Beatrice’s POVIt might look like I’m all in on the fight in the cage, but honestly, I’m not really absorbing any of it. Every now and then, Flint leans in to whisper some strategy, and I just nod, even though his words barely register. The anger inside me is like an endless pit, all aimed at Nolan. I know it’s not rational, but I can’t seem to rein it in. His face in the hallway, his role in trafficking women and children, and the way he’s so into the fight like it doesn’t matter at all—it's all just fueling my rage beneath the surface.Throughout the rounds, the bar staff swing by the front rows to take drink orders. The three of us down beer after beer, trying to wash away the tension with every gulp. When they finally haul the last beaten, bloodied guy out of the ring, Flint cheers for his betting skills, and I’m ready to call it a night. “Where’s my autograph from the champ? A selfie? Anything?” He grins at me, finishing off his beer. I trip a bit, and Nolan reaches around Fl
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