Page 151 of Hearts Storm

A few minutes later, a tall, ridiculously good looking guy walks up to us. Other than his dark hair, a jaw that could cut glass, and intense blue eyes, he looks a lot like Brex. Just as tall, but with a lot more muscle. Which is definitely saying something.

Brex was right. The guy looks like he could snap you in two with just his pinky.

“Sorry I’m late,” he greets, voice deep and rumbly.

Brex stands and pulls his brother into a quick hug. “About time, man. Traffic?”

“Yes.” Rune’s gaze sweeps over our group, lingering on Ari for just an extra beat before he extends a hand to Logan. “Logan. Good to see you.”

He accepts the handshake with a brief nod. “Rune. Been a minute.”

“Too long.” Rune’s eyes shift to me, and I find myself straightening under his intense, scrutinizing gaze.

“Rune, this is Reyna.” Brex presses a possessive hand against my lower back, gesturing at Logan with the other. “Our girlfriend.”

He offers me a small smile, transforming his stern face. “Nice to finally meet you. Brex won’t shut up about you.”

Brex scoffs.

“And this is Ari, Reyna’s friend and Dex’s newest legal rep,” Brex continues, waving at my friend who looks a little awestruck.

His look of surprise quickly morphs into a sly grin. “A pleasure,” Rune purrs as he sits in the empty seat beside her.

“So how long are you in Portland?” Brex asks, leaning forward in his seat.

Rune checks his watch. “Not long, unfortunately. I’m flying back to New York tonight.”

“That’s a quick trip,” I say.

“It’s for work,” he answers with a shrug. “Got a gig with some famous actress. Can’t say who, though.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“It can be. But, most of the time, it’s pretty boring.”

Suddenly, the music changes, bass dropping as the lights cut to black before a single spotlight hits the center of the cage.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Fight Night at the Rose Garden Arena!”

The crowd erupts, the sound vibrating in my chest.

“First up! Hailing from Moscow, Russia—with a professional record of twenty-two wins and three losses—the Siberian Haaamer... VICTOR KAZAKOV!”

Rammstein’s: Du Hast blasts through the speakers as a massive figure emerges from the tunnel on the far side of the arena, flanked by his trainers and cornermen.

Kazakov is huge. Like, cartoonishly huge. His shaved head is gleaming under the lights, and he’s sporting a thick blond beard. His neck is a tree trunk, shoulders like boulders as he walks with a lumbering, predatory swagger toward the cage. Tattoos crawl up both of his arms in what looks like Russian script, crosses, and a bear claw gracing his left pec.

A chorus of boos sounds from all around me. People are getting on their feet, raising their middle fingers and shouting obscenities. Including Ari.

“Jesus,” I mutter, pressing closer to Brex. “They really don’t like this guy.”

“That’s because he’s a dirty fighter,” he explains, leaning in and raising his voice. “Last year he gouged a guy’s eye out and got suspended for six months.”

Kazakov saunters into the octagon, arms raised as he sneers at the crowd.

The announcer lifts a hand as the noise dies down.

“And his opponent! Fighting out of Portland, Oregon—the undefeated champion, with a professional record of thirty-eight wins and zero losses—the Demon of the Northwest... DEXTER SAINT!”