Chapter 2
VAUGHN
“Go, go!”
I spit blood on the ground as the cheering intensifies from both sides.
Yulian jumps in place, half naked. His eyes are bloodshot, and he’s sporting a black eye—not my doing.
What is my doing, however, are the lacerations on his chest. I pummeled the prick to the ground less than a minute ago, but he got me good with a punch to the cheek.
He’s grinning, motioning at me to come get him, and as I catch my breath, I look at his left side, where a large bruise spreads along the skin.
Yulian is full of them. Bruises, scars, burn marks on his back—don’t want to know the reason for those. Ever since the camp started over four weeks ago, he’s been getting new injuries all the time.
The doctor on-site expects to see him at least once or twice daily.
He doesn’t go himself, so he’s mostly dragged there by either Cyrus or Danil—that’s the name of their chief guard on this convoy, the one who has the scorpion tattoo and seems to have been given clear instructions to keep this suicidal motherfucker alive.
A difficult feat with someone who truly seems to love challenging every law of physics available.
The last thing I want is to fight him. He’s entirely too unserious for my taste, and getting involved with him is a waste of my time.
But this is physical training, and I had to take part in hand-to-hand combat with the bastard.
Guards from both our sides are circling our makeshift arena. Niko tries to fight Cyrus, who completely ignores him, so he moves to two other kids sent by the Chicago mafia.
The sun blazes down on what must be the hottest, most humid day of the camp. Sweat drips along my temples and glistens over Yulian’s chest.
“Come oooon!” he shouts, holding up his barely bandaged fists. “Don’t just stand there, Mishka.”
I lunge at him and shove him to the ground. Then the force of gravity pulls me down as well, and I end up on top of him, my knees on either side of his waist. I pull at his hair, shoving his head back with the force of it as I snarl near his ear, “I told you not to call me that.”
“But it suits you—”
I strike him in the face, and he grunts, but before I can bash his head into the ground, he shoves me away. In a blur of motion, he gets on top and punches my face as he grabs my collar and pulls me up.
“I can stop calling you Mishka if you quit being a baby.”
“You goddamn—”
I drive my fist into his face again, then he does the same to me. Soon, we’re rolling on the ground, wrestling and kicking, with everyone going wild. Niko’s shouting, “Finish the bastard!” while Yulian’s side cheers him on with renewed energy.
They actually call him a mad dog. I heard it the other day when they were talking about today’s sparring match and how their “mad dog” would avenge them for my winning against them.
Mentors watch the match closely, not really expected to interfere unless there’s a fatal threat. This isn’t meant to be clean combat since that doesn’t exist in our world anyway.
They’re here to make sure we have the necessary skills, which is why I participated in the first place. Despite the world I come from, I don’t fight unless I have to.
But I must say, I’ve been looking forward to bloodying this prick senseless.
He’s had it coming.
For over four weeks, all he’s done is challenge me to fight. I’ve refused every time, so he’s fought Niko instead. Not that that’s been a chore—they’re kind of evenly matched in physical strength.
Problem is, every time I’ve said no, Yulian’s dirtied my shit with blood. First my face, then my notebooks and pens, then my damn clothes and shoes.
I nearly killed him when I opened my closet to find most of my neatly folded clothes scattered all over the room, touched by clearly bloodied hands. As if he snuck in right after a fight just to leave his mark.
He was only saved by being on the mountain to fetch wood for a punishment—which is a constant occurrence with him.
As mad as I was, I was glad he wasn’t around. I would’ve played right into his hands by starting a fight. The whole reason he did it was to get me to use my fists.
Which I refuse to do.
Instead, I’ve sabotaged his already shaky relationship with the mentors. I make sure they know whenever he’s sleeping during morning class, which is always. I signal every time he misses a chore, which results in him having to do double everything.
Due to his general laziness and unwillingness to put any effort into anything that doesn’t involve his fists, he gets punished the most.
He’s had to do more chores than anyone, has been sent to fetch wood from the mountain almost every day, and he’s been voted the worst member for three weeks straight. And you can bet I voted.
The fourth week was snatched by Nikolai for starting fights.
