Scarlet Voss: Seduction Behind the Slamhouse Walls

 

The echoes of cheers still lingered in the air, but deep beneath SlamHouse Arena, the hallway to the private locker rooms felt like another world—one draped in shadows and secrets.

Scarlet Voss walked alone, her boots clicking softly against the concrete, each step echoing like a countdown. Sweat clung to her sculpted frame, her raven-black ring gear now streaked with hints of crimson—not all of it hers. The match had been brutal. She had won. But it wasn’t victory that lingered in her chest. It was him.

She paused before Locker Room 6—the only one with a flickering red bulb above it. Her name was freshly etched on the door, but even that couldn’t distract her from the fact that this room once belonged to Ryder Kael—SlamHouse’s most dangerous man, now suspended after what the tabloids called "The Incident."

Scarlet opened the door.

Inside, the light was low, the air thick with heat and something unspoken. Her eyes caught the faint outline of a mirror in the far corner, and beneath it… a red satin envelope.

She didn’t touch it right away.

Instead, she unwrapped the tape from her fists slowly, letting her adrenaline burn itself out. Her breathing evened. The silence hummed. Then finally—fingers still trembling—she slid the envelope open.

Inside was a single note, hand-scrawled, unmistakably his.

> "You fight like someone who enjoys pain.

But can you handle what comes after midnight?

–R.K."

Scarlet’s lips curled into a smirk. He was watching. From somewhere.

She tossed the note onto the bench and walked to the mirror. Her reflection looked back—fierce, stained, alive. A woman who didn’t just survive in SlamHouse. She owned it.

“You showed up late,” came a voice from the shadows.

She didn’t flinch.

Ryder Kael stepped out from the far corner, towel draped around his neck, shirtless, every muscle flexing with silent intensity. The man was supposed to be out of the building. Security breach? Or did they let him in?

“You’re not on the card,” she said flatly, eyeing him in the mirror.

“I’m not here for the card,” he replied, stepping closer. “I came to see the woman who made Valentina tap in under four minutes.”

Scarlet arched a brow. “Didn’t take much. She folds when someone breathes too hard.”

“But you didn’t just beat her,” Ryder said. “You studied her. Broke her rhythm. Then you smiled.”

He was close now. Too close. The heat from his body touched her spine even though he hadn’t laid a hand.

“People say I play dirty,” Scarlet said, turning to face him fully. “But you… you haunt people. You don’t win matches. You infect minds.”

Ryder chuckled softly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Their eyes locked.

For a moment, time stalled. There was no cheering crowd, no cameras, no lights—only the two of them and the walls that knew too many secrets.

She stepped forward, just an inch. “Why the note?”

“To see if you’d come.” His voice was velvet laced with danger. “And to remind you—SlamHouse doesn’t just breed champions. It breeds obsessions.”

“And you think I’m one of yours?” she asked, lips almost brushing his.

“I think you’re one of us,” he corrected.

Suddenly, the overhead light sparked—bright, hot, and intrusive. The spell broke.

Scarlet took a step back. “I don’t play games, Ryder.”

He moved past her, slowly, his breath grazing her collarbone like smoke. “Then why are you still here?”

The door closed behind him, leaving Scarlet alone again—heart racing, hands curled into fists.

She stared at her reflection once more. The smirk returned.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.