Chapter 9 Lyra
LYRA
"Move! Get out of my way!"
I push through the crowd, my kit clutched against my chest. The warehouse is packed for the tournament.
The smell of sweat, blood, and too much cologne hits me like a wall as men part reluctantly, their eyes glazed with the excitement that comes from watching violence.
Two fights are happening simultaneously in the rings. One fighter takes a brutal hook to the jaw in Ring A while I'm trying to reach Ring B, where someone's already down.
"Coming through!" I shout, elbowing past a group of men with fistfuls of cash.
It's like a damn pressure cooker in here. More fighters, more money, more testosterone.
I've already been called twice in the first hour. First for a dislocated shoulder, then for a gash that needed six stitches above someone's eye. Reminds me of Declan's cut. I shake my head, forcing the image away.
As I reach the edge of Ring B, I see what's happening. A fighter is facedown on the mat. Blood pools beneath him, a bit too much.
"Fuck," I say, climbing through the ropes.
The referee waves me over frantically. "Hit his head on the corner post when he went down."
I kneel beside the man, my fingers immediately going to his carotid. His pulse is rapid but strong. I open his eyelids, pupils equal and reactive. That's good.
"What's his name?" I ask no one in particular.
"Nick," someone answers.
"Nick," I say loudly near his ear. "Can you hear me?"
He groans. His eyes flutter. More blood seeps from a cut near his hairline.
"He's done. Bring him to the back," I say, standing.
The crowd boos, hungry for drama, as four men lift him carelessly.
Nick moans as they lay him down on the floor. I don't have a bed.
I look him over. His skin is pale beneath his tan.
"Out," I order the men who carried him. "Everyone out."
I work better on my own. So I can zone out. Focus.
I quickly see the blood is coming from two places. I press gauze against both, but it immediately soaks through.
"Shit," I say, reaching for more.
The bleeding won't stop. Head wounds bleed dramatically, but this is excessive. I apply more pressure, my gloves feeling slick.
"Come on," I say, grabbing a suture kit. I need to close the larger gash. It's the source of most blood loss.
I've just inserted the needle when the door bursts open.
"Hey, you need to come with me," Frank demands, standing in the doorway. "That Killaney guy needs you. It's urgent. One of his guys is bleeding. Corner can't stop it. Ref's about to call it."
I look back down, focusing on the stitch I'm placing. "No. I'm working on someone."
"He won't be happy. Maybe finish that guy later."
That makes me look up. My hands are covered in blood, and I'm literally holding a man's flesh together with needle and thread. Heat rises in my chest.
"No," I snap. "I'm not abandoning him. Tell him his man isn't my problem right now."
Frank looks bothered. Too bad.
"You're serious?"
"Dead serious. Tell him to figure it out."
"Fuck, Lyra. He's, you know, he'll make you regret shit like this," Frank says.
"I've regretted a lot of things," I reply, turning back to my patient. "This won't even make the list."
He takes another step closer and for a moment, I think he might grab me, out of fear for himself, or me. But he turns and walks out, shutting the door behind him.
Screw it. I can't think about it any longer; I've got work to do.
I finally get Nick's bleeding under control and his people come and take him.
The rest of the night drags on. Broken noses. Dislocated fingers. An idiot who tried to fight with a fractured rib.
By the time it's over, I'm soaked in blood, sweat, and exhaustion.
Frank hands me an envelope on my way out. It's bigger than usual.
"What's this?" I ask, already knowing.
"Your cut," he says. "Told you bigger tournaments are a bitch, but the pay's nice."
I pocket it without counting. The amount doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm being paid fairly and not being owned.
"Can I give you some advice?" Frank asks.
I nod.
"Killaney won't take shit like that lying down. I'm not saying it’s right, but that envelope can get lighter if his men lose, you catch my drift?"
I bite my tongue because I want to speak my mind, but Frank gave me a shot; he's my boss, so I breathe through it.
"Hey, I'm not trying to make you upset. I want you to do well. Just telling you how it is, and my hands are tied if things go south with him."
"Thanks Frank, I’ll keep that in mind. Have a good night."
"You too, Lyra."
I get outside and the night air is still. I make my way over to my crappy car and stick the key in and unlock the door.
I throw my bag on the passenger seat and my car starts on the second try, a record. I drive in silence, thinking about what Frank said, with anger and subtle hints of understanding running through my mind.
When I get home, I toss my keys onto the counter, take off my boots, and peel off my clothes in the hallway. The shower takes forever to heat up, of course, but when the steam finally starts to rise, I feel like I can finally breathe again and scrub the night off me.
As I’m washing myself, I can’t help but think about him. I mean, why is he always asking for me? Showing up, demanding my help for little things. I’m a medic for everyone, not just him. He's borderline bullying me at this point always in my face about something.
Ugh, I just want some peace.
I get out, wrap myself in a towel, and sit on the couch. I lay my head back and stare at the ceiling. I've been doing that a lot lately.
I close my eyes and drift off into sleep.
I hear a noise and my eyes shoot open. I'm in that dream state where you're not sure if you actually heard something or it was a dream.
What was that?
Another knock comes from my door.
Then another.
It's loud.
Then louder.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I nearly jump out of my skin. I look at the clock. It's 1:47 AM.
