Chapter 212: "Good-Luck Kiss"

Fortunately, after the social overload of the reception hall, Aren had been given a private dressing room and, with it, a precious stretch of peace before her turn.

Several undercard fights were scheduled before the main event, leaving her plenty of time to change, warm up, and settle her thoughts before she had to face Nico Baldi.

Outside the dressing room, Jordan sat in the small waiting lounge with both hands resting stiffly against his thighs.

Biscuit sat beside him on the couch with unusual solemnity, looking almost as anxiously expectant as Jordan felt.

Outwardly, Jordan didn’t look like a man praying. Internally, however, he was directing every prayer he could think of toward God.

’Please don’t let her walk out wearing that fucking stripper outfit again.’

The disastrous black costume Jeremiah had forced Aren into for the press conference remained painfully vivid in his memory. After witnessing several additional shades of Jeremiah Castellano’s madness tonight, Jordan wasn’t convinced divine intervention would be enough.

Not long afterward, his prayers seemed to be answered.

The dressing-room door opened, and Aren stepped out wearing something that looked very familiar to him.

White satin hugged Aren’s torso, fitted closely like the bodice of a ballet costume. Below it, a short feathered skirt softened the line of her hips while leaving her legs completely unrestricted for the fight.

For several seconds, Jordan simply stared. The entire outfit resembled the backup outfit she’d worn before far more than anything he’d feared Jeremiah might inflict upon her tonight.

Relief hit Jordan first and fast, followed immediately by delight.

He loved seeing her in this outfit.

Perhaps a little too much, considering how difficult it was to recover his composure.

Aren noticed immediately.

A soft chuckle escaped her when she caught his stunned expression, but rather than tease him, she walked over to the full-length mirror.

"What do you think, Jordan?"

She turned slightly from side to side, checking how the outfit sat around her waist and hips.

"I was surprised when I saw it too. The assistant told me Mister Castellano suddenly decided to discard all the previous costumes and replace them with outfits like this one. Seems like all my fight outfits follow this style now."

Her eyes found Jordan’s reflection in the mirror.

"Why do you think Mister Castellano suddenly changed his mind? At the press conference, he seemed quite determined to make me fight in considerably more undignified clothing."

Jordan finally recovered enough to move. He rose from the couch and crossed the small distance between them, coming to stand behind her.

"To be honest, I have no idea."

Their gazes met in the mirror for a moment, before he bent his head and pressed a gentle kiss to the exposed skin between her neck and shoulder.

"Jeremiah’s unpredictable as hell," he murmured against her skin. "But speaking from a man’s perspective..."

Another kiss.

"...even an insane guy like him could change his mind after seeing you in this."

Heat rushed into Aren’s face.

Jordan’s touch remained controlled and tender, yet the mirror revealed what his gentleness concealed.

Something darker and more intense had entered his eyes as his lips slowly traveled higher along her neck, as though he were savoring every inch of skin she allowed him to touch.

Warm happiness spread through Aren, but almost immediately, another emotion rose beneath it.

Guilt.

’This is Ariana’s body.’

’Not mine.’

As much as she appreciated Ariana’s beauty, she still remembered exactly what she’d looked like in her former life.

She hadn’t looked like this.

Not remotely.

Her eyes remained fixed on their reflections, but suddenly the beautiful woman Jordan was kissing felt like someone she was borrowing.

’Will there ever be a day when I can tell him that this body was never mine?’

’I don’t want him loving something while believing it’s me, when it isn’t.’

Quietly, she eased away from his kisses and turned to face him.

"Those weren’t my good-luck kisses, were they?" she asked, smiling as naturally as she could.

Jordan stopped the moment she moved.

He’d felt it.

The change had been tiny — a slight withdrawal, a subtle tension that hadn’t existed a moment earlier — but he’d noticed it immediately. He couldn’t tell what had caused it, and her smile offered him no answer.

"Not yet," he said, his voice quieter now. "Those were this-is-how-much-I-appreciate-you kisses."

A laugh escaped Aren before she could stop it.

"That’s a very long category."

"I’ve got a complicated classification system."

Aren laughed again, and some of the heaviness in her chest loosened. She was about to return the gesture when something entirely unrelated wandered back into her mind.

