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When I reenter the training room, she’s back to her routine, a mask of concentration adorning her features, but there's a fragility there that wasn't visible before. Our eyes lock, the moment stretches, and unspoken words hang heavy between us.
She’s too damn smart to not have clocked my reaction. Her eyes, probing, maddening, hint at a understanding that I'm neither ready to face nor capable of acknowledging.
“Let’s get to work,” I bark, more harshly than intended. Boundaries need to be reestablished if we’re going to get through this unscathed.
But as we fall into a rhythm, her body moving fluidly through each strike and block, I can't shake the haunting thought that we're already far beyond any safe line, and retreating is no longer an option.
Chapter 5
Samuil
The noise of the underground is a symphony of chaos and anticipation, sounds bounding off the damp, mold-stained walls of an abandoned warehouse. An atmosphere of anarchy prevails as money changes hands, and bets are placed in hurried whispers.
The ring—more a makeshift space demarcated with battered ropes—is set aglow by the harsh light from rigged-up bulbs, creating an island of focus amid the commotion of the crowd. Shadows dance on the worn, blood-stained wooden planks, telling tales of previous violence.
My breath is a steady stream of controlled inhales and exhales, yet beneath my stern exterior, a storm rages, torn between duty and fear. Anastasia, hands wrapped, and eyes ablaze with excitement, turns toward me, her lips parting to speak.
"I can handle this, Samuil."
My jaw clenches, eyes scanning over the beast of a man she’s about to face. He’s a mountain—muscles bloated with the aid of steroids, tattoos snaking over his limbs, each one likely marking victories of carnage. He grins, a grotesque display of overconfidence and disregard for the woman before him. Arevulsion simmers within me, yet Ana, ever the warrior, doesn’t waver.
I lean closer, voice low and rough. "Ana, let me take the first round, test his weaknesses. You don’t need to prove anything here."
Her gaze is unyielding. "But I do, Samuil. To myself, if no one else."
With a huff, I fall back, eyes scanning the chaos around us. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and desperation, the latter most tangible in the hungry eyes of the audience, awaiting vicious brutality as entertainment.
Anastasia’s hand lands on my arm, a quiet reassurance, yet beneath her calm demeanor, I see a flicker of apprehension. She’s brave, not fearless, and the distinction becomes clear.
We walk toward the ring together, an unspoken pact tethering us amidst the bedlam. The crowd, a mass of impatience and exhilaration, calls out for violence, their cheers wild as the fighters are announced.
“Samuil,” she speaks, barely audible over the din.
I look down, met with eyes to a soul that has seen too much yet remains unbroken. “Stay safe,” my words are terse, emotion restrained, but she understands, nodding once before stepping into the ring.
As the lights dim, the announcer's voice booms through the echoing space. "Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready for the main event of the evening?" The crowd roars in approval, the sound deafening. "In this corner, weighing in at two hundred and seventy-five pounds, undefeated in the last ten fights, is... Breaker!"
The crowd erupts again.
The announcer continues, his voice charged with excitement, "Facing him, the mysterious contender… Tsarina!"
I can't help but smile at that.Tsarina, a name befitting the confident woman I've always known Anastasia to be. I'm not sure who gave her the nickname, but it’s perfect. Regal, powerful, yet unmistakably feminine. It's a title she's damn well earned.
As her opponent leers, a malicious intent gleaming in his eyes, Anastasia holds her ground, defiance etching every line of her frame.
The bell sounds, a dull clang signaling the commencement of brutality.
My hands curl into fists as he lunges, a snarl erupting from his twisted expression. Ana quickly sidesteps, but he’s a torrent of raw, drug-fueled power and lands a grazing blow to her side. The crowd roars, a sound of fervor and collective bloodlust.
She regains her footing, darting in with a swift jab, then out again before he can counter. This dance of violence continues, and with every evaded strike, every counter she lands, the knot in my chest tightens.
It’s not enough to avoid his blows—she has to dominate, to subdue and outwit the behemoth before her. She's capable and skilled, but he's a wall of unfeeling muscle, and every hit she takes is a searing pain in my own gut.
The round progresses, a blur of movement and aggression, each fighter landing blows, the outcome teetering on a razor's edge. Ana's footwork is precise, her strikes, deliberate. She moves with a grace born of strict discipline, and it’s working. He’s slowing, but he's not defeated.
The bell tolls again, signaling a pause, and as she retreats to the corner where I stand, our eyes lock, an exchange of unspoken words. I pass her a bottle of water, muscles coiled, ready to leap into the fray if need be.
She wipes blood from her lip, a scarlet streak against her pale skin, and says, “I've got him.”
