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Brady’s ears go red, but there’s also relief in his expression.

“The point,” I say, “is we’re not hiding. We’re just being strategic about context. At the gym, we’re professional. In public as a group, we’re teammates, which we are. One-on-one, in public we still keep it family, we don’t need someone seeing Cruz attached to Dakotas face and three hours later her kissing Brady. In private, we’re us. It’s not perfect, but it keeps us safe while also keeping the gym free of scrutiny. And one more thing.” I set my glass down. “Whatever happens between us, in private—the second any of you needs or wants out, you say so. Doesn’t matter why. Doesn’t matter when. The door’s not locked.”

Dakota’s whole body stiffens next to Cruz and I wonder what I said wrong. Dante and Cruz’s jaws work and it’s Dante who clears his throat.

“Baby, you need to tell them,” he says, eyes fixed on Dakota.

“Tell us what?” I ask.

Dakota’s fingers tighten around her glass. She stares at the table for a long moment.

“My stepfather,” she says finally. “Gerald. He... he controlled everything. Who I saw. Where I went. Told boys to stay away from me—said it was for my protection, but it wasn’t. He wanted me isolated. Dependent on him.”

Brady goes very still beside me, he may not even be breathing. I feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

“My mom was an alcoholic. Checked out most of the time. Didn’t notice or didn’t want to notice what Gerald was doing.” She swallows hard. “He started when I was fourteen. Coming into my room at night when she was passed out. He’d... touch me at first. Then it became more.”

The atmosphere plummets from the weight of her words. You could hear a pin drop, but no one moves or speaks knowing she needs to say this in her own time. So, we listen.

“He raped me.” Her voice doesn’t waver but her knuckles are white around the glass. “Multiple times. Between fourteen and seventeen. He’d tell me I wanted it. That I asked for it by wearing certain clothes, by looking at him a certain way, by being too friendly. He made me believe it was my fault. That I’d seduced him. That I was the one doing something wrong.”

“Dakota,” My voice breaks.

“I was a kid. I didn’t understand what was happening. I thought.” She stops, breathes. “I thought if I just acted differently, dressed differently, stayed out of his way, it would stop. But it didn’t. It only stopped when I started training seriously. When I got big enough, strong enough to fight back.”

Cruz’s hand has moved to the back of her neck now, anchoring her or himself I’m not entirely sure, but it is clear they both need it. His jaw is so tight I can hear his teeth grinding.

I hold her eyes. “We’re not him. Not ever.”

“I know,” she says. Quiet. “I know that.”

Dante watches her from across the table, careful, the way he watches when he’s deciding whether to step in. She breathes out through her nose. Nods.

For a minute the table’s quiet. The bar buzzes around us, somebody on the jukebox singing something with too much steel guitar. I take another drink and watch my fighters. My people. My new lovers.

Cruz cracks first. “So.” He leans back, arm sliding along the booth behind Dakota’s shoulders. “Now that we’ve done the boring part.”

“Don’t,” I warn.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’ve got that look,” I reply.

“What look?” he asks.

Dante runs a hand through his hair. “The one where you’re about to embarrass everyone at the table.”

“I’m wounded,” Cruz replies, hand on his heart.

“You’ll live,” Dante volleys back.

Cruz grins. Then his eyes go to Dakota, and her face is already pink because she knows what’s coming, she’s known Cruz long enough.

“I just want to say,” he starts, “for the record.”

“Oh god,” Brady mutters.

“For the record. Our girl.” He lifts his beer toward Dakota like a toast. “Has been thoroughly bred by every man at this table.”