Page 91 of Nemesis

I’m not sure how I expected Octavia to react to a place like this. I’ve met women who thrive off the chaos, completely ignorant of the danger creeping around every bookie and bloodied fist. Others want to leave the moment they step into the room, far too aware of the deals going down in low whispers. As Siderov slices a path through the packed bodies, parting the group like the Red Sea, I realize that Octavia seems to land somewhere between both camps.

Her emerald eyes twinkle with fascination as she takes in every detail: the haze of smoke that floats through the humid air, the empty space in the middle of the warehouse, housing a stained fighting ring that’s seen better days. The rest of her face is set in a confident mold. She looks every bit the part of the Siderov heir. Surely, everyone else is noticing, too.

I tug her even closer, dipping my head into the crook of her neck in a blatant claim.

Mine.

“Clingy much?” she whispers with a playful nudge, but her lips don’t even attempt to hide her smile. “Do fight clubs get you all hot and bothered, or something?”

No, baby, I’m pretty sure you’re handling that all on your own.

“Something like that.” I lead her forward into the fenced-off section reserved for the owners. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Her head dips, and for half a second, her careful mask slips. The apples of her cheeks pinch upwards in a broad smile that shifts every single freckle (twenty-two on the left cheek, thirty-nine on the right). I counted last week when she was struggling beneath my hold in training.

“When does the fight start?” she asks, practically vibrating with excitement. Her joy is contagious.

“Soon.” I tug a soft tendril of hair. “I think our money’s on one of your father’s men.”

I don’t think, I know.

Unfortunately, the guy we’re backing also happens to be one of the soldiers Sasha has had trailing after Octavia at all hours of the day. He’s been looking a little too happy about that assignment as of late. He also happens to be on my shit list for related reasons.

She nods, distracted by the lively environment. Drinks are sloshed onto the muddy floor as they’re passed through the crowd, creating a sticky surface below our feet. Someone shoves a bookie during his final rounds, sending the guy tumbling over the rope and landing beside us. Octavia jumps back towards my arms.

I feel Sasha’s presence before I even turn. “They’re holding my guy in the back. We’ll head over after the fight and let you get started.”

My head dips. Usually, I like to get my interrogations done as efficiently as possible and head out, but tonight, with the perfect weight settling in my arms, I find myself oddly exhilarated with the entertainment. I’ve seen a thousand of these fights, fought in a good number of them too, and yet, I’ve never been quite this enamored with the whole ordeal.

When the final round finally approaches with the wave of the ref’s hand, one thing is crystal clear.

My girl sure does love some violence.

Her father’s guy, a pretty massive fucker named Dmitri, clipped his opponent’s ear, causing a gush of red to pour down the side of his skull. Octavia leaned forward to catch a better view of the carnage. In fact, every time the audience flinched back at a particularly brutal hit or vicious beating, her only response was to squeeze my hand.

If you’re not used to these types of fights, I’d imagine it would be appalling for most to watch the so-called refs stand back and let the violence play out almost entirely on its own. Fights like these don’t really have many rules. Guidelines, at best.

She’s not most people, though.

The second surprise of the night was how taken Octavia is with the…shall we say, scantily clad card girls. She cheered so loud for their bouncy prances around the ring that she nearly blew out my eardrum. For a moment there, my jealousy raged to life—I mean, how’s a guy supposed to hold down a hot redhead who plays both teams?

When one of the girls finally took notice, shooting Octavia a suggestive wink, I glared the bitch down. What does she have that I don’t? I’m way over six feet, packed with muscle, excellent with kids, and a great shot.

Boobs.

The answer was boobs.

It’s fine. I’ll double up my chest days.

“He’s amazing,” Octavia says, bringing my attention back to the fight.

It looks like Siderov’s bets are safe for another night, because the mass of flesh currently being pummeled beneath Dmitri’s fist doesn’t even resemble a face anymore.

“I could wipe that kid from the face of the earth with a single hit,” I mutter, tightening my arms around her middle.

A hand lifts to my cheek for a condescending pat. Are you kidding me? “Sure, you could, honey.”

I snap forward, nipping her palm between my teeth. The only effect is a delightful cascade of giggles that drips into my ear like syrup.