Several fighters enter through a back entrance, each one looking more menacing than the one before him. There’s one in particular that catches my attention. He’s wearing a black hoodie and black mesh shorts. His hood is drawn, cloaking his face in shadows. There’s something oddly familiar about him, but I just can’t place it.
“God, they’re all so freaking hot,” Darby comments, making me smile. She does love bad boys.
I stare at the one in the black hood, and I swear I can feel him staringright back. A shiver runs through me, and I tear my gaze away from him.
Several minutes pass until the announcer gets back in the center of the ring and tells people that betting time is over. “The first fight will begin now.”
Two scrawny teens get into the ring and begin punching the hell out of each other. One is left with a bloody nose and probably several broken bones considering how bruised his chest and ribs are before he calls the fight on his own, ending it in the second round. The crowd erupts into chaos, booing him right out of the cave.
The second fight is almost a repeat of the first fight. This time, though, the men are much older than the teens with graying hair and potbellies. It’s all over by the third round, and the crowd is angry once again.
“Now, the fight you’ve all been waiting for,” the announcer says on the megaphone. “Welcome our fighters to the ring. The unstoppable Ethan ‘The Executioner’ Millsworth,” he calls out.
One of the fighters steps forward, separating himself from the group. He’s wearing a leather biker jacket emblazoned with a skull on the back and black jeans. He’s middle-aged, tall and appears to be in shape. But once he removes his jacket and shirt, I see that I gravely underestimated his physique. He looks like a giant bodybuilder, and it almost seems like his bulging shoulders are going to swallow his own head.
The announcer grabs Ethan’s hand and holds it high, gaining a lot of cheers from the crowd. I watch as the fighter moves his head from side to side, cracking his nonexistent neck.
“And welcome to the stage his opponent…Dimitri ‘The Destroyer’ Sokolov!” the announcer says.
Blood rushes through my ears as my entire world grinds to a halting stop.
No. It can’t be.
My eyes widen as a very tall man, yes, not a boy, but aman, walks onto the stage. He’s still wearing the black hoodie pulled lowover his forehead, so I can’t make out any of his features. The material of the hoodie clings to every muscle in his broad shoulders and biceps.
Suddenly, Dimitri rips off his black hoodie and throws it into the crowd, savoring their loud cheers for him. He steps into the chalked ring. His knuckles are taped tight. His strong jaw is clenched, and he keeps flexing his muscular shoulders like he’s already won. His raven black hair falls in front of those icy, blue eyes that I’ve been thinking about for the past two years as he scans the crowd. As my eyes openly peruse his body, I notice that he has a few tattoos on one of his arms; and I stare at them intently. Considering I barely know Dimitri, it shouldn’t surprise me that he has ink, but it does.
“Oh my god, The Destroyer is so freaking hot,” I hear Darby mutter from beside me. My head swings in her direction, completely taken aback by the fact that she’s calling my future husband hot. My emotion must be written all over my face, because she looks at me and says, “What? What’s wrong?”
Quickly, I school my features and murmur, “N-n-nothing.” Then, I draw my attention back to Dimitri, who is now standing in the middle of the circle, squaring up with his opponent.
They’re going to fight.
Dimitri could get hurt.
I shouldn’t want to watch this, but I can’t seem to force myself to look away.
Do I secretly want him to get hurt? Maybe. Maybe not. I’m so focused on the way he’s lookingthroughthe other fighter right now with those eerily cold eyes that I can’t form a single thought inside my head.
“I bet on the Russian dude,” I hear someone next to me say to his friend.
“Oh, for sure. I heard Russia deported him when he was ten years old to be a spy,” someone elsesays.
“I bet he’s killed people,” a popular girl from my class says. Then, she sighs dramatically, before saying, “That’s so hot.”
I grumble under my breath.
“I wonder if what they’re saying is true?” Darby asks.
I roll my eyes. “He’s not even f-f-from Russia. He’s from R-Romania,” I tell my friend.
Darby’s eyes narrow as she tilts her head to the side and stares at me like I’ve grown a third head. “And how exactly do you know that, Savina?”
Shit.
I knew keeping a secret this massive from my best friend would backfire eventually. I just didn’t know it would be this soon. But it’s not like it’s something that comes up in regular conversation, and I know it would be hard for Darby to understand. She doesn’t come from the mafioso. Her mom was a psychiatrist, and her stepdad was a doctor. They lived a completely normal life up until their untimely deaths, far away from crime and drugs, unlike my own family.
“Uh, I, um,” I stammer in response to her question; but thankfully, I don’t have to finish, because a bell sounds, signaling that the fight is about to start.
