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He smiled and nodded, as if he approved of what he saw.
Morosov was announced and was coming down the other aisle.
I took a deep breath before the world changed. The crowd faded into the distance. All that was left was me, the octagon and Igor “the Bull” Morosov, the inexperienced Russian-American fighter. He had a smug grin, the kind a man might have when they think they’re assured of victory.
I’ll rearrange that face in two rounds or less.
Chapter 2
Alastair
Whatawonderfulwayto spend a vacation. The air was humid with human sweat and schadenfreude, and we were lavishing in an amusing, visceral bit of human violence. I was in heaven!
Hugo Martin, my unwilling companion, and I were here to watch a human blood sport that only had a veneer of civility because the referees would try–though not very hard–to keep the opponents from killing one another.
Even the chanting of the crowd had a beautiful melody. The rhythm on which they booed and cheered meshed together like a pulse, like a group of people walking alone, suddenly finding themselves in step with one another. There was music in the chaos that made my blood sing.
This fight would be special. I just knew it. The woman had a reputation of being ruthless. Footage of her in the octagon had become my newest obsession. She fought anyone who challenged her - man, woman, and there were even rumors she wrestled a bull to the ground like Hercules. The last bit was probably just a rumor, though.Possibly.
When she finally emerged, she did not disappoint. The chain link rattled at the applause. The ground vibrated and hummed with energy. She was a specimen. Just as I had remembered from her fight in France, and the victory fuck that we enjoyed afterwards.
I salivated at the memory of her in the locker room, riding me like she was Lady fucking Godiva.
She walked down the aisle with her coronet of black braids, her lips puckered from her mouth guard. Her tiny shorts, smaller than some bikinis, showed every ripple of muscle, and every flex of her tendon. Her back was a work of art. She could have been a bodybuilder.
I teased the small blade on my belt. It was nothing to write home about. Just a blade that was narrow and sharp. It was something for me to fidget with. Something to sharpen when I need to hear the rhythm of metal on stone. Something cold to caress that focused the mind on the present. I touched it now, because this tiny power pack of muscle was sending my blood south.
How would she react to cold steel on her hot flesh? The threat of my blade along the contours of her abs? The idea made me bite my lip in hunger.
“She’s attractive.” Hugo stated in his thick Parisian accent with a smirk. He stroked his thick, rough beard with his thumb and forefinger.
“She is indeed,” I casually agreed, trying not to give away the depth of my obsession.
We made eye contact. It was brief, but I felt the electric moment when her hazel eyes, with their black outer rim, flashed in my direction. I smiled at her, and she scowled in return.
That made me laugh. She couldn’t possibly know that each of her reactions made me want her more.
A dangerous woman, strong in mind, spirit and body, was a creature rarely seen in real life. Most of the men in the audience probably wanted her, whether they admitted it or not. They wanted to conquer that woman, but even the most cursory glance at the men in suits, with their soft hands and smug little faces, told me they had no chance of ever subduing her.
Igor “The Bull” Morosov, her opponent, was going to get crushed.
But there was a suspicious expression on Morosov’s face. There was arrogance in the way he walked, as though he didn’t have a care in the world. It was as if this would be a completely routine affair, not a potentially deadly encounter.
“They think the bull will mount the vixen,” Hugo’s French accent cut through my thoughts.
“Are you listening in on their conversation?” I asked, referring to the audience members talking loudly around us.
“Russians speak so loud.” The xenophobic Frenchman groused. My friend was a bit of a linguist. He picked up Russian while in the French Foreign Legion to listen in on some of the undesirables that were his comrades. “I think they will be disappointed. She’s a killer.”
His comments filled me with pride.
Morosov had his turn to perform for the crowd, his arms up, letting out a loud growl. He made eye contact with a portly man and grinned, his blue mouth guard on full display. The man he looked at was to my left. I could only see his profile. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but by the turn of his cheeks, I knew he was smiling.
“That’s the pakhan of the New York bratva,” Hugo casually commented, staring at Morosov’s friend.
Hugo had a strange, almost encyclopedic knowledge of all mafias worldwide. It was uncanny, but expected, since his background didn’t differ much from mine.
“You recognize the man beside him? The tall one?” Hugo asked, “I’ve seen him before.”
