. A large mirror hangs on the wall behind the bar, adding depth to the already spacious room.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” a deep voice purrs in my ear.

I turn to see a tall, lean man leaning casually against the counter next to me. His light hair is perfectly tousled, and his smoldering eyes seem to hold an invitation for sinful things.

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