Chapter 8 - Wrapping Hands With Cold And Calculated Professional Precision
Nessa walked into the concrete-walled referee room attached to the arena, dropping her gym bag onto a wooden bench.
She sat down, unzipped her bag, and pulled out her white cloth mouthguard, slipping it securely between her teeth.
She checked the tightness of her hand wraps one last time, biting down on the fabric to pull each knot taut.
A knock echoed against the heavy wooden door before it swung open to reveal Ezra Blackwood standing on the threshold.
He looked different without his designer suit; his lean, heavily muscled torso was corded with sharp definition and old training scars.
“You didn't bring a corncorner person,” Ezra noted, his pale gray eyes scanning her athletic frame with clinical curiosity.
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“I don’t need someone to hand me a water bottle for a two-round sparring session,” Nessa replied, standing up to her full height.
Ezra tilted his head, a faint, cold smirk touching the corner of his lips. “Confidence is loud, Miss Caldwell. Let’s see how it holds up.”
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