The next morning…
Sloane
The shower didn’t help.
Everything about him raced through my mind, from the sound of his fists to the way his eyes had locked onto mine like he already knew what I tasted like. I stood there with the water scalding hot, hands braced against the tile, hoping the heat would burn him out of my head.
It didn’t work.
I still felt it, every inch of him: the muscles, the hardness, the blood, the sweat, the way the crowd had worshipped him. The way I couldn’t look away, even for a second.
I hadn’t said a word to him, hadn’t heard his voice, hadn’t touched him—but somehow, he was still under my skin, and he was in there deep.
I toweled off in a daze, skin pink from the heat, hair dripping, and wrapped myself in a hoodie I stole from Maya’s ex-boyfriend. It still smelled like his cologne, which I only now realize I hated. Everything felt like static around me, and I couldn’t take it.
So I did what any modern girl does when she’s obsessed with a guy that she doesn’t want to admit she’s obsessed with: I Googled him.
Or at least, I tried.
Nikolai underground Boston fight
Too vague. Just brought up old articles about Southie bar brawls and a guy named Niko who runs a boxing gym in Dorchester. Not it.
I chewed my thumbnail.
Okay. Think. The crowd called him something.
I typed: The Hammer underground fighter Boston
Bingo.
I found a blurry photo from a private Discord leak—his back turned, blood on his shoulder, a crowd screaming behind him. The post had dozens of comments.
Hammer doesn’t lose.
This guy’s untouchable. Deadass he fights like he was trained by the fucking Spetsnaz.
My spine prickled.
Then I saw one comment buried in the thread:
Name’s Nikolai Morozov. One of the Russians. Don’t mess with him unless you got a death wish.
Morozov.
The name landed like a rock in my stomach.
I knew that name.
Everyone in Boston’s elite circles did, even if we weren’t supposed to say it out loud. The Morozovs were the kind of people my father never talked about directly. He would just get all tense when they were mentioned. He’d change the subject and have security sweep the perimeter twice.
My throat went dry.
That’s why he felt so different.
He wasn’t just dangerous because of his fists. He was dangerous because of who he was.
Which meant last night, I walked straight into the lion’s den and made eye contact with the lion himself.
I sat back in my chair, wet hair dripping onto the carpet, heart pounding. I should have felt scared, but instead, I felt something else entirely.
Hooked, and a little unhinged.
Because now that I knew who he was?
I wanted more.
