Nikolai
There’s a rhythm to it.
The moment before a fight.
The crowd was electric, the ring already drenched in sweat and oversized egos from the fights before mine. Every step I took toward that rope was calculated and deliberate—the kind of slow that made men nervous and women hold their breath.
I lived for that moment. That heartbeat where the world narrows to just me, my opponent, and the part of myself that I didn’t show anyone unless they’re stupid enough to step in front of me in the ring.
I stepped into the light and the noise hit—shouting, stomping, the metal thrum of music pulsing through the floor. I scanned the crowd like I always did, not looking for faces, just exits. Weak points. Any sort of trouble.
And then I saw her.
Fuck me.
I stopped mid-step. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the punch to my gut that has nothing to do with fists.
I saw her leaning against the barricade, arms crossed under that little leather jacket, like she was daring anyone to get close enough for her to deliver a punch of her own. Eyes dark-rimmed, mouth painted in a shade that was begging to be smudged. There was a slit in her black dress that rode high up her thigh, like she wore it knowing someone was going to get caught looking.
I’m that someone.
She wasn’t like the others here. Not pretending to be tough. Not trying too hard. She looks like she came for blood, just to see what it tasted like.
And she was young.
But not sweet. Not soft.
She was trouble.
My kind of trouble.
I forced myself to breathe, to move one more step into the ring, but I had to look at her again. I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t just her looks or her attitude, or the legs that went on forever.
I knew her.
Sloane Kingsley.
The fucking mayor’s daughter.
I’d seen her face on news clips, in social media photos people pass around like candy. Always causing a scene. Always smirking in court after her father bailed her out of whatever fresh scandal she stirred up. Breaking rules because no one’s ever made her follow them.
Until maybe now.
If she were mine, that mouth would be the first thing I’d handle. Then she’d learn real quick what ‘over my knee’ meant when that attitude got out of hand. I knew she’d be just the type that would test every line just to see what happened when she crossed it.
Spoiled, reckless, too damn pretty for her own good.
And walking straight into my world like she owned it.
Fucking hell.
My jaw flexed. I rolled my shoulders, tried to shake it off. The fight was what mattered. Volkov’s no joke. This wasn’t just a fight—it was about territory. Reputation. Family.
Yet even as I faced the other side of the ring and stared down a man built like a refrigerator with a mean streak, I could still feel her eyes on me.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her.
But I was, and I already knew: she was going to be a goddamn problem.
I cracked my neck to the left. Then the right. Rolled my shoulders once.
Volkov was already in the ring, pacing back and forth like a caged animal, eyes locked on me like he was starving. Good. Let him feel hungry. Let him think this was about size, about rage.
It never was.
This was about control.
The ref said something I didn’t hear. Didn’t matter. The second he dropped his hand, I stepped forward, ready to fight.
Volkov rushed toward me like he was trying to end it early.
Rookie mistake.
I ducked under the first swing, letting his momentum carry him half a step past, and drove my elbow into his ribs. As he staggered back, I heard the sound of his breath knock out of him—a hard exhale, just loud enough to satisfy.
The crowd screamed after that. They always did.
I didn’t really hear them.
I heard the blood pumping in my ears. I felt the ring shift beneath my boots. I saw fists and angles and the way Volkov dropped his right shoulder just a little too early.
He was giving himself away.
He took another swing at me. I blocked it, threw a left hook to his jaw and made contact. He staggered back, just for a second.
Moving forward, I didn’t give him room to breathe. I moved in fast, like a dog off the leash, and drove a fist into his gut. Followed it with a short, brutal uppercut to his chin that snapped his head back.
That’s when I felt it.
Her.
It’s like her stare was a hand dragging across my skin.
My focus stuttered, just for a second.
Volkov took advantage, landing a glancing blow to my temple. Pain bloomed bright and hot behind my eye.
Motherfucker.
I shook it off, and smiled.
“You hit like a girl,” I muttered under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear. His eyes flashed, and he charged me after that.
Without pause, I sidestepped, catching him under the ribs again—this time with enough force to lift him half an inch off the mat—and when he hunched forward in reflex, I drove my knee into his face.
His nose broke with a satisfying crack. Blood poured out instantly.
He stumbled back. Dazed. Humiliated.
I didn’t chase him.
I straightened slowly, chest rising and falling, the sweat starting to drip down my back. I tilted my head—and caught her staring again.
Sloane.
Still standing near the barricade. Still watching me like I was the most dangerous thing in the room—and like maybe she didn’t hate that. Her mouth was slightly parted. Her arms were still crossed, but her eyes… they were wide.
Curious.
Turned on?
Fuck. Maybe she was…
I tore my gaze away and swung back toward Volkov. He wiped his face off, cracked his neck, his ego pissed off enough now to be reckless.
Perfect.
Stupidly, he charged again, clumsy and wild.
I met him in the middle, ducking and stepping inside his guard. Landed three shots to the gut, one to the jaw. He went down hard, flat on his back, arms flailing like a turtle flipped upside down on its shell.
The crowd lost its mind.
The ref started to count. I didn’t even move. Just stood there, staring down at him like I was bored.
Unfortunately, he didn’t make it to ten. He only made it to six.
Volkov pushed himself to his feet with blood dripping from his nose, eyes glassy but furious. He was hurt, embarrassed, and just conscious enough to be dangerous. Guys like him were all the same—too much muscle, not enough brain.
They didn’t know when they’d lost. Didn’t know when to quit.
“Come on,” I goaded, my voice lethal. “Make it interesting.”
He obliged me.
Rushed me with a grunt and swung wide—utterly predictable. I allowed the punch to glance off my shoulder, pivoted, and hammered a right hook into his jaw. His head snapped to the side, sweat spraying into the air like mist under the arena lights.
He roared. Charged again.
This time, he slammed into me full force, wrapped an arm around my middle, and tried to drive me into the ropes. I staggered back, boots dragging across the mat, crowd screaming like animals, blood in my mouth, eyes on his throat.
And then I twisted. Hard.
Quickly, I shifted my weight, slammed my heel down, and turned into him with a grunt, arm locking around the back of his neck. I drove my knee into his ribs—once, twice—feeling something crack. He grunted in pain.
Somehow, he was still standing.
Impressive.
It was over, though.
He swung again—slow, sluggish—and I ducked under it, stepped in, and unloaded. Left hook. Right jab. Uppercut. Another. Another. His head jerked with every hit, his knees buckling beneath him.
One last breath.
One last shot.
I spun and slammed my elbow across his temple—a clean, brutal strike that dropped him like dead weight to the canvas.
Boom.
He didn’t get back up.
Not this time.
The crowd exploded.
The ref started counting again, but I already knew I’d won. Volkov wouldn’t be coming back from that one.
I stood there, chest heaving, blood dripping down my forearm, and I looked straight ahead.
Right into her eyes.
