Claimed in Sin (Empire of Blood & Heirs #3)
Marina
This old warehouse basement reeks—like so badly, I'm forced to hold my breath before we've even gotten into the main room where the fights are happening.
I follow my Uncle Filipp down a narrow staircase, and the noise of crowds shouting swells the closer we get.
It's my first time at the fights, and I'm somewhat excited to see what all the talk is about, even if I'm not pleased for the reason I'm being dragged in here.
Filipp holds the door open with his toe, and I step through the doorway into a cavern of bodies pressing against one another.
The ceiling is low, rigged with industrial lights and ventilation ducts.
A crowd packs tight around a sunken pit where two men are circling each other, bare-knuckled and bloody.
It's instantly exhilarating. I've never been anywhere that felt this lawless.
The air is thick enough to taste—salt and adrenaline and the sour tang of spilled beer on concrete.
Somewhere behind me, a man is yelling in a dialect I can barely follow, waving a fistful of rubles at nobody in particular.
Filipp leans close. "Now you see where they play."
He isn't talking about the fighters in the ring.
He's talking about the owners of this club who are still faceless to me.
They're the enemy, or the men my father and uncle want me to believe are the enemy.
I'm here to observe how brutal these fights can become.
In my uncle's mind, it will somehow help me to see why an arranged marriage to ally our family to the Orlovs is necessary.
I'm not impressed so far. I nod at him, but my eyes are focused on the sweaty men beating the shit out of each other.
It's not that I've never seen a muscular man before, but I can't help but stare.
Besides, it's good eye candy and a distraction from the harsh reminder that I'm supposed to be planning a wedding.
Uncle Filipp guides me to a spot along the far wall where a metal railing separates us from the pit by a few feet. He positions himself between me and the nearest group of strangers, and I appreciate that, even though I won't tell him so. My uncle and I are not on good terms tonight.
We argued in the car—the same argument we've been having for three weeks now because Papa insists things happen more quickly than I want.
The wedding's no longer a distant arrangement filed under "someday".
It's happening now. Maksim Orlov expects an answer by the end of the month, and my father's already given it. It no longer matters what I want.
A bell rings and the fighters break apart. One of them stumbles toward his corner with a towel pressed to his face while the other raises both fists to the crowd. The roar shakes the floor. These men are so loud and so hyped up, if I weren't with someone I trust, I'd be very frightened.
Filipp bends toward my ear again. "Nine months ago, the Kuzins lost half their territory to the Volyn family. You remember that..." He says it like a warning, though I don't need to be reminded yet again.
But it is impressive. I'll admit that. Yes, they had a huge club before the mess that took them almost completely off the map, so they had some foundation to rebuild, but this is fantastic.
I bet they'll rake in millions off tonight's fights alone.
To come back from almost nothing to this in less than a year is unheard of.
Roman Kuzin must be just as powerful as they say.
"Nine months," Filipp repeats. "And now look at them." He nods toward the far side of the pit where a cluster of men stand behind the railing, talking among themselves. "That's what we're up against," he says. "They get knocked down and come back with more teeth."
I bite back the words I want to tell him, that I'm not going to be pressured into marrying Maxim Orlov simply because my father’s afraid that he may lose territory to these men.
I know my place and I know what is expected of me.
I just don't like it. Knowing and doing are two different things, and while I fully intend to be obedient and follow through with the wedding, I definitely don't have to like it.
Maksim is a good man—I think. He's just not my fairy tale.
"Our hold on the gun trade is slipping, Marina. Every month it slips further. Without the Orlovs, we don't have the manpower or the routes to hold what we have."
I sigh and my shoulders drop a fraction. The guilt tripping never ends with him. At least my father is honest enough to tell me straight up that he wants me to be obedient because of my affection for him. Filipp tries to make me feel guilty for it, which I refuse to do.
"Your father isn't sleeping," he adds. "You know that."
I do know that. I've heard him pacing at three in the morning, his footsteps crossing and recrossing his study floor.
It's the one thing that actually tightens the noose around my neck more than anything else.
I don't want him to lose sleep over this new Kuzin-Radin alliance that's forming, but it isn't my responsibility to stop it.
I'm not sure a Orlov-Belova alliance will do much, anyway.
A new pair of fighters enters the pit and the crowd leans in.
I press my back against the wall to keep from being jostled as men move around us.
No matter how much I want to ignore my uncle, I've seen the numbers.
