Page 17 of Undisputed Chaos
"He's not my anything," I protested, though my fingers kept touching my throat, where I could still feel the ghost of his touch.
Bailey thrust her phone at me again, this time showing a video of Adrian in the ring.
His smile was downright feral as he dodged a punch and delivered one of his own. The opponent crumpled like paper.
"Look at him go," she swooned. "God, what I wouldn't give to have a guy like that look at me twice."
She glanced at me. "You're so lucky, Isla. I mean, what are the odds?"
I couldn't tear my eyes away. The Adrian on screen was nothing like the man who held me. He wasn't just fighting; he was playing, and the ring was his playground.
"I can't believe you just left him there," Tracy sighed, pouring more champagne.
"That man could've carried you out like a princess. Scratch that—he looks like he could've thrown you over his shoulder like a caveman."
A shiver ran through me at the thought, and I quickly drowned it in champagne.
By the time I finally made it home, my head was spinning from more than just champagne.
I kicked off my heels, dropping my keys in the ceramic dish painted with daisies, and tried to shake off the lingering thoughts of my friends' comments.
My apartment welcomed me back with its familiar silence. No wild laughter, thumping bass, or green-eyed man with hands that seemed to burn through fabric.
I should have been exhausted, but my body hummed with restless energy. I moved to the bathroom, peeling off my dress and scrubbing away my makeup.
In the mirror, my reflection stared back: flushed cheeks, slightly swollen lips, eyes too bright.
His touch lingered on my throat; the careful pressure of fingers wrapped around my neck. He'd held me like I could break, but I'd felt the strength coiled beneath that restraint. The promise of what those hands could do if I asked for it.
Noah had never touched me like that. Never even looked at me like Adrian had, like he was starving and I was a feast laid out just for him.
Noah had appreciated my body the way someone might appreciate a nice painting, with admiration rather than desperate hunger.
Without thinking, I grabbed my phone and typed "Adrian Catalyst boxer" into the search bar.
The results filled my screen: Videos, articles, and fan sites.
I clicked on the first link, a news article. There he was, looking directly into the camera with that half-wild smile, tattoos crawling up his neck, and his brown hair perfectly tousled to match his energy.
I scrolled through the article, learning that Adrian the “Catalyst" was 27, undefeated, and known for his unpredictable fighting style and even more unpredictable personality.
He attended press conferences in outrageous outfits, donatedsome of his winnings, and once bought a box of cupcakes for his opponent after knocking out most of his teeth.
The article noted that he went by only one name professionally—no last name, no family history mentioned. Just Adrian, like he'd materialized from nowhere.
"He's boxing's beautiful contradiction," the article concluded. "Deadly in the ring, a playful force of nature outside it."
I clicked on a video next, an interview after his most recent fight. Adrian lounged in the chair, a jacket open over his bare chest, revealing a tapestry of muscle and ink.
He answered questions with quips and laughter, but something in his eyes seemed to look right through the interviewer, right through the camera.
Something sharp and assessing that had nothing to do with his cheerful words.
I recognized that look. I'd seen it tonight, right before he'd wrapped his hand around my throat and made me forget my own name.
My thumb hovered over a new video, Adrian and his friends at a celebrity event.
I pressed play, watching as the camera panned across three enormous men in tailored suits. He stood between them, slightly taller than one, slightly shorter than the other, all three radiating the easy confidence of apex predators.
