Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
FIONA
The car slows as we pull onto a narrow side street, the low hum of traffic fading behind us. I glance out the window, expecting…I don’t know. Some dimly lit restaurant, or maybe a hotel where I’ll walk in and find Aleksei nursing a drink, probably with some other woman laughing at his side.
The thought makes my stomach turn, and I brace myself for whatever Konstantin dragged me here to see.
But when we stop and he steps out, I realize we’re in front of an old bar.
The paint is chipped from the brick, and the windows are tinted so dark I can’t see anything inside.
The sign above the door flickers red and white, casting ghostly light across the sidewalk. Not exactly Aleksei’s usual style.
I follow Konstantin to the entrance, my heels clicking against the concrete. A massive man in black stands outside, arms crossed, tattooed neck flexing as he turns to greet us.
“Boss.” He steps aside.
Konstantin doesn’t reply with words, just a sharp nod and a slight tilt of his head toward the door before guiding me inside. The bar is loud and warm, packed with people shoulder-to-shoulder, and the sharp scent of alcohol immediately burns my nostrils.
But we don’t stop there. He takes a sharp left and heads toward a heavy red curtain draped across the back wall. My heart starts to race.
“Where are we going?” I try to keep my voice even.
He laughs softly. “Don’t worry. I promise I am not trying to kill you.”
“If you say so.”
He pushes through the curtain and leads me down a narrow flight of metal stairs. Every step echoes. The deeper we go, the louder the noise gets. Shouting. Cheers. The clink of glasses. It doesn’t sound like any bar I’ve ever been to.
Another set of double doors waits at the bottom. A second bouncer opens them for us, and the moment we step through, I freeze.
The space opens wide in front of us. There are no windows, just concrete walls and low-hanging lights casting everything in a smoky, yellow glow.
Music thumps from somewhere overhead, almost drowned out by the roar of the crowd.
In the center of the room, surrounded by a cage and rope, two men are fighting.
No gloves to be seen. Blood streaks one man’s chest, and the other’s knuckles are raw and red.
Waitresses in black minidresses weave between low tables scattered around the perimeter, trays of shots and beer balanced expertly in their hands.
Rows of chairs form a half circle facing the pit in the center, like a makeshift arena.
Some people stand along the back, shouting over each other, while others lean forward in their seats, eyes locked on the fight.
There’s a man near the edge collecting cash—probably for bets, though I can’t be sure.
My entire body tenses. “Why are we here?”
Konstantin turns and looks directly at me. “Because it’s where he is. Come.”
Everything inside me screams to turn around, but I follow him past tables, through the haze of smoke and sweat, until we reach the front row. Then I see them.
Kirill lounges causally in his chair, his attention on the fight.
But it’s Anton beside him who makes my pulse hitch.
He’s dressed in all black, watching me approach with no warmth in his eyes.
No expression at all. Just a quiet, terrifying stillness.
When he lifts his chin in a silent greeting, it feels like a threat.
And still, it takes everything in me to look away.
“Privet, sistra,” Kirill says when he notices me. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” His gaze slides to Konstantin. “Our brother won’t like this.”
“She needed to be here,” Konstantin replies calmly. “It’s good for him.”
Kirill shrugs like it’s no big deal. “If you say so.” Then he gestures to the empty seat beside him. “Come. Sit.”
I sink into the chair, scanning the ring, nerves coiling tight in my stomach.
Konstantin leans in. “I should get back to Emilia. Make sure she gets home.”
“We’ll take care of her,” Kirill says without looking.
Then Konstantin’s gone.
“So…where is Aleksei?”
Kirill smirks, lifting a glass from the cup holder. “You’ll see.”
His answer does nothing to ease the tightening in my chest. My hands twist in my lap as the crowd grows louder.
The match ends. One man collapses to the ground, and the other lifts his blood-soaked fists in victory. My stomach turns.
When the second match is announced, I register the first name, something Russian, and it doesn’t mean anything to me. But as soon as the second name is called, my heart slams into my ribs.
“Aleksei Marinov.”
“Oh my God. He fights?” I ask Kirill, jerking forward in my seat.
My eyes dart to the entrance of the ring, and there he is.
