TWENTY-SIX Jhene
TWENTY-SIX
Jhene
My heart stops the moment Killian hits the floor.
His body thumps into the canvas, the vicious sound echoing through the chamber. I scream his name before even realizing my mouth is open.
The blond enforcer tightens his fist in my hair and yanks me back when I go to lunge forward. The prickle of pain that follows barely registers.
All I can see—the only thing I can focus on—is Killian’s body lying motionless in Fedorov’s makeshift ring.
Sharapova stands over him with his chest heaving and his fists still raised, waiting to make sure his opponent stays down. He grins broadly and shouts in Russian a phrase I’m pretty sure means, “the weak never survive.”
He’s done his part pleasing Fedorov.
The older Russian mob boss leans forward with sick anticipation, a feverish gleam on his sharp, heavily lined face. He’s a vulture in human form, starving for more violence. More bloodshed so he can feed off the carcass of Killian’s destruction.
“It appears your boxer did not come through for you after all, Myshka,” he taunts. “Such a pity. Now you will be mine forever.”
I can’t even bring myself to look at him. My skin crawls at the mere thought. Even sharing the same air makes me sick to my stomach.
There was a time where I was able to shut down enough to allow him to touch me. I didn’t have much of a choice, but I learned to disassociate for the sake of my survival.
…for Eva.
But now every second near him is agony.
“Get up,” I whisper under my breath. “Killer, please, you have to get up.”
A few more seconds pass with Killian trying to get up then collapsing back down.
Sharapova starts circling the platform as if in the middle of a performance. He flexes his large, taut muscles and shouts more Russian to the crowd gathered. He even beats his fists against his chest to cheers and whistles from the soldiers.
He truly believes he’s won.
Killian’s fingers twitch against the canvas. His palms press flat, and he starts slowly pushing himself up from the ground. His arms tremble with the effort and blood drips from a gash above his eye, but he refuses to stay down this time. He forces himself back up onto his feet.
Sharapova’s gloating stops the moment he realizes Killian’s standing again. The arrogance remains on his face as he turns to face him and issue some taunts.
“You should stay down, Irishman. Play dead,” Sharapova says as he cracks his neck from side to side. “It would be easier for you.”
Killian spits blood onto the ground and shakes his head. The vacant look in his eyes sharpens as he seems to fight through the fog. Lingering effects from the brutal blow he took to the head.
He raises his fists back into fighting position.
“Shut the fuck up and square up, you ugly bastard,” he growls impatiently. “I didn’t come here for chitchat. I came here to fight.”
They meet in the center of the platform like two forces of nature colliding.
Sharapova throws a heavy right hook that Killian barely manages to duck, his fist close enough to ruffle his hair. Killian answers with a quick jab to the body, then dances back on light feet before the bigger man can pin him down or corner him against the edge of the platform.
It brings me some small semblance of relief seeing his quick footwork. I remember how Malone had hammered that home on the afternoons I spent doing puzzle books at the gym, secretly watching Killian train.
Sharapova swings again and lands an uppercut that sends Killian stumbling sideways. I flinch and turn my head away, unable to bear watching much more.
The only reason I force myself to is because Killian’s doing this for me. He’s fighting Sharapova to win Fedorov’s deal and save me.
The least I can do is support him from the sidelines, even during the tough moments.
He recovers faster than expected and fires back with a one-two combination—first a sharp jab to Sharapova’s face, followed by a hard cross to his jaw that snaps the giant’s head to the side.
For the first time since this match began, Sharapova actually looks hurt.
It prompts Fedorov to shout at him in Russian. Though I can’t decipher what exactly is being said, I can tell it’s nothing good. He’s pissed his prized fighter has dared to show even a modicum of weakness.
The men go back to ducking and dodging each other in the makeshift ring. Sharapova seems shaken, still recovering from the first real misstep he’s made. In contrast, Killian’s slipping back into his fast footwork and strategic strikes.
They eventually trade more blows at the center of the ring, neither giving ground. They absorb each other’s punches and counter others.
…at least at first.
Then Sharapova fails to block a hook from Killian. Blood squirts from his nose, spilling down his jaw.
“YES!” I scream at the top of my lungs. I jerk against the blond soldier’s grip as he tries to restrain me and hold me back. “Come on, Killer—you can do it!”
My words seem to energize Killian.
He presses forward and throws a rapid combination of more punches that almost knock Sharapova off his feet. He sees his opening, his opponent weakening by the second, and deals him another crushing blow.
