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  Ronin shrugged. “One fight won’t kill me. But I’m not an idiot. I’ve no doubt I’ll feel every one of my thirty-eight years and then some after the final bell rings.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve stepped foot in the ring?”

  Hadn’t been that long ago, but he wasn’t sharing that information. “Between you and Clint . . . figure out a training regimen that will get me up to speed fast because Blue is one tough motherfucker.”

  Knox stood. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t question your decisions.”

  “Noted.”

  After Knox left, Ronin headed to the training room.

  Fuck finding Zen.

  • • •

  Six nights later

  FIGHT night was a blur.

  Ronin remembered getting in the ring believing he was the most impervious motherfucker on the planet. Acting like he’d bring the pain. Welcoming the physical punishment Blue Curacao would dish out.

  But somewhere in the middle of the second round, Ronin’s focus shifted. He fought back with minimal effort. He embraced the feeling of numbness after his opponent’s blows connected with his body. Every drop of blood he lost cleansed him. Everything around him dropped into slow motion, so when he saw the powerful right cross headed for his jaw, he didn’t bother to block it.

  He hit the mat and the lights went out.

  People poked and prodded him. He answered their questions by rote. He’d been in this situation enough times that he gave them the responses they were looking for. He made it out of the ring on his own steam and promptly passed out in the locker room with only Shiori and Knox as his witnesses.

  “Ronin.”

  Go away.

  “You managed to walk in here on your own after the medical team checked you out, so I know you can hear me.”

  Ronin opened his eye—the one that wasn’t swollen shut. “What?”

  “You’re smiling? Are you actually happy that you got your ass kicked?”

  He choked out a simple “Yes.”

  “Why? Brother, he knocked you out.”

  “Not until the third round.” He slowly pushed up from the cot. Fuck. Every inch of his body hurt. The sadistic side of his brain smugly said, Good. The part of his brain with the pain receptors responded by kicking into overdrive.

  “Why are you wearing that scary-ass smile?” Knox demanded.

  “Getting beat means it’s a perfect setup for a rematch. I’ll probably have to fight a few other bouts to pump up interest.”

  “Bullshit,” Shiori spat. “You said one fight, Ronin. One.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  Knox shook his head. “Sensei, you’re not a pro fighter. These twenty-something guys will be gunning to kick the shit out of an eighth-degree jujitsu master.”

  “They’re welcome to try.” Ronin chugged half a bottle of water and spit it in the bucket. “I’m going home.”

  “You had a knockout, which equals concussion,” Shiori snapped. “You need to go to the ER.”

  “This wasn’t my first fight. I’ve lived the doctor’s advice: rest, painkillers, and alternate ice and heat for swelling.” Ronin pushed to his feet and swayed.

  Shiori caught him. “See? You are not all right.”

  “I just got up too fast.” He tried to sidestep her, but she wouldn’t let go. “What?”

  “Are you doing this because of her?”

  Ronin got right in her face. “You don’t get to play that card. Ever.” He dropped his arm. “My personal life is off-limits to you. Period.”

  “Not when you are beaten and bleeding.”

  “When I’m beaten and bleeding is the only time I really feel alive.”

  Shiori looked like she was ready to cry.

  “Don’t,” he warned sharply. “I’m fucking fine.”

  “No, you’re not.” She took a deep breath and glanced at Knox before meeting his gaze again. “Ronin. Sensei. We can’t stand by and watch you do this to yourself.”

  “Then don’t watch. Because this is just the beginning.”

  He headed down the hallway, ignoring their shouts calling him back.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Five weeks later

  BRIGHT lights, loud voices, a cacophony of noises bombarded him from every angle, jarring him from the blissful darkness where the pain had been dormant.

  “Status.”

  “Thirty-eight-year-old male. In and out of consciousness. Symp- toms indicate possible concussion. Lacerations on the face. Contusions on several parts of the body. Possible patella fracture. Possible cracked ribs.”

  “From a car accident?”

  “No, from a mixed martial arts fight.”

  Light flashed across his face. “If he won, I’d hate to see the guy who lost.”

  “No kidding. Be warned: He’s disoriented and volatile.”

  “Put him in the back while we wait for an opening in the diagnostic rooms.”

  “You got it, Doc.”

  The noise faded and his stomach roiled. This time he couldn’t stop it.

  “He’s gagging. Get a bucket.”

  Hands tilted his head, and he expelled the contents of his stomach.

  Then he went under again.

  • • •

  “MR. Black, can you open your eyes?”

  Ronin winced when he shook his head. Felt like his brain was grinding against the inside of his skull.

  “Sorry. I have to do this. Hold him still.”

  Someone pried his eyelids open with a crowbar and tried to sear his retinas with laser beams. Tears streamed out the corners of his eyes and down his neck. He tried to twist away, but rough hands held him firm.

  “Almost done.”

  White spots danced behind his lids even after he slammed them shut.

  “Tell me the last thing you remember.”

  Everything had been so fuzzy—shrouded by the pain in his head. “I was nauseous.”

  “Before that?”

  Being in the cage. Existing in that state where he focused on inflicting maximum damage on his opponent. Then being on his motorcycle. Racing toward . . .

  “Sir?” the voice interrupted. “Try to think back. The last image you remember.”

  “I was in a tunnel.”

  “Like tunnel vision?”

  “Yes.”

  “Suddenly bright light? Or very dim?”

