I weave left when I should’ve gone right, and his fist collides with my jaw.
This time I’m unable to catch myself. I’m unable to even stay on my feet as the room spins and I go crashing down to the ground.
The hit’s so fucking brutal I’m dizzy for seconds to come.
Get up.
I move my arms to push myself up.
Get the fuck up! Now!
I try again, arms shaky and legs giving out once more. Darkness edges my vision, the fight to stay awake quickly slipping beyond my grasp.
TWENTY-SIX
Jhene
My heart stopsthe moment Killian hits the floor.
His body thumps into the canvas, the vicious sound echoing through the chamber. I scream his name before even realizing my mouth is open.
The blond enforcer tightens his fist in my hair and yanks me back when I go to lunge forward. The prickle of pain that follows barely registers.
All I can see—the only thing I can focus on—is Killian’s body lying motionless in Fedorov’s makeshift ring.
Sharapova stands over him with his chest heaving and his fists still raised, waiting to make sure his opponent stays down. He grins broadly and shouts in Russian a phrase I’m pretty sure means, “the weak never survive.”
He’s done his part pleasing Fedorov.
The older Russian mob boss leans forward with sick anticipation, a feverish gleam on his sharp, heavily lined face. He’s a vulture in human form, starving for more violence. More bloodshed so he can feed off the carcass of Killian’s destruction.
“It appears your boxer did not come through for you after all, Myshka,” he taunts. “Such a pity. Now you will be mine forever.”
I can’t even bring myself to look at him. My skin crawls at the mere thought. Even sharing the same air makes me sick to my stomach.
There was a time where I was able to shut down enough to allow him to touch me. I didn’t have much of a choice, but I learned to disassociate for the sake of my survival.
…for Eva.
But now every second near him is agony.
“Get up,” I whisper under my breath. “Killer, please, you have to get up.”
A few more seconds pass with Killian trying to get up then collapsing back down.
Sharapova starts circling the platform as if in the middle of a performance. He flexes his large, taut muscles and shouts more Russian to the crowd gathered. He even beats his fists against his chest to cheers and whistles from the soldiers.
He truly believes he’s won.
Killian’s fingers twitch against the canvas. His palms press flat, and he starts slowly pushing himself up from the ground. His arms tremble with the effort and blood drips from a gash above his eye, but he refuses to stay down this time. He forces himself back up onto his feet.
Sharapova’s gloating stops the moment he realizes Killian’s standing again. The arrogance remains on his face as he turns to face him and issue some taunts.
“You should stay down, Irishman. Play dead,” Sharapova says as he cracks his neck from side to side. “It would be easier for you.”
Killian spits blood onto the ground and shakes his head. The vacant look in his eyes sharpens as he seems to fightthrough the fog. Lingering effects from the brutal blow he took to the head.
He raises his fists back into fighting position.
