Chapter 12
The sweat cooling on my skin under the cheap fluorescent lights of the locker room is the only thing keeping me from nodding off.
My knuckles throb pleasantly, a familiar, grounding ache that’s better than any post-fight high.
I’m just pulling a clean shirt over my head when the door swings open and Hansol’s scarred face appears.
“You’re not done,” he says.
I arch a brow, letting the shirt fall into place. “The fight’s over, boss. I’m paid. That’s the definition of ‘done’.”
He steps inside, the door groaning shut behind him. Hansol folds his arms, the tattoos on his knuckles—FIGHT, LIVE—stretching over the bones. “Got an important client in the private suites. Wants to meet the fighters. Shake some hands, feel important. Standard sponsor shit.”
I make a face, already feeling the boredom settle in my bones like lead. “No thanks. I’m more of a ‘fight and flee’ type. Social duties aren’t in my contract.”
“There is no contract, you little shit,” he grumbles.
He runs a hand over his graying buzz cut.
“Look, it’s one guy. Big investor. Throws a lot of money at this place.
Makes him feel like a king to rub elbows with the talent for five minutes.
You go up, you smile, you let him buy you a drink, you listen to him talk about how he ‘admires the sport.’ Then you leave. Easy.”
“Sounds excruciating.”
“It is. But it pays your purse. My purse. Everyone’s purse.” He gives me a look that’s part plea, part threat. “Just do it, Yujeong. For me. Consider it a favor.”
I let out a long, exaggerated sigh, tipping my head back to stare at the water-stained ceiling tiles.
A favor for Hansol isn’t nothing. The man’s a hard-ass, but he’s fair in his own twisted way.
He’s never shorted me, never sold me out, and he turns a blind eye to a lot of my.
.. extracurricular activities. This is probably the closest he gets to begging.
“Fine,” I groan, pushing off the bench. My muscles protest, sore from the fight, but it’s a good soreness. “Five minutes. One drink. And if he tries to touch my hair, I’m breaking his fingers.”
A ghost of a smile touches Hansol’s lips. “Noted. Suite three. Top of the stairs.”
The private suites are a world away from the gritty, shouting chaos of the main floor.
Up here, the carpet is actually clean, a deep burgundy that swallows sound.
The walls are lined with dark wood paneling and framed photos of fighters from decades past, their faces frozen in grimaces of effort.
It’s quiet, the only noise the low hum of an air conditioner and the distant, muffled roar of the crowd below.
It feels like a museum dedicated to violence, sanitized for wealthy patrons.
I find suite three, a heavy oak door with a polished brass number. I don’t bother knocking. If some rich guy wants the authentic underground experience, he can deal with the lack of etiquette.
I push the door open and step inside.
The suite is nicer than my last three apartments combined.
Plush leather couches, a fully stocked bar gleaming under soft recessed lighting, a huge window looking down into the ring where the next fight is just starting.
My eyes scan the room, expecting some paunchy businessman in an ill-fitting suit, maybe with a younger date on his arm to impress.
And I see him.
Sitting in a high-backed armchair like it’s a throne, one leg crossed over the other, is Yoon Suha.
He’s wearing a suit, charcoal gray and tailored so perfectly it looks painted on. His hair is sleek, pushed back over his brow, styled deliberately. He holds a crystal tumbler of amber liquor in one hand, swirling it slowly. He doesn’t look surprised to see me. He looks like he’s been waiting.
My brain stutters, trips over itself. This isn’t a sponsor. This is a trap. A very expensive, very personal trap.
Behind me, the door clicks shut. I don’t have to try it to know it’s locked.
I sigh, the sound loud in the thick quiet of the room, and run a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. It comes away slick. I should have seen this coming. Of course he would eventually track me down here, to the one place I go regularly, predictably.
Suha hasn’t moved from his chair. He takes a slow sip from his glass, his dark eyes tracking me over the rim. He sets the tumbler down on a side table with a soft clink.
“I found your fight very interesting,” he says.
His voice is a low, dangerous calm, like the quiet before a storm breaks over the city.
He stands, unfolding himself from the chair with a lazy grace that doesn’t match the tension coiling in the room.
He approaches me, his expensive shoes silent on the plush carpet.
He reaches out, and I force myself not to flinch. His fingertips are cool as they brush against the fresh mark on my jaw. His touch is almost gentle, but his eyes are cold, assessing the damage like it’s a stain on his property.
