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He grunts, trying to straighten up. "I'm okay," he rasps, but the strain in his eyes tells a different story.
"You're not," I counter, my voice shaky. "You need medical attention, and fast."
He stares at me, the typical guarded look in his eyes slowly dissipating, showing me a rarely seen weakness beneath. It’s a look that’s equal parts gratitude, pain, and something more—something that sends a warm flutter through my chest despite the grim moment.
"We're gonna get out of here," I tell him, fiercely determined. "Together."
As Samuil pulls out zip ties, I raise an eyebrow. "You just carry those around with you?"
A smirk tugs at his lips, even as his face is tinged with pain. "Always prepared. Occupational hazard," he grunts, securing one of the men's wrists.
I snort, "Any other surprises in those pockets? Should I be worried or excited?"
His laughter is short-lived but genuine.
I help him zip tie the other men, ensuring they're all secured. Once we're certain they aren’t going anywhere, my attention goes right back to the deep gash on his side, blood still seeping out. My fingers brush against the sticky wetness, my heart thudding loudly in my ears. "Why the hell did you do that?" I demand, torn between gratitude and anger.
His dark eyes meet mine. "Better me than you."
I open my mouth to argue, but my name booms over the intercom, jolting me back to reality. The next fight. My fight. It's about to start.
"I need to know you're okay," I murmur, torn between my duty in the ring and my need to care for Samuil.
He nods toward the direction of the ring, determination in his eyes. "Go. I’ll be fine. Take the rage you’re feeling and use it against your opponent. Win this for both of us."
Tears sting my eyes but I nod, planting a quick, fierce kiss on his lips. "Wait for me. I’ll be back."
"And I'll be here, cheering you on," he replies, his voice filled with pride and unwavering belief.
With one last glance, I sprint toward the ring, ready to channel all my emotions, all my fire, into the fight ahead. For Samuil.
Chapter 16
Anastasia
The roar of the crowd surrounds me, a disharmony of voices, each baying for blood. The energy is intoxicating, a visceral wave of anticipation that makes my skin prickle and my heart race. In moments like this, I find it hard to remember a time when I wasn't a fighter. There's such a familiarity to it, and yet the thrill and exhilaration of it always feels brand new.
I take a moment to glance at the faces looking up at me; I'm mildly surprised. The crowd is chanting my name, a few holding up signs with my face plastered on them, my nickname of Tsarina written underneath. Seems I’ve gained a bit of a following. "We’re popular today," I whisper to myself, smirking.
On the other side of the ring, the looming figure of a man sneers at me. He's a mountain of muscles, nearly a foot taller than Samuil, with a shaved head and a beard that can't quite hide the tattoos crawling up his neck. They call him "The Bulldozer," a testament to his reputation for leaving nothing but wreckage in his wake.
I appraise him critically, the memories of my conversations and passionate moments with Samuil flitting through my mind. This man, this brute, is a perverse caricature of Samuil—lackingthe soulful depth, the cunning wit, and the quiet strength. Just a mass of muscle without any of the heart.
The Bulldozer steps forward, cocking his head to the side with a smirk, displaying yellowed, crooked teeth. "Ready to be flattened, little girl?" he calls, his voice booming.
A few members of the audience laugh, but I'm undeterred. I circle him, light on my feet. "We'll see who gets flattened," I retort, hoping my bravado sounds more confident than I feel.
No sooner had the words left my mouth than the gong sounds, marking the start of the match. The Bulldozer comes out swinging, each blow carrying enough force to level a building. I dodge to the left, then to the right, ducking beneath his wide arcs, feeling the gusts of wind with each missed strike.
Each of his moves is powerful but predictable, a rhythm I quickly pick up on. It becomes a gambol of aggression and evasion. The Bulldozer grunts in frustration, his missed blows only fueling his anger.
I take advantage of an overextended swing, sliding in close, landing a solid punch to his ribs. He grunts in pain, and for a split second, I see doubt in his eyes. I press my advantage, aiming for speed and precision over brute force.
Each time The Bulldozer’s fist comes flying my way, I deftly evade, reading the trajectory of his next move before he even seems to be aware of it himself. His weight, intended to be his primary advantage, becomes the very thing that works against him. Each missed swing, each off-balance lurch forward exposes another weak point.
It’s clear his usual tactics aren't working on me. In the next round, he tries a different strategy, coming at me with more restraint, attempting to corner me. Ducking beneath a particularly wild swing, I deliver a solid kick to his knee, followed by an uppercut that sends him stumbling back.
It's the final push I need. Using his backward momentum against him, I aim a final, forceful kick straight to his chest. The Bulldozer goes down like a felled tree, and I step back, chest heaving, arms raised in victory.
