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It's maddening. I want to shake some sense into her and hold her close all at once. But I can't do either. Not without revealing just how deeply I feel for her. The weight of my emotions, the responsibility to Viktor, and the looming danger of the Death Match settle heavily on me.
The stark overhead light casts uneven shadows on the room's grimy walls, and the faint smell of sweat and blood lingers in the air. I shift uneasily, feeling the weight of the unspoken words between Anastasia and me.
"Why are you being so damn protective, Samuil?" Her voice breaks the silence, a note of exasperation laced with genuine curiosity.
It's a simple question, one that shouldn't be so hard to answer. And yet, with the emotions swirling inside me, putting it into words feels like navigating a minefield.
"Look, Ana," I begin, choosing my words carefully, "I've seen too many good fighters get hurt—or worse—in these underground matches. I just don't want anything to happen to you."
She narrows her eyes, her sharp intellect always quick to read between the lines. "Is that the only reason?"
I clear my throat, the weight of our past and my long-suppressed feelings pressing down on me. "It's... complicated."
Her gaze softens. "Then make it simple for me."
Drawing a deep breath, I decide to take a safer path. "You're Viktor's sister, and he's my best friend. I've always looked out for both of you. It's just what I do."
She studies me for a moment, seemingly considering my words. Then, with a determined glint in her eyes, she says, "If you're so worried about me, then coach me. Train me for the Death Match."
My brows knit in surprise. "You want me to coach you?"
She nods firmly. "If you're there with me, guiding me, maybe you won't worry so much. Besides," she adds with a smirk, "think of the winnings we could split."
The thought of it is tempting. To be there every step of the way, ensuring she's prepared and protected. And yet, the risk... "I don't need the money," I counter.
Anastasia rolls her eyes. "It's not about the money, Samuil. It's about keeping me safe, right? Besides, with your expertise and my skill, we'd be unstoppable."
I can't help but chuckle at her confidence, even as my concerns linger. "You really think I can help you?"
She gives me a knowing smile. "I wouldn't have asked otherwise."
A heavy silence falls between us, but it's not uncomfortable. It's filled with unspoken understanding, a silent agreement that we're in this together, for better or worse. Finally, with a resigned sigh, I extend my hand. "Alright, deal. But remember, if things get too dangerous, I’m pulling the plug. Agreed?"
She grasps my hand firmly, sealing our pact. "Agreed."
As we shake on it, the weight on my shoulders feels a little lighter, though the road ahead remains uncertain. With our arrangement settled, urgency returns to Anastasia's expression. "We should get to the hospital. Check on Viktor."
I nod, remembering the state her brother was in. "Yes, we should."
We leave the grimy room and make our way to my car. The rain has subsided, leaving behind a cool, crisp night. As the engine of my G-Wagon roars to life, I can't help but think that despite the challenges that lie ahead, with Anastasia by my side, we'll conquer each and every one of them.
Chapter 3
Anastasia
“Are you insane? You let my sister sign up for the Death Match? I’m going to shove my foot up your ass when I get out of here.”
Viktor's eyes blaze with contained infernos, sparking a contrast against the pallid hospital walls. My hands, steady until now, tremble slightly at the intensity in his gaze.
His words, though weakly spoken, slash through the sterile air of the hospital room, landing heavily between Samuil and me.
Samuil, unwavering beside me, responds with a calmness that only slightly appeases the anger in Viktor’s eyes. “What’s done is done. Her name is already on the board, and she fought… well, she fought like a demon.”
My brother's stare turns toward me, a mixture of frustration and reluctant admiration swirling within. “Stasya, you could be killed.”
Viktor, always a pillar of strength and unyielding determination, lays before me, a stark contrast to the fighter I've always known. His face is puffy, both eyes blackened, one still swollen shut. His nose is broken and there is a gash across his forehead. Any visible skin is marred by sickly hues of purple andyellow, evidence of the brutality he endured. A few of his ribs are broken and his hands are bruised and torn, telltale signs of defensive wounds from trying to fight back.
His broad shoulders, often held high with the confident poise of a seasoned warrior, now seem to sag into the sterile white sheets, burdened by a helplessness I've never seen in him before.
