Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

But I am not so full of myself to believe that Udulf is really afraid of me. He’s never been afraid of me, even when he should’ve been. If he were afraid of me, those mercs would be down here with him. They would have automatic weapons trained on my chest.

Udulf laughs. “This is a problem for you? Is it a secret, Sick Heart?”

Fuck you. I think it, but I don’t sign it. He’s gotten more silent words out of me today than he deserves. And I just want him gone. So I tell him what he expects to hear. I want to fuck her.

Udulf laughs. “Since when?”

Twenty-eight more days, I sign.

“Oh. Until Maart comes.” He draws in a deep breath as he considers my answer. Does he believe me?

Maybe.

He thinks Maart and I are lovers. We’re not. We fuck. But I fuck a lot of people. He’s no one special. Not in that regard, anyway.

We’re friends. Best friends. I love him, but more importantly, I like him. And he’s had my back since I was nine. He’s the only reason why I’m still fighting.

I have been in thirty-five Ring of Fire fights. But the prizes were small at first. Extra protein for a year. New training equipment. Hot baths. Girls—not the girls I won in the fights, girls for camp. And boys too, also for camp. In fact, I already won Maart, Rainer, and Evard in fights before this. But that wasn’t their freedom. It was just the right to bring them to camp.

But I fought for Maart again three years ago. His freedom is guaranteed, as long as I win mine. Rainer came next. Then Evard. And now me.

Once I serve this last sentence and do the final training, we’re free.

It’s so fucking close I can taste it. And Udulf knows this. So now he’s asking himself, Why? Why would Cort risk all that over this girl?

I don’t know yet. I just know she’s worth something. Something more than I’ve paid for her, that’s for sure.

But if this man, this pseudo-father, this master of mine wants to believe that I want Anya to ease my craving for Maart as I serve my last sentence, then fuck it. What do I care?

Yes, I sign. I earned this.

His mouth lifts up on one side in amusement. Then he takes one last look down the stairwell where Anya is surely waiting at the gate.

She knows things. Lots of things. Or maybe just one thing—something very important. That’s why Lazar wanted her dead, but not just any kind of dead. He wanted to get something for her before he let her go.

But what? The ship? That can’t be it. That ship is worth billions. No human on this earth is worth billions. Not even Udulf is as valuable as that ship.

Even if that’s true, why did Lazar let her live this long? Why didn’t he kill her after he kicked her out of his bed?

Slave girls in our world rarely make it past age eleven. Twelve-year-old girls are practically unheard of. They use them up and throw them away. And by throw them away I mean they kill them.

They do the same with the boys. Even at the gym, even at camp—we are disposable. We fight, and we either win and live, or lose and die.

That’s how our world works.

I walk back over to him and pause. Waiting for him to make a decision.

“You didn’t earn her, Cort.” Udulf and I have the same steel-gray eyes. I’ve always hated that about him because people really think he’s my father. I don’t know if he is. I don’t know who my real father was. I don’t think I ever knew that. All I have left of the time before Udulf is the Lectra dream.

But I find myself praying at night sometimes. Praying that Udulf is not my father. Because if he is, he’s so much worse than even I understand.

But those eyes…

“Fine. Keep her until you get back to base camp. Then…” He lets out a breath. “Then I will pay you one last visit and I will collect her. But”—he points a finger in my face—“I need her alive. Do you understand me? I’ll wait you out and give you this… gift. You have been a good boy.” He places his hand alongside my cheek and a shudder of revulsion shoots through my body. Udulf mistakes it for… something else. He pats my cheek and continues. “But she had better come back to me alive, Cort. Do you understand me?”

I brush his hand away and lift my chin up in response. It’s a yes, but not a nod. He didn’t earn a nod. He didn’t earn any of this today. He’s taking from me right now. He doesn’t belong here.

“Calm down,” he says, tugging on his shirt collar as he looks off to his right where half a dozen albatrosses are gliding in circles barely ten feet away. “I’m going. I hate those fucking birds.” And he starts climbing the steps.