  “Both. I saw a pinpoint in the distance; then my peripheral vision blurred and became dark.” He remembered the hardness pressing into his swollen knee and the cooling effects of the flooring on his forearms before everything went black.

  “Do you recall where you were?”

  He squeezed his eyes as if that would help him concentrate. Why couldn’t he remember?

  “Places? People?”

  Wait. He’d banged on a door. Not the door to the dojo but a door in an alley. He’d had a sense of urgency. Of anxiety.

  Amery.

  His stomach twisted. What had he done? Last time he’d had a memory lapse like this . . .

  He’d hurt her.

  He frantically attempted to sit up; the center of his body seemed glued down. His arms and legs were useless. Jesus. Was he paralyzed?

  He clenched his hands into fists. Beeping machines, unidentifiable clicking sounds, the murmur of voices surrounded him as he jerked to free himself.

  “Mr. Black. Stay still.”

  “Why the fuck can’t I move?”

  “The EMTs had to strap you down because you were agitated.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Denver Memorial’s emergency room.”

  “Undo the straps.”

  “I’m sorry. We have to keep you immobilized for your protection and ours.”

  He tried to roll his shoulders. “I didn’t ask to be admitted. You can’t hold me against my will.”

  “Ronin. Stop fighting.” Cool hands pressed against his cheeks. “Please.”

  His heart raced and his body stirred.
“Amery. Are you okay?”

  “I’m better off than you are.” Then her soft fingers smoothed his hair back. “Stay still.”

  Immediately, Ronin relaxed.

  “You seem to have the magic touch,” the persistent voice remarked.

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Amery said.

  “I need to check on something. You’ll be okay staying with him?”

  “Yes.”

  Her gentle touches calmed him but stirred his confusion. “Why are you here?”

  “You asked me to come.”

  “Even after I—”

  “Showed up in the dead of night, bloodied, beat-up, and confused? When I haven’t heard from you in six weeks? Yes.”

  “Did I . . .” He swallowed hard. “Hurt you?”

  “Physically? No. But seeing you like this?” She paused. “That definitely hurts. Especially since I don’t think you’ll remember much of what you’ve said tonight.”

  Even when he tried to open his eyes, he couldn’t. He needed to see her. To make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “I might not remember the past few hours, but I do remember the past few weeks have been hell without you.”

  “Is this where I point out it took a blow to the head before you reached out to me?”

  “You reached out to me first. With that peace offering.”

  “Stop. You’re making no sense.” She trailed her fingertips across his hairline and down his temple. “I can’t imagine how much pain you’re in. What can I do?”

  “Don’t go.”

  “I may not have a choice. Shiori is on her way.”

  “How’d she . . . ?”

  “I called Knox. He contacted her.”

  A shard of pain lanced his brain, as if trying to cleave his head in two. He groaned.

  “Don’t try to talk. Just rest.”

  With her soothing continual touch, he drifted off again.

  • • •

  NEW voices by his bedside roused him.

  “How did he get there after the injury?” a man asked.

  “Apparently he drove his motorcycle.”

  “Impossible. There’s no way this man was capable of operating a vehicle.”

  “You don’t know my brother,” Shiori retorted. “He can block out pain, bend it to his will, use it to his advantage.”

  “Determined man, is he?”

  “Very.”

  “Unfortunately determination is no match for trauma to the head. I see you’ve requested your own physician?”

  “Physicians. I’ve contacted the medical team I want assessing and treating him. Nothing gets done without my permission, understand?”

  “I’m right fucking here, Shiori,” Ronin interjected. “Don’t talk about me like I’m in a goddamn coma.”

  “But you’re not really here, are you? You’re drifting in and out of consciousness, which is why someone needs to make these medical decisions for you.”

  It took too much effort to open his eyes and glare at her.

  “I know better than anyone how you get when you’re injured. Case in point—you’re strapped down. The orthopedist hasn’t been in, nor has the neurologist, nor the plastic surgeon.”

  “Why the fuck do I need a plastic surgeon?”

  “There’s a nasty gash above your eye. A split in your lip. Your nose is swollen. It might be broken again.”

  “Like I give a shit about how I look? Get. Out. I don’t want—nor do I need—you here.”

  “Ronin.” Amery’s soft hand brushed his cheek. “You aren’t thinking straight if you believe your sister has an ulterior motive besides getting you the best medical care as soon as possible.”

  He must really be fucked up if he heard Amery defending Shiori.

  “We’re ready for him in X-ray,” someone said.

  “So what’s it going to be?” Shiori asked.

  “I’ll let you make my immediate medical decisions, but not personal ones. Amery stays with me as long as she wants to.”

  “All right.” Shiori kissed his cheek, then whispered in Japanese, “I only want what’s best for you, brother.”

  “She’s what’s best for me.”

  • • •

  WHEN Ronin woke up the next morning, he half expected to be in his bedroom, the events from the previous night some sort of bad dream. But he was in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV with a cuff thing on his arm.

  He had a vague recollection of being X-rayed head to toe. A chatty doctor providing running commentary as he stitched Ronin’s head and lip. Another doctor forcing him to do leg lifts to gauge damage to his kneecap. Amery’s hand in his as they wheeled him into a private hospital room. Then nothing as pain and consciousness faded away.

  He blinked his bleary eyes. The shades were drawn, and the only light in his room came from the fixture above the sink. But that scant light bathed Amery in an ethereal glow.

  “You’re awake.”

  “Your beautiful face is the very best thing to wake up to.”