I watch with rapt attention as Nico lines up his final shot. His eyebrows knit together in focus, the same look he gets when he enters the ring, which is how I know I'm in trouble.

I lean into him, hoping to distract him enough to make him miss, and he falters. "You're a cheater," he says. "You know that?"

I look at him innocently, pressing my cleavage against him. "I'm not doing anything."

His eyes blacken, and it looks like he's seconds from putting down his cue and pinning me to the table, public indecency be damned. Just when I think he might do it, he clenches his jaw and turns to the table, pocketing the final ball.

I sigh and put down my cue in defeat. "Clearly, my womanly diversion tactics need work."

"Believe me, they don't."

The words jolt right through me and settle in my chest. His eyes find mine, and there's this moment where neither of us speaks, but I'd be able to feel the heat in his gaze from a mile off.

He glances at his watch before meeting my gaze again. From the look on his face, he's not particularly interested in gloating about his win; he wants to get out of here. "Come on," he says, grabbing my hand. "Our time's up anyway. Let's go."

My heart stutters, and I'm about to follow him out when I pause. Something tells me there might be some kissing involved when we get to the gym, so I head to the bathroom to freshen up.

The second I look in the mirror, my chest deflates. If I'd known tonight would turn into date night, I'd have made more of an effort, but as it stands, I look just like I do before a fight: gray hoodie, sweatpants, and my long hair tied into a haphazard pony – not exactly the kind of look that screams rip my clothes off.

I let it down, watching it tumble down my shoulders in waves before running my hands through it. I didn't care about this sort of thing before we kissed, but now I keep comparing myself to the type of girls he's used to and getting upset when I don't measure up.

What doesn't help is that every time things get hot and heavy, Nico's the one to stop it, as if the thought of going further with me is unfathomable. It's clear he's not a virgin or opposed to having sex, so the only reason I can think of is that maybe he's not attracted to me.

It's not completely insane. I have a stellar personality, obviously, so of course Nico got caught up in the moment, but a good personality will only take you so far. What if this is as far as we go?

I sigh and splash my face with some water before heading out. As I exit, a meth-head-looking woman on the other side of the door isn't looking where she's going and bumps into me. Despite not being at fault, I'm about to smile and apologize when she abruptly cuts me off.

"What are you, blind?" she snaps. "Watch where you're going."

"What are you, stupid? You ran into me."

Her eyes widen – clearly, she expected her rudeness to go unchallenged – before they harden. "Did you just call me stupid?"

"No, I asked if you were stupid," I say, "but I think I have my answer anyway." I'm about to walk past her when she makes the mistake of grabbing my arm and digging her dirty fingernails in. I shove her hard, watching as her head snaps back and hits the wall behind her – an unintentional bonus.

My fists shoot up until they're somewhere near my face, ready for confrontation, but I can see she's thinking twice. Her mouth twists, and she mutters something under her breath before returning to her table, whispering to the burly meathead she came with. He looks at me, his eyes narrowing.

That can't be good.

I hurry to Nico, grabbing his hand and leading him out before I end up getting us in trouble. He draws me closer, a hint of protectiveness on his face as he walks me down the street. This part of the valley isn't exactly the safest, and when the sound of sirens pierce the air, I find myself leaning into him.

His hand grips my waist and pulls me closer. It's the first time since we kissed that I've felt like we were something, even if I don't know what that something is.

"What time do you need to be home?" he asks.

I glance at my watch and see that, despite the dark emptiness of the street, it's still early. "Not for a while–" my eyes flash to his, and I hope he'll get my hint, "–do you live close by?" Maybe it's brazen, but I've had so much fun being away from the gym that I'm not quite ready to go back, and now that I've got a taste of Nico outside of boxing, I want more.

His eyes darken as they stare down at me, reading between the lines. "Close enough."

I nod, and we make this unspoken decision to head to his house. We're almost to the car when the sound of footsteps forces me to look over my shoulder. I spot the Meathead boyfriend of the woman I'd shoved and wince before turning to the front.

