“Shut the fuck up and square up, you ugly bastard,” he growls impatiently. “I didn’t come here for chitchat. I came here to fight.”
They meet in the center of the platform like two forces of nature colliding.
Sharapova throws a heavy right hook that Killian barely manages to duck, his fist close enough to ruffle his hair. Killian answers with a quick jab to the body, then dances back on light feet before the bigger man can pin him down or corner him against the edge of the platform.
It brings me some small semblance of relief seeing his quick footwork. I remember how Malone had hammered that home on the afternoons I spent doing puzzle books at the gym, secretly watching Killian train.
Sharapova swings again and lands an uppercut that sends Killian stumbling sideways. I flinch and turn my head away, unable to bear watching much more.
The only reason I force myself to is because Killian’s doing this for me. He’s fighting Sharapova to win Fedorov’s deal and save me.
The least I can do is support him from the sidelines, even during the tough moments.
He recovers faster than expected and fires back with a one-two combination—first a sharp jab to Sharapova’s face, followed by a hard cross to his jaw that snaps the giant’s head to the side.
For the first time since this match began, Sharapovaactuallylooks hurt.
It prompts Fedorov to shout at him in Russian. Though I can’t decipher what exactly is being said, Icantell it’s nothinggood. He’s pissed his prized fighter has dared to show even a modicum of weakness.
The men go back to ducking and dodging each other in the makeshift ring. Sharapova seems shaken, still recovering from the first real misstep he’s made. In contrast, Killian’s slipping back into his fast footwork and strategic strikes.
They eventually trade more blows at the center of the ring, neither giving ground. They absorb each other’s punches and counter others.
…at least at first.
Then Sharapova fails to block a hook from Killian. Blood squirts from his nose, spilling down his jaw.
“YES!” I scream at the top of my lungs. I jerk against the blond soldier’s grip as he tries to restrain me and hold me back. “Come on, Killer—you can do it!”
My words seem to energize Killian.
He presses forward and throws a rapid combination of more punches that almost knock Sharapova off his feet. He sees his opening, his opponent weakening by the second, and deals him another crushing blow.
Sharapova outright grunts taking the hit. He backs away, half doubled over. He’s not used to being on the receiving end. Being the one on defense.
His raw power usually carries him through his matches.
The change makes him desperate.Sloppy.
He throws a haymaker that Killian anticipates, easily ducking under. It creates another chance for him to counterattack with a swift uppercut.
The Russian fighter’s head is thrown back from the force of it. He staggers, struggling to stay on his feet, with arms dropping to his sides.
His fall is like a tree coming down. Some huge tree a lumberjack’s cut off at the stump, the descent happeningin slow motion.
When he slams into the canvas, he’s not getting back up. His eyes are glassy, his face in bloody, bruised ruin.
He simply lays where he’s collapsed, body occasionally twitching.
The chamber erupts into outrage as guards start shouting and Fedorov screams something in Russian that I can’t understand.
I’ve remained silent, though the happy tears glossing my eyes say enough. A wave of happiness washes over me that has me lightheaded.
Killian’s won. He’s really done it!
He’s battered and a little unsteady on his feet, but he’s beaten Ivan Sharapova!
Our victory is short-lived.