Our family's position has been eroding for over a year, and an alliance with the Orlovs would give us the connections to push back.
Maksim can't really do it on his own either, and while I’m not in love with him, he has become a friend.
That doesn't make it easier to accept that my entire future has been reduced to a transaction, or that I'm being forced to choose the "good" thing when they could do the "right" thing.
The new fight starts and my eyes drift that way. One of the fighters is fast—his footwork is clean, and the bigger man knows he's losing right away. I can see it in the way his shoulders drop and how he's covering up and hoping for a lucky shot.
It's not as interesting to me when the men are a bit older. I'm not really a fan of fighters, just the eye candy. So I scan the room while the fight unfolds. So many attractive single men—or single enough—and I can look but I can't touch.
"You see it now," Filipp says. He's watching the fight, not my face. "You see what they built."
"I see it," I mumble, glancing up at him to notice his wide eyes locked on the ring. I know if I weren't here, he'd be placing bets. He can't ignore a wager most of the time, but having me with him makes it cumbersome to move around.
"Good," he grumbles, holding on to his guilt trip, "then you understand why your father can't sleep."
I ignore the prodding and continue letting my eyes drift. They land on a handsome man whose eyes are actually locked on me, and my cheeks burn instantly. I turn away quickly but soon find myself searching for him in the crowd again, and he's still watching me.
I must be one of only five or six women in this building, so not hard to miss, but his eyes have found mine, and he isn't watching the fight.
His eyes drink me in like I'm cool water in the desert, and I don't mind noticing his shirt stretched tightly over his chest or the way his jaw works when he clenches it.
His dark hair is trimmed short and he runs his hand across it.
He is very handsome. Older than me—mid-thirties, maybe—and built like he belongs in the ring. Just knowing he's noticing me makes my body feel ten degrees hotter. I tug at the collar of my blouse and find my palms sweaty.
"Marina," Filipp snips. "Are you listening to me?"
"Yes." I avert my eyes, dropping my gaze to the feet of a man passing. He has nice shoes, but right now, I’m trying to manage the burn in my cheeks.
"What did I say?"
"You said I understand why my father can't sleep."
He glares at me and says, "Pay attention. You came here to learn a lesson."
I glower at him but I turn my eyes back to the fight, and when the lean man lands a body shot that buckles his opponent sideways, I use the movement of the crowd to glance across the ring again, and the handsome stranger is still looking at me. This time, he's smiling.
He holds my gaze across the pit as the corner of his mouth lifts to a flicker of a smile—barely there and gone before I can be sure I saw it.
He says something to the taller man next to him whose shaggy hair isn't nearly as nice.
He's older too, which I'm not a fan of. I like the younger one, and I like the way he seems to like me.
I smile back at him, though the heat is getting worse now, climbing down my neck from my cheeks into my chest. I fan myself, trying to ward off the deep blush I feel, but there really isn't any point. I'm sure he's seen my red cheeks and flustered behavior.
I don’t think I've ever had a man so handsome take interest in me, least of all one that age.
Men my age are irresponsible and immature—a dime a dozen.
And Maksim is handsome, don't get me wrong, but he's being forced on me.
Maybe it would be different if I'd been given the choice, if he courted me and brought me flowers.
Instead, I was told at the age of sixteen I was going to marry him—then aged twenty-four.
Now I'm twenty-three and he's thirty-one, and finally, they're pushing to make it real.
But not once has he ever given me the rush I feel right now, not a hint of excitement or arousal or even attraction. He's just a duty, an obligation.
"Would you like a drink?" Filipp offers, nodding across the room toward the concessions stand where they're selling beer and whiskey like it's water in a desert. I'm not thirsty, but he's not interested in getting drinks, anyway. The betting window is right beside the concessions.
Still, I nod, and say, "Yes, a vodka neat, please." It's enough to make Filipp's eyes light up and enough for me to get a moment to myself. The spot he stood closes up as soon as he is out of it, but my eyes turn back to the handsome stranger.
Except he's not there.
And a quick search of the room doesn't produce him, either.
And suddenly, the rush of adrenaline and excitement in my body evaporates, and I'm left staring at two sweaty men beating each other senseless again, wishing I could feel that rush.
I have to get used to the idea that I will soon be a married woman, Maksim Orlov's wife, and my days of flirting with other men or dreaming about a romantic fairy tale dream come true are over.