To Nico, I say, "You should probably know that we're about to get into a fight."

His entire demeanor changes as he glances behind us. When he turns back around, those pale gray eyes have hardened. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," I say. At the same time, the guy calls, "So, you're the bitch who shoved Alexa."

"Well, not nothing," I add.

Nico doesn't speak; he grabs my hand and stares straight ahead, steering me down the street. "Keep walking, Cassie."

"Yeah, keep walking," the guy shouts.

I stop in my tracks, looking over my shoulder to see that Meathead has reached a standstill. I can only assume he's goading me into making the first hit so that if the cops show up, he can claim innocence, but right now, I don't care. I'll happily land myself in jail if it means wiping that smirk off his face. "Or what?"

Nico's grip on my hand hardens. When he speaks, his voice is dangerously low. "For once in your life, do what I tell you and get in the car."

I snatch my hand back, confused as to why he, the guy who annihilates his opponents in the ring, is scared of some guy on the street. "You're seriously going to let him get away with talking to us like that?"

His lack of answer tells me yes. Without a word, he opens my car door and steps aside. I glimpse his face, which is dark and hardened, his jaw a sharp, narrowed line. "Get in, Cassandra."

I glare at him before turning to Meathead. He's halfway down the street, arms folded across his chest like he thinks he's scared us off, and I hate it. Even so, I clench my jaw and turn to the car, about to let it go.

"You should listen to your pussy boyfriend."

I slam closed the door and spin around. "Cassie," Nico warns, but it's too late. I walk toward Meathead, hands clenched and ready to swing. "If you think you're so tough, why are you just standing there? Do something."

He walks toward me, laughing. He's a typical meathead: large and burly, with muscles so big that they're clearly steroid-induced. Still, all that extra muscle means his speed will be lacking, so if I'm quick, I can get a few hits in.

"You've got more balls than he does," he says. "I'll give you that."

Before I can move, Nico turns around and pushes me behind him. Meathead steps forward, his biceps practically bursting from his t-shirt, but something tells me that even with all that extra muscle, he's in for a rude awakening.

"You gonna hit me, pretty boy?" he goads.

There's a hardness to Nico's jawline that I've never seen before, a sharpness that sends a shiver down my spine. "Do us both a favor," he says, strangely controlled, "and walk away."

Meathead pauses at the bite in Nico's voice, clearly reassessing the situation. He steps back, nodding as if he's about to surrender. "You tell your whore that if I ever catch her around here again, she won't be able to walk by the time I'm finished with her."

Nico moves so fast that it barely registers. He throws a solid punch, catching Meathead squarely in the jaw before landing another to his nose. Meathead stumbles, his nose and chin suddenly covered with blood, which drips onto his t-shirt. Like a true sociopath, he grins, and I realize I was right. He wants to fight – he just didn't want to be the instigator.

They circle each other, trading blows while I debate whether to intervene. A group of onlookers pass, pausing on the street to take out their phones, but not to call the cops. They're filming.

"Nico, we should go," I say, and when I look over, my heart stops. In less than a second, Meathead goes down, and Nico climbs on top of him, throwing a barrage of punches. I take in his fist, a hardened blur of dark red blood, none of which I'm certain is his. He swings again, punching so hard that I hear something crack. Blood splatters my hoodie, and I look down at the splodges, scared and frozen with guilt.

This is my fault.

I stumble forward, torn between wanting to pass out and throw up. Another second later, and the choice won't be mine. I grab Nico's arm, tugging on his t-shirt as I call out his name, but it's like he can't hear me. He keeps going and going, hitting until I claw at his shoulders, screaming for him to stop. "You're going to kill him!"

Somehow, my voice breaks through. He sits back, knuckles grazed and covered in blood, but if they hurt, he doesn't notice – he's too busy staring at his victim. My heart races as I try to read the look on his face, searching for any sign of recognition or awareness. But all I see is a primitive, unbridled rage, like an animal defending its territory.

Dangerous.

A/N

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