Still, Yulian is the worst.
He’s loud, brash, and a complete idiot in the academic field. He has average learning skills and is subpar at best when it comes to strategizing. In class, Cyrus gives him ideas and answers, otherwise his absolute idiocy would’ve shown through by now.
The only thing this guy has is perfect shooting sheets and sheer strength.
And chaos.
And pranks, which he seems to be pulling on his guards and friends all the time.
Though “friends” is a stretch. The two other guys accompanying him and Cyrus seem to respect him only because of his dad.
Actually, they don’t seem to like him that much.
The only one who’s always with him is Cyrus.
And Cyrus isn’t the son of any of the other leaders. Yes, I asked my dad when I called him soon after the camp started, and he mentioned that Cyrus’s origins are being kept under lock and key. All we know is that he’s being fostered by Yulian’s father.
When we finish wrestling and kicking each other senseless, Yulian and I are panting and barely standing. He looks rough, his mouth bloodied, his chest bruised, sweat dripping from his temples down to the veins in his neck, ghosting his collarbone and then slipping to his chest—
I snap my eyes back to his, an uncomfortable rattling sensation coiling in my stomach.
Revulsion. It must be revulsion.
We’re eyeing each other as we come to a standoff. One of us has to tap out, and it’s not going to be me.
“Is that all they teach you in New York?” Yulian pouts, blood coating his lips. “I expected more.”
I charge toward him, but when I try to punch him, he grabs my fist and swings me around so that my back is to his chest while he still has a hold of my arm. Then he twists my other fist behind my back.
“Tap out,” he whispers so close to my ear that discomfort rushes down my spine and into my veins. “Or I’ll break your arm.”
I fling forward to release myself, but he twists my arm harder, and I grunt as pain spreads and intensifies.
“You can’t win against me, Mishka. It’s impossible.”
I throw my head back and catch him in the chin. A groan fills my ringing ears as the pain sharpens in my arm.
Then, all of a sudden, we’re flung away from each other.
By guards.
I think one of the mentors who was supervising the fight spoke earlier, but I couldn’t hear anything he said when I was imprisoned against Yulian.
No. I couldn’t hear anything when he was whispering in my ear.
I glare at the bastard whom I suspect was dropped on his head when he was an infant.
We’re both panting as the mentor, a serious guy with thick-framed glasses, says, “Both of you will be punished for not ending the fight when I requested, as well as intending permanent or semi-permanent bodily harm.”
Fuck.
I did plan to bash his head in.
I shouldn’t have had that thought during a mere sparring session.
“You never specified that!” Yulian protests.
“I did before the start of the match.” The man sighs. “It helps if you actually listen to instructions.”
“But that’s a waste of time!”
I drag my gaze to Yulian as he fights with the mentor, my temples throbbing, my fists clenching at either side of me.
The motherfucker made me break the rules. Me.
I actually deviated from a code of conduct because I wanted to see his brains spill on the ground.
For a minute, I forgot about the need to get along with the Chicago mafia that my parents drilled into me and that I’m here to represent them and our organization.
For the duration of the fight, I was consumed by the one thing I was meant to control and erase.
Bloodlust.
And it was because of this degenerate motherfucker—
He stops grumbling at the mentor and glides his freaky eyes toward me. Earth and sky, that’s what they look like. Elements of nature that brighten at the same time.
He says nothing, just holds my gaze as he wipes the blood off the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
And I stare back, square into his bruised face.
He looks like shit, his lip busted, the black eye looking terrifying around his blue iris, and his chest is full of bruises.
I’m proud of my handiwork—of thrashing him—but I can also feel throbbing at my lip, my chest, and my cheek. We did a number on each other, it seems.
The silence stretches for a disconcerting beat in the midst of the chatter from the others.
The mentor says something about punishing us by having us gather wood together.
Alone.
Not even the guards are allowed to accompany us.
Just the thought of spending alone time with this bastard makes my skin prickle.
Yulian is the one who gets punished, not me. Whether for causing trouble or smoking or being caught watching porn on the big screen that’s reserved for events.
And I’m pretty sure he made one of the guards tattoo some stupid doodle he made in the dirt on him the other day.
