Nine years, and you’d think I’d be able to sit in front of him without feeling a damn thing, but it’s all there—the fear and pain, the shame and the lust. The lust is the worst of it because I don’t know anything about this man other than the fact he’s still fighting.

But hell, he’d always been fighting.

Fighting to make his own mark on the world, fighting for his parents’ approval of me, fighting just for the rush of proving himself. But for all I know, now that he’s famous maybe there are dollar signs behind each choke-hold. Behind each perfectly executed left hook.

Two things are for certain … after nine years, he’s back in Albuquerque. And stepping into Jace “The Hook” Hunter’s gym—hearing him call me “Rosalie” in that beautiful, rough voice—rips my soul out.

But I’m desperate.

Now it’s my turn to fight.