Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

I look down at the bottle he’s offering me and concentrate on breathing. Then I take it, knowing better, but not caring. The life that I know is over now. And I don’t want to know what comes next.

The drink goes down cold and smooth. And then someone pulls the bottle from my lips, which are sticky now.

“Easy there,” Rainer says. “You’re good, Anya. You’ve got a long night ahead so it’s best if you pace yourself.”

A long night.

A whole life, actually.

I look past Rainer and find Cort with his father on the other side of the room. Maart is with him, doing the talking, I suppose.

Why does Cort pretend not to talk? He knows how to sign. All of them do. I bet even the little boy knows how. So what’s the point? Did they cut out his tongue?

I’ve heard they do that to people sometimes. I’ve never personally known anyone who had their tongue cut out, but I don’t live in that world. I’m in it, but apart from it at the same time. We had servants, of course. And I would not say that my father was kind to them, but he didn’t go around cutting out tongues.

I watch Cort’s father as he smiles, and laughs, and pats his son on the back. He’s proud of him. That’s very apparent. So I don’t think he cuts out tongues either.

So why don’t you talk, Cort van Breda?

It isn’t rebellion. Because even though Cort had a very dark look to him earlier in the day, he doesn’t come off as sullen or moody now. In fact, he’s smiling, even laughing. He shakes the hands of the men his father lets close. Maart talks as Cort nods and even tilts his head a little in response.

Is he really interested in what they’re saying?

Or is that just another layer to the lie?

Someone grabs my arm, a grip so tight, I wince and hiss from the sudden pain.

“You little fucking bitch.”

I whirl around and find my father’s face dipping down into mine as he growls out his words.

“You little fucking bitch. This is all your fault. This whole night is your fault and believe me, I will make you—”

And then, before I can even pull my arm from his grip or take a step back in surprise, he’s on the ground and Cort is standing over him.

No. That’s not Cort. That is Sick Heart.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Cort’s father, Udulf, says. He steps in front of Cort, blocking my view of my father. “You can’t touch his girl like that, Lazar. She belongs to my son now and you’re going to need his permission to speak to her.”

Lazar wipes the blood from his mouth with a fingertip. He stares at that fingertip with an air of astonishment. Then he gets to his feet, straightens the collar of his white button-down shirt, and glares at Mr. van Hauten. “Fuck you, Udulf. You cheat. He cheated. She helped him. You owe me. He was supposed to—”

“Come with me, Anya.” I turn and find Rainer looking down at me. “I’m taking you back to the room.”

He takes my arm, as if to pull me away, but I hesitate. Because Lazar was saying something and I’m pretty sure it was a clue. I’m pretty sure it was about me.

He was supposed to… what?

But Rainer’s interference has changed the subject and suddenly Lazar is yelling, “You can’t take her!” He is losing his shit. “She’s mine! And we had an agreement!”

Maart steps up, places two hands flat on Lazar’s chest, and pushes him back with such force, he stumbles into a crowd of men. “She is his,” Maart growls. “And you better calm your shit down. Because if you raise your voice again, no one will stop him next time. You have been warned.”

Damn. That Maart is scary too. He might not be the star of the show, but it is very clear to anyone with any sense of self-preservation that Maart is just as dangerous as Cort.

“Fuck you,” Lazar spits.

“There is no such thing as an unfair fight in the Ring of Fire,” Udulf says. His voice is steady, and calm, and low. But everyone hears it. Even me. And Rainer is pulling me towards the door. “And if your people hadn’t planted that knife on the platform, then Cort’s new woman wouldn’t have picked it up and handed it to him.”

That’s not really what happened. I mean, there were extenuating circumstances. Like Pavo punching me in the mouth and splitting it open. I reach up to touch the cut on my lip with a fingertip. It’s swollen and tender. And my tongue—thank God I don’t need to talk, because it’s swelling up quick. One whole side of my body is road rash from Pavo pushing me down on the concrete platform.