"Jordan?"

"Hm?"

"Strange question, but do you find something unusual about the Castellanos?"

Jordan gave it some thought, then shrugged as though the answer was obvious.

"Everything about the Castellanos is unusual if you ask me. Why? Did you notice something?"

Aren chuckled softly.

"Nothing particularly important. I was wondering why Mister Castellano has such a peculiar eye color. Teal is extremely rare."

The observation made Jordan pause, and his expression turned thoughtful.

"Now that you mention it... I don’t think either of his elder brothers has eyes that color. They’re not even as blond as Jeremiah."

Aren’s brows rose.

"They aren’t?"

"No." Jordan shook his head. "I think his two older brothers take after Donna Maria more. Jeremiah... I guess he looks more like Don Claudio, just with some weird genetic twist."

Aren laughed softly.

"That’s what I thought too."

Satisfied that Jeremiah Castellano’s peculiar coloring could be filed away as an unusual genetic accident, she turned toward the couch.

"Biscuit! Pretty boy, come here!"

Biscuit reacted instantly. He jumped down and hurried toward them with enthusiastic little steps, his tail wagging hard enough to shake half his body.

Aren bent to gather him into her arms, then lifted him between herself and Jordan.

"Jordan, would you please take care of Biscuit while I’m away?"

At the request, Biscuit immediately lolled his tongue out at Jordan, looking perfectly prepared to be babysat.

Jordan laughed softly and scratched the scruffy fur on top of his head.

"This reminds me of Range Three."

Aren’s eyes brightened.

"When I challenged your father?"

"Yeah." Jordan smiled. "You handed Biscuit to me before walking out there like you were about to do something completely normal. Remember?"

"Of course I remember!" Aren replied instantly. "You believed I was right even before you knew me very well."

Jordan looked almost shy admitting it now.

"I did."

At the time, he’d barely understood why he’d trusted her so instinctively. He only knew he’d never regretted the decision.

"Turned out to be pretty wise, didn’t it?" His fingers continued idly stroking Biscuit’s head. "Same reason I believe you’re going to beat that big guy tonight."

Aren blinked up at him.

"You’re really that confident in me?"

The genuine confusion on her face made Jordan laugh. He carefully took Biscuit from her arms, supporting Biscuit with his good arm.

"I’d bet every cent I have on you."

Aren stared at him.

Before she could respond, Jordan leaned down and kissed her — this time, properly on the lips.

Surprise held Aren still for only a heartbeat before her eyes fluttered closed. She reached up with both hands and cupped his face, returning the kiss with a tenderness that sent warmth spreading through Jordan’s chest.

When their lips parted just enough for her to speak, Aren’s cheeks had turned pink.

"Is this my good-luck kiss now?"

Jordan smiled against her lips.

"It is."

He kissed her again.

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

The main event was scheduled to begin at eleven.

Six undercard bouts carried the evening toward it — three knockouts, two submissions, and enough spilled blood to keep the wealthy spectators entertained while they waited for what they’d truly come to see.

By the time the lights dimmed again, champagne glasses had been refilled, fresh wagers were pouring in, and the atmosphere inside the vast underground arena had tightened into restless anticipation.

Every conversation, whether among the spectators packed into the seats surrounding the cage or inside the private VIP booths overlooking it from high above, had turned toward the same place.

The empty cage below.

High above it, an enormous display panel glowed against the darkness.

ARIANA LOMBARDI vs. NICO BALDI

10:59

The final minute crawled by slowly.

The moment the clock struck eleven, the last of the house lights went black with the hard mechanical click of a switch.

Clack!

Darkness swallowed the arena.

The restless murmur of hundreds of voices swelled briefly through the blackness, before a single white spotlight snapped on at the center of the cage.

Snap.

Moments later, Jeremiah Castellano stepped into the spotlight with a microphone in one hand.

Dressed as impeccably as he’d been earlier, he looked every bit like the star of the evening rather than a man whose sole purpose was to introduce the people actually fighting.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Jeremiah announced, his voice rolling effortlessly throughout the arena, "welcome back to the most anticipated event in Borgata tonight."

