I shut the locker door, the sound echoing off the concrete walls of the empty room. I tuck earbuds into my ears, press play on my phone, and my playlist picks up where it left off at the end of yesterday’s workout. Flyleaf’s “All Around Me” trickles into my ears. I turn up the volume and let the music coax out my inner beast, as I mentally map out how I’m going to dominate this match.

Talon always makes fun of this part of my pre-fight routine. He doesn’t understand my need to visualize beating the shit out of someone, especially when I don’t know who my opponent is yet. Unfortunately, it’s just one of the many things I’m not able to explain to him.

Traces of whatever it is that exists inside of me light up throughout my body. The mysterious spark of ability stretches out inside of me like a languid cat, and as much as I revel in this flow of power, I’m careful to keep it in check. If I welcome in too much, it will flood me and turn me into the human version of a Fourth of July sparkler. That would thoroughly fuck up the I’m just like everyone else act I’m trying to maintain.

The smell of whatever cleaner they use to battle the residual odor of sweaty bodies sits heavy but pleasant in the air. I breathe in the clean lemony smell as I methodically stretch and prepare my body for the fight. I don’t know what it says about me, but I find the pungent scent of this room comforting. My brain links it with hard work and success. I swear, every gym I’ve ever worked out in, and every locker room I’ve ever used has this same citrusy smell.

The growly part of “I’m so Sick” begins to stream into my ears, when the metal door clangs open, and in walks Talon. He looks like he should be walking into a boardroom instead of this concrete, lemon-scented locker room. His suit is custom-made and pristine, at odds with the old, gruff, Viking vibe the rest of him exudes.

He had long hair the first time I met him. The blond locks danced in the wind, and ocean blue eyes stared up at me, as I stood on top of his SUV with a rock in my hand. I was fifteen and homeless, running from a couple of assholes who got pissed that I dared to fight back when their group tried to steal my backpack.

Talon wears his hair buzzed now, his beard shorter, more well-kept. The facial hair does little to conceal his square jaw or sharp nose. I discovered over the years that his blue eyes only ever seem to soften for me. Everyone else gets the ruthlessly cold and calculating side of Talon. Me? I get the protector and friend. At six feet two inches, he’s tall enough to hulk over me, and everything about him--from his size to the way he carries himself--oozes, don’t fuck with me.

“You ready?” He asks, and I nod.

“Good. Take your time. Give a good show. Then fucking annihilate him," he coaches me, the instructions unnecessary.

I grunt in approval at his viciousness, though I can’t help but roll my eyes, too. This isn’t some choreographed dance, and he knows it. Talon chuckles, reading my thoughts from the expression on my face. The driver that brought me here still stands in the corner of the room. His spine stiffens at the sound of Talon’s mirth, as if his laughter equates to a death sentence. For all I know, that could be true.

Outside of training and fighting I keep my nose out of Talon’s business, but he could definitely be the type to deal out laughter with death. I’m not so cavalier about it, but I don’t have any qualms about death either. I roll my neck in an attempt to alleviate the anticipation I feel. This always happens to me before a fight. It’s not nerves, and even the word anticipation doesn’t quite capture the true essence of the feeling. It’s more a drive to get on with it, a need to attack.

“There’s my little warrior, let that bloodlust soak into you, and let’s do this," Talon encourages.

He hugs me and gives a playful tug to the end of one of my Dutch braids. I punch him in the side, but I don’t put any power behind it, and he laughs. I don’t know what it’s like to have parents that give a shit about you. I never met my father, and Beth--my egg donor--threw me away, like the garbage she always told me I was.

Talon’s the closest I’ll ever get to experience how a parent should act. I have no idea why he plucked me from the roof of his car and off the streets of Vegas, but I’m thankful every day for everything he’s done for me.

Veering away from the sentimental direction of my thoughts, I clear my mind and slap my game face on. In the world of shady underground deals and cold brutality, where Talon and I live, pretty thoughts and indulgent memories have no place. I refocus and bounce in place to warm my muscles and get loose.

The roar of the crowd reaches us through the thick walls of the room, and it’s clear from the noise that someone in the current fight just took a serious hit. The concrete muffles the shouts from the spectators, but it’s easy enough to get a sense of what’s going on. Talon grows edgy as my match looms closer.

We sit in companionable silence, until someone pounds twice on the metal door, indicating it’s time. Talon turns to me, his fathomless blue eyes taking my measure. I catch a flash of sadness in his gaze as he seems to find whatever he’s looking for and turns away. With a resolute nod, he leads me out of the locker room.

Entrances to a match can vary depending on the venue and scale of the fight. Today, there’s not much fanfare other than some lighting and the sound system. The booming resonance of an announcer bellows out my name, Vinna Aylin, and I walk into the shadow-soaked room at my introduction.

The spotlight trained on me makes it difficult to gauge how big of a crowd fills the arena. Their shouts of support or disdain wrap around me like a blanket, cocooning me in their aggression. The octagon cage sits in the middle of the cavernous warehouse, bathed in light, and Talon and I stride towards it with confidence.

The door to the cage opens, and I turn to Talon. I wrap my arms around his waist, sneaking in one last hug before I enter. I’m the first to arrive, and I wait for my opponent’s entrance into the arena to be announced. Shouts of my name bombard me, but I ignore them as my gaze sweeps over the crowd, assessing the details of the room.

My eyes land on a man watching me with such a quiet intensity that it sets off an alarm in my brain. I’m not sure why this man’s acute scrutiny stands out amidst the other bloodthirsty fans who are watching and waiting, but something about him sets me on edge. Based on his tawny complexion and dark hair, I’d guess he’s Middle Eastern. His honey brown eyes are fixed on me, and they shine with a predatory gleam.

The man smiles, but it’s all lips and no teeth. There’s no flash of fang or reddening of his eyes, which would make it easy to confirm my suspicions. I call them fanged fuckers, but I doubt that’s how they refer to themselves. My best guess would be they’re some kind of vampire, but none of the ones I’ve killed ever tried to eat me; for some reason they just wanted to take me.

Instinctually, I want to group this man in with the other fanged fuckers I’ve run into over the years, and I trust my gut when it tells me this black-haired whiskey-eyed spectator represents a threat to me.

The first time one of them attacked me, I was fourteen. It would have been easy to dismiss the speed and strength, or the glowing eyes as some kind of shock-induced hallucination, but I knew better than to try and convince myself that I mistook what I saw. That it was impossible. After all, if not for the impossible things I was capable of, that thing would have taken me wherever or to whomever it wanted.

I fight my desire to show this man that I’m the predator and not the prey, but I don’t want to tip my hand. If he is what I think he is, it’s only a matter of time before the fucker comes for me. Then he’ll learn. Then, he’ll die like all the others.