Sharapova outright grunts taking the hit. He backs away, half doubled over. He’s not used to being on the receiving end. Being the one on defense.
His raw power usually carries him through his matches.
The change makes him desperate. Sloppy.
He throws a haymaker that Killian anticipates, easily ducking under. It creates another chance for him to counterattack with a swift uppercut.
The Russian fighter’s head is thrown back from the force of it. He staggers, struggling to stay on his feet, with arms dropping to his sides.
His fall is like a tree coming down. Some huge tree a lumberjack’s cut off at the stump, the descent happening in slow motion.
When he slams into the canvas, he’s not getting back up. His eyes are glassy, his face in bloody, bruised ruin.
He simply lays where he’s collapsed, body occasionally twitching.
The chamber erupts into outrage as guards start shouting and Fedorov screams something in Russian that I can’t understand.
I’ve remained silent, though the happy tears glossing my eyes say enough. A wave of happiness washes over me that has me lightheaded.
Killian’s won. He’s really done it!
He’s battered and a little unsteady on his feet, but he’s beaten Ivan Sharapova!
Our victory is short-lived.
Fedorov releases a howl of fury and gestures at Sharapova’s unconscious body with his cane.
“You think this means anything?” he snarls, his earlier amusement nowhere to be found. “I did not give all stipulations of this fight, you fools. I decide who wins and who loses, and I say you still lose!”
“You lying piece of shit!” Lochlan erupts from where he is at gunpoint. “The deal was clear—Killian wins, you let the girl go!”
“You gave your word!” the man with Lochlan adds, glaring with his good eye, the other covered by an eyepatch. “Or does the word of the great sovietnik mean nothing anymore?”
“It does not surprise me you would feel that way, Aleksei,” Fedorov sneers. “You have always been the weak link among us. My word means what I say it does—and I have decided the Irishman loses!”
“As your great Russian is on the floor laid out!” Lochlan curls his fists and takes a step forward.
Fedorov’s men respond by cocking the hammers on their guns, making it clear they have no qualms about using them. They’ll unload on us as soon as they’re given the order.
“Fedorov, you can’t do this!” I interject from beside him. The blond squeezes harder at my arms, obviously an attempt to shut me up. “You can’t change your mind now! He beat your fighter. He won. You can’t—”
“Shut up, Myshka!” he barks. He lifts his cane as if about to strike me.
I flinch instinctively, eyes snapping shut.
“Don’t you fucking touch her!” Killian roars from the makeshift ring. He steps over Sharapova’s body and starts toward us, even as some guards redirect their guns to him.
“This is my game,” Fedorov says. “I can do whatever I like. None of you are in a position to make demands.”
It’s a grim reality that weighs down on us. We’re outnumbered, out gunned, and on enemy turf.
Fedorov and his men hold all the cards. We’re at their mercy.
…until for the second time tonight, the emergency alarms go off.
The loud blare fills the room, red lights flashing across the chamber. Even Fedorov’s soldiers seem thrown off, glancing around in confusion.
Fedorov grits his teeth and barks orders at his men in rapid Russian. Obviously something bad has happened elsewhere on the estate. The alarm has gone off for a reason.
Most of the men rush out of the chamber at his command. Presumably to go address whatever new threat has emerged.
Lochlan and Aleksei use the commotion to their advantage.
In one quick decisive motion, Lochlan grabs the barrel of the gun pointed at his face and wrenches it sideways, throwing the guard off balance before slamming his elbow into the man’s throat.
Aleksei moves at the same time, his massive frame barreling into the guard nearest to him and taking him to the ground. As soon as he has him pinned, he’s snapping his neck.
More guards turn to engage them, but Lochlan’s in attack mode. He’s already opened fire, dropping two of them.
Aleksei grabs another guard and uses him as a human shield while he strips the man of his firearm then tosses the body aside and starts shooting.
Killian’s making his way over to me when he’s intercepted by a guard he’s forced to fight off.
The chamber descends into chaos as bullets fly and men scream. I’m frozen in place because the icy blond still has his hand clenched shut on my arm.
Fedorov snatches me away from him, seemingly deciding on a new strategy. He’s withdrawn his own gun and presses it to my temple.
“Stop fighting!” he yells. “Stop or I will kill her right now!”
It’s as if someone has pressed pause in the chamber.
Killian and the other two have frozen mid-fight. They watch us with dark, heavy glares. Looks of calculation.