The last thing I register before sleep drags me under is her scent on my sheets and a feeling in my gut that I refuse to acknowledge.
Suka.This is not how it was supposed to go down.
20
Dimitri
The thud of flesh against flesh echoes through the underground fight club. My fist connects with the poor fucker’s face again, and again, and again. Blood sprays, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop.
Six days. Six fucking days since Wren left my bed. Not that I’m counting.
Another punch. The guy’s barely standing now.
Good. I’m not done yet.
My mind drifts to Wren. Thursday night. She’ll be at that fucking excuse for a gentlemen’s club, shaking her ass for worthless pigs who don’t deserve to lick the dirt off her shoes.
Poshol na khuy!
The thought makes me see red. I unleash hell on the poor bastard’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing like a punctured tire. Perfect. My knee connects with his face; the crunch of bone ismusic to my ears. He goes down hard, blood already pooling under his head.
I’m on him before he can blink, my thighs clamping around his ribs. My fists become fucking jackhammers, pounding his face into raw meat. Blood and spit fly with each hit.
Don’t care. Can’t stop.
The crowd roars, bloodthirsty animals chanting, “Finish him! Finish him!”
But suddenly, I’m not seeing my opponent.
It’s Wren, fucking flaunting herself under those sleazy lights. Wrapped around that pole like it’s my cock, her legs go on for miles, every goddamn muscle screaming sex as she writhes. That ass—blyat, I can still feel it in my hands, tight and begging to be spanked. She’s gyrating like a bitch in heat, hooking every lowlife’s stare.
Her tits, those perfect fucking handfuls, bounce with each move. I can almost taste them, remember how they felt against my tongue. Every inch of her body is a reminder of how she rode me, how she clenched around me, how she screamed my name.
She’s mine. Every curve, every moan, every drop of sweat. Mine.
Anger roars through my veins like liquid fire. Wren’s words echo in my head, mocking me. Athank you fuck? What the fuck is that? That’s like a pity fuck.
My fist rises, ready to obliterate what’s left of this poorsuka’s face. But I freeze mid-swing.
Blyat. What the fuck am I doing?
It was supposed to be one fucking night. One and done. But here I am, six days later, with nothing but this rage and a cock that won’t quit.
One night. That’s all it was meant to be. So why can’t I get her out of my head?
I growl, low and feral. The crowd’s screams fade to white noise.
That’s when I spot Sergei at the edge of the ring. His face is grim, a deep scar running along his left cheek twitching as he clenches his jaw. His eyes are hard, alert. The look of a man who’s seen too much shit and is about to see more. I know that look. It means trouble.
“Yob tvoyu mat’,” I snarl, stepping back. The poor bastard’s not moving. Might be dead. Don’t care.
The crowd boos as I walk away.Fuck ‘em.This was supposed to help get her out of my system. It didn’t.
“Boss.” Sergei appears at my side, his expression tense. He hands me a towel, his voice low and urgent. “Erik called. The distillery’s been hit. It’s bad.”
I freeze, my blood running cold despite the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. “How bad?”
Sergei’s eyes dart around, wary of eavesdroppers. “Total loss. Looks like sabotage.”