“He used to. A lot,” Kirill says. “But he hasn’t in a while, not until you.”
“What do you mean? Why?”
Kirill laughs. “Never mind. Just watch. He never loses.”
Aleksei emerges from the shadows like a nightmare I haven’t stopped dreaming. Shirtless. Blood streaked across his shoulder, maybe from an earlier fight. His face is a mask of violence. Jaw clenched. Eyes sharp and deadly.
He hasn’t seen me yet. But I can’t stop staring, like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
Then the fight begins.
Every movement he makes is calculated destruction, his fists landing with precision, his body a weapon. He doesn’t flinch or pause. He hits like he’s exorcising something, like every strike is meant to silence the war inside him.
Blood splatters from his opponent. Still, he doesn’t stop. He goes harder.
Watching him like this feels wrong, like I’ve stumbled into a moment I was never meant to see. But beneath the brutality, I see it: the way he takes a punch to his torso without blocking, like he wants the pain. Like he needs it.
My lungs forget how to work.
Because I want him to win. I want him whole. I want him safe.
The crowd roars with every hit, but it’s background noise.
All I can focus on is him. The sharp flex of his muscles, the way he dodges each swing without even breaking rhythm.
And when the other man starts to falter, Aleksei just keeps going, methodical and merciless, until the man hits the ground with a sound that silences the room for half a breath.
Aleksei doesn’t stop. He circles once, making sure it’s over, then stands tall under the harsh lights. His chest rises and falls steadily, not a single trace of blood on his face. He looks like he could go another ten rounds and walk away untouched.
Then…he turns.
Our eyes meet.
The noise fades, every shout dissolving into a dull hum. The air between us tightens, and it’s like the whole world pulls taut around that one look. His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers there. Disbelief, maybe. A quiet jolt that mirrors the one tearing through me.
My heart kicks painfully against my ribs, and I can’t seem to tear my gaze away. Neither can he.
He doesn’t move toward me. Doesn’t say a word. He just stares, frozen in place, like the fight, the crowd, all of it ceases to matter.
And that’s when it happens. The punch comes hard and fast.
“Aleksei!” I shout.
But it’s already too late.
ALEKSEI
Every strike I throw is supposed to do one thing: take me further away from her. Empty the chamber in my head where her face lives, where the memory of her hands and the way she looked at me the last time we spoke slinks beneath me and won’t leave.
I came here to punish my body so I would stop thinking of her. Each punch, each kick, is a promise to myself that I will not be undone. Not by her. Not by anyone.
My opponent is solid, bred to fight and take the kind of pain I give. But unfortunately for him, he won’t be getting out of this cage alive.
Still, with each connection—the crack of knuckles on bone, the thud as elbow meets ribs—I keep seeing her.
The way she called my name in the dark. The way she spits words at me like a challenge.
The tilt of her chin when she refuses to be afraid.
Her face sits like a flare behind my eyes, and the more I try to extinguish it, the brighter it burns.
A right hook crosses the man’s jaw, and he crumples. The cage hops with a roar, and I step back, ready to finish. When I raise my arms in victory, the crowd cheers louder, and I stare around the room, knowing why they came. They want to see me finish him…and I always give the people what they want.
The second my eyes sweep the room, my pulse spikes.
For a moment, I think I’m seeing things because I have been starving for her. So badly it’s started to feel like a sickness.
My attention fastens on her, and for one split second, everything shifts. The cage, the crowd, the fight…it all fades.
It’s just her. She’s the only thing I see.
Which is why I don’t notice the punch coming. Until it slams into the side of my face like a hammer, snapping my head sideways and ripping me back to reality.
And that is what happens when you let a woman distract you. It’s what my father always said.
He would be embarrassed if he saw me now: staggering, wobbling on my knees, my hearing cutting in and out as the world distorts around me.
The copper tang of blood hits my tongue, sharp and bitter. I swipe it from my mouth and glare at the man who landed the hit, but the real fury spirals inward. I deserve worse.
Because I know better. I’ve been trained better.
And still, one look at her—just one—and I let my guard drop.
“Yebanyy amateur,” I mutter under my breath, spitting blood on the mat. Fucking amateur.
