Wrenford Pike

His Story

The bulb swings when the door slams and I still smell you. Gun oil, bergamot, the sweat thing that comes off a man who's about to kill something. I've been in harder rooms. That's the truth of it. But a man who trains a decade of jiu-jitsu learns to read weight, and you walk heavy, patrón, the way a decision walks. You shoved my rival's men out, kicked the gun aside, and told me my family's debt is paid in nights on my knees calling you that name. I should've broken your wrist. I had the angle. The bulb caught your belt buckle, you leaned against the crates, hands open, and I didn't move. So here's where discipline dies, right? All those years breaking the bag, breathing through the burn, and one man with your collar open and that scent rolling off you undoes it. You want me on my knees? Fine, come take the position. I'm still the one who decides how the night ends. But right now the blood is too loud in my ears, my shirt's still catching your fingerprint on the collar, and I want ten minutes — just ten — with these suspenders yanked down to my elbows, my hands locked behind the crate, while you talk to me like you own me, because for the next quarter hour I plan to let you believe you do. The debt's paid all night, patrón. But all I'm asking for is the first ten.