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“No,” is all he says to me.
“You can’t turn me away,” I argue. “I’m here to bet.”
“Listen,” he says, twisting the toothpick between his thin lips. “I don’t know what a pretty thing like you is doing in a place like this, but it’s better if you stay away.” He dismisses me, going back to the phone in his hands.
Motherfucker, what’s with all these men underestimating women? It really gets old after a while.
“You clearly don’t know who I am,” I drawl, crossing my arms over my chest.
“A princess?” He chuckles darkly, amused at his lame joke.
I smile widely. “You could say that. The Kozlov Bratva princess. I’m sure you’re familiar with my brother, Andrei. Or maybe you know Daniil or Leonid?”
He freezes in place. His head slowly rises from his phone, his eyes widening in recognition. I don’t give him time to getanother word in. I swiftly pull out a thick wad of cash from my jacket, letting the green notes speak for themselves.
“Now, once again… Move over. I’m here to bet.”
With a begrudging nod, he steps aside, granting me entry.
I push through the doors. Bloodlust, testosterone, and the heavy scent of sweat fill my nostrils. The vast, dimly lit area echoes with shouts and the thuds of fists striking flesh. The crowd is thick, lining the walls around the space, and at the heart of the commotion is the fighting ring. A makeshift square bordered by fraying ropes, with a ground stained by blood.
My eyes search the crowd for Maxim’s tall lean frame, but it’s too dark to make out any familiar features without getting in people’s way, and I have no intention of doing that. It’s hard to imagine a man as refined as Maxim choosing to hang out in a place like this, unless he has backroom business, but he didn’t look like he was stepping into a meeting. He was dressed to fit in.
Without warning, a hush falls over the crowd. A massive bear of a man with a shaved head and bulging muscles steps into the ring.
"Tonight," a voice bellows, "a special match for our regulars and anyone who's got the balls to bet against our reigning champion. The Butcher is taking on … The Russian.”
My head snaps up, searching the ring as a chill seeps into my bones. There he is, standing at one corner of the ring. No fanfare, no pomp. Only raw power and a look that would make the bravest man cower.
My thighs clench at the sight of him because … wow. It’s the first time I’ve seen him shirtless, and he steals my breath away. Maxim's ripped muscles stand out against his golden skin. He turns around, and his back is a canvas of tattoos and scars—not what I imagined was hiding under his ten-thousand-dollar suits. He’s not covered in tattoos, but the ink he does have on hisback is simple and evocative—a broken chain and a chess knight, rendered in bold, black ink.
I push to the front of the crowd, desperate for a closer view. One thing is clear: Maxim is a born fighter. He appears completely at ease in the ring, every inch the predator on a hunt, unfazed by the beast of a man standing across from him.
A prickle of worry skitters across my skin. I mean, his opponent is named The Butcher! The bell clangs, and the fight begins.
I hold my breath as both men circle each other like gladiators in an ancient arena. The Butcher makes the first move, and it’s on. They clash with the ferocity of a storm. The Butcher uses his sheer size, aiming heavy punches and trying to corner Maxim, but each time he lunges, Maxim dodges, countering with precise, calculated strikes to the giant’s head and torso.
Like a bear that’s been poked, The Butcher charges forward, delivering a swift and punishing blow to Maxim’s exposed side. Maxim winces, a flash of pain crossing his expression. He recovers quickly, his focus lasered on his opponent.
Maxim moves like a panther, striking with a roundhouse kick to the gut that lands with surgical precision. He isn't a brawler; he’s a tactician.
Watching him is doing funny things to my insides. The crowd is in a frenzy, matching the intensity inside the ring.
Maxim’s eyes sweep over the crowd briefly, and then stop on me.
Shit! I try to pull up my hoodie, but it’s too late. He saw me, and he looksfurious.
On instinct, I turn around to run, but the mass of bodies makes it near impossible to get through. I’m trapped in place.
In a move that has the crowd gasping, Maxim ducks a wild punch from The Butcher, which throws the bigger man off balance. It’s the only opening Maxim needs. He counters with adevastating uppercut, followed by a swift kick to the side of his knee, and The Butcher goes down hard, groaning in pain. With a snarl, Maxim pounces, pressing an elbow into the other man’s throat until he hits the mat three times, admitting defeat.
Maxim stands victorious, but there's no joy in his expression, no triumphant roar. Only a look of raw fury, directed straight at me.
Fuuuuck.
A chill sweeps through me, and now I run in earnest. Screw the crowd still buzzing from the adrenaline of the fight—I elbow people out of the way as I beeline for the door. I have enough sense not to look back, to keep moving towards the exit. When I’m out of here, I’ll get in a cab and go straight to one of my brothers' homes.
Just as freedom is within reach, an unyielding arm snakes around my waist, yanking me back into a hot, muscled chest.
