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I could feel it. Time, slowing down. My focus narrowed to the most important threat. Morosov himself, his brows furrowing and his snarl starting at the wrinkle of his nose.
“And even with daddy’s help,” I said, turning around in the audience in a strange, theatrical pirouette. “You still got your ass kicked by a girl.”
Chuckles started around us. The energy of the crowd was turning against him, enjoying the schadenfreude of Morosov’s humiliation. I saw a phone come up, the camera side facing me.That’s right, assholes. Get the word out.
“I bet that was really embarrassing.” I sucked in a breath in a cringe. Morosov clutched at the chain link of the octagon, his eyes following my every move. If looks could kill… “I’m happy you were able to continue fighting, though!” I continued to circle the man in his little cage. Even the King, now sitting on the mat, was grinning at me. “I would have been way too embarrassed after my opponent rearranged my face. Way to be resilient, buddy.”
“Lies!” Morosov growled, his face turning as red as a bowl of borscht.
The crowd took his outburst as confirmation of my words. They chuckled at his humiliation.
“What?” I said, feigning an offense that would have been perfect on a southern belle. “Me? A liar?”
It was time to clinch it. To put the nail in the man’s coffin. I wouldn’t just punch his face into the mat. I would smear his blood on the white canvas until I made an abstract work of art. Rage was building up with me, like I was caught in the tidal wave of my own making and I was swept up in it, fueled by the sports fans around me who knew, down in their gullets, that this man was a cheat, a liar.
He deserved to be broken for destroying the single tenant that fighters believe in: That skill makes the fighter. Not politics. That in the octagon, it is skill against skill, man against man with fists and feet.
“You think you could beat me, honestly?” I asked him, loud enough for the world to hear because the question was not for him. It was for everyone in the room. “Will you put your money where your ugly mouth is?”
Morosov straightened, seeing himself painted into a corner. Phones were out - it looked like there were dozens, if not hundreds of them out now, recording, broadcasting, advertising his shame. The photographers, with their large flashing bulbs popped, the clicks like the beating of a drum.
“I’ve just finished a fight.” He said, lamely. “You would have an advantage.”
The man was falling into my trap so beautifully I could have choreographed it myself.
I pulled my shirt over my head, revealing a sports bra, and the mangled flesh, still healing, of my bullet wound.
“Really?” I called with a cruel laugh. I walked to the nearest man seated near me, and pointed at the mangled skin of my abdomen, and the hole that was still scabbed and healing. “This was given to me by the bratva. A bullet wound because I did not allow this man to beat me.” The room started chattering again. “I think you would have the advantage.” Then I lowered my voice. My next word was a threat, and a taunt. “Or are you scared?”
Morosov spat at my insult.
“You don’t frighten me,little girl.“ No other answer would have been accepted. Not if he wanted to inherit becoming pakhan from his father.
“Good!” I clapped my hands together, and kicked off my heels. “Let the Italian out of the cage, and you and I can have a rematch.”
The crowd roared with cheers and applause. I glanced at Hugo, who was nodding in approval. They screamed at the top of their lungs. This fight was going to happen, and it was going to happen now.
I laughed, and found the entrance of the octagon, dropping my trousers on the way, leaving nothing but my tight shorts.
Once I squared against Morosov, the crowd went still. They were rapt. Ready to see this fight. I had given them something so delicious, they couldn’t resist. I could practically feel the room salivating at the spectacle they were about to see.
“Take off the gloves, you little bitch.” I narrowed my eyes. “Bare knuckles, like a real bar fight.”
He narrowed his eyes, but complied. But he did leave on his knuckle wraps, probably hoping not to hurt his fragile hands. But this was what Jericho had trained me for. For pain. For the real, visceral combat that could exist in and out of the octagon.
Morosov put up his fists, and I could see the hesitance in his eyes. He knew what was at stake. If he lost, he’d never fight again. That was fine by me because he didn’t deserve to be here, to be in the kinship of sportsmen who wanted to be as close to the only real fight there was.
I bit my lip with joy. I couldn’t help it. My vision narrowed on Morosov, the crowd disappearing. I felt my nipples grow hard. Was I aroused at the prospect of killing this man? I didn’t question it. I hoped that Alastair would come soon. I would mount him in Morosov’s blood.
The bell was about to ding when there was a roar. Doors banged open, and the sound of feet filing in as a line of men clad in black from head to toe, thick body armor across their chest, surrounded us. They lined against the wall, their guns pointed at me. Women and men screamed. Chairs clattered as people hit the floor. Hugo sat perfectly still, carelessly twirling his phone between his index and thumb.
When the screams subsided, I saw an angry, tomato-red Anton Vasiliev standing on the floor outside the octagon. I could see his expression through the black chain link and it made me grin.
“I’m delighted to see you,” I told the man, loud enough for everyone to hear. The men in black, the whimpering audience on the floor, and anyone who still had a camera at this event. I exaggeratedly turned to Morosov. “Did you call daddy to come help you?” I pouted mockingly at him. Then in a mocked, whiny voice I said, “Daddy needs to change your diaper?”
Morosov was incensed. “No! We fight. Now!”
“Right. The bell, ref!” I said, bringing my fists up, demanding that they ring at the start of our match.