Conversation died almost instantly. Murmurs faded across the enormous room until anticipation settled over the crowd like a held breath.

Only then did an elegant smile curve across Jeremiah’s face.

"Oh, don’t be so nervous. I trust the champagne has been adequate, the company tolerable, and your financial judgment sufficiently impaired by now. Am I right?"

Laughter instantly scattered through the darkness.

Jeremiah’s smile widened further.

"Wonderful! It seems several of you have just admitted to that last one. Which is fortunate, because that’s precisely the condition required to arrive at our main event tonight!"

Another wave of laughter swept through the crowd. It hadn’t yet subsided when Jeremiah swung one arm toward the far end of the arena.

The lights shifted.

Music crashed through the room.

At the same instant, a gate at the far entrance opened, revealing a massive figure standing beyond it.

"And first," Jeremiah announced, his voice rising over the music, "in the black corner, weighing in tonight at two hundred and sixty-eight pounds — give one hell of a welcome to Nico ’The Apex Predator’ Baldi!"

The arena erupted.

Nico rolled his enormous shoulders and stepped through the entrance.

A black robe hung from his frame, while matching wraps covered his hands, leaving his bare knuckles exposed beneath the lights.

He flexed them as he walked, soaking in every shout that crashed down around him. By the time he reached the cage, the crowd was roaring loudly enough to make the underground arena tremble.

Jeremiah simply stepped aside as Nico passed behind him before continuing.

"Our Apex Predator enters tonight with a professional record of seventeen fights."

"Seventeen victories. Thirteen by knockout. Six men have been carried out of this cage after fighting him."

"Three of those men apparently decided afterward that violence was no longer their calling. So, everyone — do try to make him feel welcome!"

Laughter and applause crashed together.

Nico seized the front of his robe and tore it open, hurling the garment toward his corner. Bare-chested now, he slammed one fist against the fencing hard enough to make the entire section rattle.

"COME ON, MORONS! ROAR LOUDER FOR THE KING!"

The crowd answered instantly.

The sound crashed down from every level.

Nico threw punches into the air, pounded his chest, and roared toward the spectators like a madman determined to live up to every syllable of his stage name.

Nearby, Jeremiah watched the performance, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.

Still, a little theatrical excess hardly displeased him. Drama was half the reason these obscenely wealthy people had descended beneath the casino tonight in the first place, so Jeremiah graciously allowed Nico his moment.

When Nico had finished roaring and finally retreated to the black corner, the noise had climbed almost to its peak.

Jeremiah recognized his opportunity immediately. He raised one finger dramatically into the air, and the gesture alone began to quiet the room.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen... the opponent you’ve been waiting all night to see."

The arena grew quieter still.

Jeremiah turned toward the opposite entrance with more flourish than he’d bothered using for Nico — and swept one arm dramatically toward the far side of the arena.

"Please welcome to the stage—"

"The!"

"Swan!"

"Queen!"

Darkness swallowed the cage.

For several seconds, nothing happened before a pale glow appeared at the far end of the arena.

As silence gradually spread through the crowd and every eye turned toward that distant entrance, Ariana Lombardi finally stepped into the light.

The first thing anyone saw was white feathers.

The next was the pale ribbons crossing her ankles and winding upward along her legs, more reminiscent of ballet slippers than anything that belonged inside a fighting cage.

Against the brutal architecture of the Pit, she looked profoundly out of place, as though someone had plucked a ballerina from an opera house and deposited her directly into a room designed for breaking bones.

For one suspended moment, the contrast held the entire arena captive before the entire room exploded.

Only this time, it wasn’t with the same thunderous welcome that had greeted Nico.

Laughter broke out first.

Then came the shouts.

"THAT’S NICO’S OPPONENT?"

"YOU’VE GOTTA BE FUCKING KIDDING ME! LOOK AT THE FUCKING SIZE OF HER!"

"HEY, LOMBARDI! WRONG KIND OF CAGE!"

"WHO LET THE PORN STAR INTO THE PIT? THE BEDROOM’S UPSTAIRS!"

Hundreds of voices collided as spectators leaned forward for a better look, amusement and ugly fascination spreading across their faces.