Before I can recover, he’s on me, knees pinning me down, fists raining with precision. Pain bursts sharp, then dulls into a heavy rhythm that rattles through my skull. The crowd blurs into noise, the cage lights blinking overhead like distant stars.
“Aleksei!” Her desperate voice cuts straight through the chaos. “Aleksei! Get up!”
It slices through everything. The roar, the pain, the noise. Until it’s the only thing I hear.
She shouts my name again, and the pitch in it, fear and something like command…that sound reaches the last shred of the animal inside me.
My fingers find the bastard’s eye, and I dig in hard. When he screams and rolls off me, that’s all I need. I snap back.
Then I make him pay. I hammer him with fists like winter hail in Moscow. Cold, unforgiving, relentless. I don’t just fight; I destroy. I give him everything I have and then some, blow after blow, until he’s nothing but bone and blood and twitching weakness beneath me.
I don’t stop. Not when he gasps. Not when the ref yells. Not until the blood on the mat spreads wide and his face is something unrecognizable.
When they finally drag me off him, the crowd explodes, but it’s all distant. Muffled. My chest heaves. My fists drip. My face is a river of blood, but most of it isn’t mine. And still…
I’m only looking for her.
The second my arm is raised, she’s already moving, pushing past the ropes, ducking into the ring like she can’t stand another second of distance between us.
Her eyes are wide and filled with concern, her steps urgent, focused only on me.
And the sight rips something open inside me I didn’t know was still there.
“Your face.” She cups her mouth. “You need to see a doctor.”
“I’m fine.” The referee walks away and returns with two rags, handing one to her and the other to me.
I clean my hands and chest while she presses the other to my cheek, and all I can do is look at her, forgetting why I ever hated her in the first place. Her fingers are clumsy and perfect, and I let her touch me because she is the only thing that has kept me human.
And I want to be human…for her.
“You’re bleeding like a fountain.” She grimaces. “I’m not sure if this will help. We have to get you to a doctor.”
“No. I’m fine.”
She shakes her head. “You’re absolutely not fine. Please just promise me if it doesn’t stop in the next few minutes, you’ll go.”
Her tone cracks at the end, and it does something cruel to me. I’ve taken bullets and blades without flinching, but her voice breaking like that feels like the deadliest blow I’ve ever taken.
What the hell is she trying to do? Kill me?
“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying hard not to split in two, to be the man my father taught me to be.
But with every second, this woman, my wife…she makes it harder to live without her.
“Konstantin brought me.”
“Ya yevo ubyu,” I mutter. I will kill him.
She frowns. “What?”
“Nothing.” I clamp down, needing to get away from her before I kiss her and get blood all over that perfect mouth. “We’re going home.”
As soon as I grab her hand, her warmth shoots through me like a drug. I help her out of the cage and slip into my sneakers and sweatshirt before heading for the exit.
She tries to twist away with the familiar knife-edge of sarcasm. “Oh, you’re actually coming home this time? How nice of you.”
“I did not think you noticed.” I let out a dry laugh.
The way she stares at me, it’s filled with a sliver of vulnerability.
Has she missed me the way I’ve missed her?
She hands me the cloth. “Hold that before you bleed all over the damn floor.”
I take it because it matters to her. I matter to her.
And I want to matter.
I don’t say goodbye to my brothers as we step outside, my car waiting for me at the curb. Our fingers brush when I help her inside, and instinctively, my arm curls around her, dragging her body flush against mine.
“Spasebo,” I whisper, my mouth so close to hers I can feel every exhale warm against my lips.
“For what?” she breathes, her voice barely a sound.
“For taking care of me.”
She doesn’t answer, just nods, her eyes too full of emotion. Of questions. Of things neither of us can say.
I want to kiss her. I want to forget everything else exists and pull her under with me.
Reluctantly, I let her go, closing the door behind her with more force than necessary. As I round the car, my hand curls into a fist to keep from reaching for her again.
When the engine roars to life, I watch her through the corner of my eye while she stares out the window. And I know with bone-deep certainty, I’ve never wanted anything like I want her.
No matter how much I try to fight it, I know that whatever this is between us will not bend to rules or reason.
It will take what it wants, no matter the cost.