He’s a walking hazard pumped full of bad habits.
And I shouldn’t be lumped in the same distasteful category as him.
But it’s not the punishment that’s making me clench my fists.
It’s the way he’s watching me with that blood on his hand. I’ll be damned if I let him get his germs all over me again.
Besides, he’s silent.
Yulian’s never silent.
He’s a goddamn yapper who doesn’t shut up—as proven by the entire essay he directed at the mentor just now.
“What?” I grumble when he just keeps staring as if he’s been possessed.
He lifts a shoulder. “No one won.”
“And?”
“And we still don’t know who’s at the top, genius.”
He rushes toward me.
And it’s a rush.
He doesn’t jog. He runs at full speed as if he’s being chased.
I step back, expecting him to touch me with his bloodied hand.
But he doesn’t.
Yulian comes to a halt as abruptly as he sprinted forward, then speaks low. “How about we continue later? Behind the utility garage or in the basement or… Oh! When we go to gather wood. I found a sick open space near the peak that would be perfect for a fight—”
“No.” I start to bypass him, not bothering to let him finish talking.
The yapper is back, and Yulian truly doesn’t shut up unless he’s cut off. The only one who seems to tolerate listening to his word vomit is Cyrus, but I suspect part of that has to do with their familiarity or the fact that Cyrus doesn’t talk much.
A harsh grip pulls at my hair until my skull throbs as Yulian yanks my head back so that he’s looking down at me, his smile gone, his eyes darker. “Hey, it’s not good manners to walk away while I’m still talking. Your parents didn’t teach you that, fake Russian?”
I whack the side of my palm against his windpipe. He gags, the sound echoing in the air like a choked sob, but he doesn’t release me. If anything, he tightens his grip on my hair, so I kick his shin, and then he kicks my calf.
Fuck.
My leg throbs and my skull hurts, but I’ll be damned if I give this moron the upper hand.
“Hit a nerve?” He speaks in Russian, his lips tilted with a mocking edge. “Do you even understand what I’m saying? Should I speak slower?”
“I speak flawless Russian,” I say in the same language.
“Flawless?” He laughs, the sound rich and smooth and…disconcerting.
“Like a native, actually. It’s not my fault you don’t hear correctly.”
“I heard wolf just fine.”
“I’ll have you know that both my parents are pure Russian. My mother was even born in Russia and comes from the aristocracy, and my uncle owns an empire in Russia.” I don’t know why I tell him all of this. In Russian. As if I want to prove a point to him or something.
I speak five whole languages, while this prick only knows two and is barely literate in English. I shouldn’t even want to prove anything to him, but I had to.
Call it a matter of pride.
Yulian leans down, his eyes peering into my face, and that’s when I see the most curious view.
The brown flecks in his blue eye. Talk about rare and…stunning.
“Russian royalty, huh? Hmm. That makes sense,” he whispers near my cheek, his breath spreading across my skin.
A shudder ripples through me as unease tightens my chest.
I loathe the guy so much, my body is revolting at his closeness.
I lift a fist and punch him, finally forcing him to release me.
Fucking prick got blood on my hair after all.
As I’m about to pummel him to the ground again, we’re pulled away from each other by Cyrus, Nikolai, and the others.
“Come on, don’t be selfish.” Nikolai grins, his eyes brightening. “It’s my turn to fight.”
“Me!” Yulian shakes off the guy who was holding him and jumps into the middle of the arena. “I want to fight again. I’ll beat you, Niko.”
“You wish, motherfucker!” Nikolai screams back, laughing.
And so it begins—one of their daily fights that even the mentors don’t bother to interfere in anymore.
I stand there for a while, my arms crossed, occasionally darting my tongue out to lick my cut lip and tasting copper.
Not sure why I don’t get out of there right away, but something’s bothering me.
The discomfort. It still hasn’t disappeared, even though Yulian’s left me alone.
If anything, it’s spreading in my chest.
I shake my head and leave, my eyes flitting back to Yulian one final time as he exchanges blows with Nikolai, both of them laughing like maniacs.
Why the hell would I care that he instantly directed his attention to Nikolai?