I swallow, the motion pressing my throat. “What do you want, Suha?”
A slow, dangerous smile touches his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “I had a conversation with your employer. Hansol, was it? We came to an arrangement.”
My stomach turns. “What kind of arrangement?”
“I paid him. Quite handsomely, actually.” Suha’s hand drops from my face. “For a full night with his star fighter. He was very accommodating once the right number was mentioned.”
A flash of pure fury burns through me. That two-faced, scarred-up bastard. I’m going to break his other ear. I keep my voice level, flat. “I don’t offer that kind of service. I’m a fighter. Not a prostitute.”
Suha’s smile widens, sharp and edged with promise. “I think you can make an exception.”
The movement is so fast it blurs. One second he’s standing there, the next his hand is around my throat, slamming me back against the wood-paneled wall.
My head cracks against it, stars bursting behind my eyes.
His fingers dig into the sides of my neck, not quite cutting off my air but pressing hard enough to make my vision swim at the edges.
I gasp, my hands coming up to claw at his wrist on instinct.
His other hand goes to the waistband of my shorts, yanking them down roughly along with my underwear. The cool air of the room hits my skin, a shock against the heat of the fight still lingering in my muscles.
“You need to be taught a lesson,” Suha says through gritted teeth.
His face is close to mine, his breath warm against my cheek.
He smells like expensive whiskey and clean, sharp cologne.
“Behaving the way you have. Running. Playing your little games. Letting someone else put their hands on you. Letting them damage what’s mine. ”
Before I can form a retort, his fingers are there, probing, and then they sink into me.
Two of them, thick and unforgiving, pushing into my hole dry without warning or prep.
I choke on a sound that’s half-gasp, half-groan, my body arching off the wall.
It burns, a sharp, shocking stretch that steals the breath from my lungs.
He crooks his fingers inside me, searching, and finds what he’s looking for. He presses hard against that bundle of nerves, and a jolt of sensation, too close to pleasure for the circumstances, shoots up my spine. My hips jerk involuntarily.
“Seems you need a reminder,” Suha murmurs, his voice a venomous whisper against my ear. His fingers move, a cruel, twisting stroke. “A reminder of who owns this hole.”
I manage to twist my head, baring my teeth in what I hope is a convincing smirk even as my lungs scream for air. “Getting... sentimental... on me?”
He doesn’t answer with words. He answers by forcing a third finger into me.
The stretch is brutal, overwhelming, a tearing, burning fullness that makes me see white.
A strangled sound escapes from my throat.
His fingers work me open with a ruthless, focused rhythm, scissoring and stretching, the relentless pressure against my prostate never letting up.
It’s too much, a confusing, violent assault that somehow sends sparks of heat straight to my groin.
The burn of his fingers inside me is shocking.
It’s not the good kind of pain, not yet—it’s the sharp, violating stretch of being taken without warning, and my body locks up around the intrusion, muscles clenching in protest. A choked sound gets trapped behind his hand on my throat.
Stars dance at the edges of my vision, part lack of air, part sheer sensory overload.
He leans in, his mouth a hot brand against my ear. “Sentimental?” he repeats, his voice vibrates through my skull. “No. I’m possessive.”
He withdraws his fingers with a slick, terrible sound, and the sudden emptiness is almost as shocking as the fullness. Before I can even suck in a proper breath, his hand leaves my throat and fists in the back of my shirt. He uses it as a handle, dragging me away from the wall.
I stumble, my shorts and underwear still tangled around my thighs, making my steps clumsy and small. He doesn’t slow down. He hauls me across the plush carpet toward a long, dark leather couch positioned to face the window overlooking the ring. With a grunt of effort, he shoves me forward.
I hit the couch face-first, the cool, smooth leather pressing against my cheek.
The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh. I try to push myself up, to get my knees under me, but his weight lands on me a second later.
A knee drives between my shoulder blades, pinning me down firmly.
The pressure is immense, forcing my chest into the cushions.
I can breathe, but only in shallow, inefficient pants.
His hands are on my arms, yanking them behind my back. I twist, trying to buck him off, but his weight is perfectly distributed, unshakeable. My struggles just grind my already-tender ass against the rough seam of his trousers.
“Stop squirming,” he snaps, his voice cold.