"Jesus," I say, grabbing a worn t-shirt from the floor and yanking it over my head. It barely covers my ass, but whoever's banging like they're trying to break my door down isn't giving me time for pants.
I march to the door and grab the small blade I keep near the entryway, tucking it against my wrist.
I peer through the peephole.
There he is.
Declan Killaney in my fucking hallway. Outside my door.
My stomach drops. I consider not answering, but he'll just keep pounding until my neighbors call the cops. And cops are the last thing I need.
I unlock the door and yank it open, making sure to keep my body partly hidden behind it.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" I demand.
He doesn't answer, just walks right past me like he's been invited inside.
He stops in the middle of my living room and I see his eyes scanning every corner of my shitty apartment.
"You really live here?" he asks, his voice holding a hint of surprise, like he can't believe anyone would choose this.
I shift, painfully aware of my bare legs and the knife still hidden in my palm. "Don't worry about me. Why are you here? How did you even find me?"
He turns toward me slowly. "When I want something, I get it. Come on, you know how men like me work."
The words hit like a slap. I know exactly how men like him work. I've spent over a decade being owned by men like him.
"Yeah, I do. You're all pieces of shit. Now get the fuck out." My voice doesn't waver.
He ignores me completely, running a finger along my countertop. "Trust me, I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to. This part of the city..." He makes a disgusted face, nose wrinkling like he can smell the poverty. "Smells like wet dog and bad decisions."
"You have such a way with words," I say, gripping my blade.
"I heard something tonight. Something interesting. How you got free from the Albanians."
I shrug, keeping my expression neutral. "And?"
"Well, first of all, you're welcome," he says, smiling. "We weakened them here. Drove them out. So they abandoned their assets."
Something hot and bitter rises in my throat. The arrogance, the entitlement, it's so familiar it makes my skin crawl. He thinks he freed me? That I should be grateful to him?
Even if the Killaneys' war with the Albanians did weaken them enough that they were willing to accept my money when I finally had enough saved, fuck him. He doesn't get credit for my freedom, not when I paid for it with eleven years of trauma.
I cross my arms tightly over my chest. "I don't owe you shit. I bought out my own contract. I freed myself. No one helped me."
He lifts a brow like he doesn't believe me. I don't care.
"And second…" he glances around the apartment again. "If you're living here, you need money. Clearly."
"There's nothing wrong with living here and using the skills I've got to make a living."
"No, but here? In Boston? Where your reputation precedes you, good and bad. You can't want this. So what's your end game?"
The question catches me off guard. It hits too close to my carefully guarded plans. Romania, a fresh start, a life far from men like him. I feel exposed, like he can see right through me.
"That's none of your business," I snap. "So either get to the point of you rudely showing up here, or get out."
He steps closer, using his height to loom over me. I don't back down, even though my heart starts hammering in my chest.
"I lost two hundred grand tonight because my fighter had to forfeit. Bleeding too much. Couldn't continue."
I shrug, determined not to show any reaction. "Sucks for you."
He smiles and reaches out, his fingers brushing against my cheek. The touch sends an unwelcome spark across my skin. I swat it away.
"I don't like to lose," he growls.
"Well, it sounds like you did."
He laughs. "You could've been a fighter with that spirit. If you ever want to be, I'll sponsor you."
"No thanks. Not interested."
His eyes darken, and something in his gaze shifts. "I can't share you," he says suddenly.
The words hang in the air between us.
"Excuse me?" I say, hating how my voice catches.
"You were busy tonight. Fixing someone else. I can't have that. I won't have that."
Anger rises up, hot and familiar. This is what I know. Men thinking they own me, men making decisions about me.
"I work for Frank's gym. Not for you," I say defiantly.
"Not anymore," he says. "You'll work for me now. Exclusively. On-call. Every fight. My fighters only."
I laugh. "Like hell I will. I'm not getting involved with some bullshit mobster drama. You're more trouble than you're worth. Pass."
"I talked to Frank. I know what he pays you. I'll double it."
"Nope. Bye." I gesture toward the door.
He studies me. I glance at his lips. Damn it. I feel heat coiling in my stomach, and I hate myself for it.
"Four times, then," he says, voice dropping lower. "I'll deal with Frank. You'll only work for me."
I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off again, but I pause.
The math is simple. Four times what I make now? That's two years of savings in six months. I could leave sooner. Maybe push through a year total and be done forever. Out of Boston. Away from the memories. Away from men like Declan.
I sigh, my resolve cracking.
"Four times?"
He nods. "Four times."
"Fine," I say firmly. "But patch-ups only. Nothing else. No bullshit. And you don't come here again. Actually, you never come here. Ever."
His lips curve into a victorious smile.
"You make it so inviting, it'll be hard to resist that, but fine," he says, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a sleek black phone. "Here. Keep this with you at all times. I'll only call when you're needed. Answer. No matter the time."
I take the phone.
Our fingers brush.
Shit.
I don't trust this man. Not even for a second.
But for once, he's offering something I might actually need.
And I'll be damned if I don't take it on my terms.
"Okay," I say and follow him out.
"Sweet dreams, Lyra," he says without looking back as he walks away. "Remember to always answer."
I shut the door and lean back against it.
I've made a deal with the devil.
Six months. That's all. I've handled worse.
But something tells me he's going to make me pay for every second.