Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

But I know better. Maart will never let this go. His eyes track around the platform, making sure every kid is doing what they should, as Anya stands in front of him, breathing hard and trying not to gag from the blood inside her mouth.

His gaze lands on me and I raise my eyebrows at him. And in that same moment he reaches for Anya, his palm still open and aiming for her cheek.

She blocks him, her forearm batting that potential slap away. I have to hide my smile again, because Maart never takes his eyes off me. And now he is saying things without words, just like Anya was.

He is asking me, What the fuck did you do?

And what can I say? All I do is shrug.

His head slowly turns and he studies Anya for a moment. Sizing her up. Evaluating her potential. “You wanna be a fighter, Anya? And don’t you fucking dare hand me silence, bitch. You just slapped me. I have every right to throw you off this platform and let you die in the sea for what you just did. I am ajarn here.” He leans into her personal space. “Do you understand me?”

I don’t expect her to answer him with words, and she doesn’t. But she nods her head and bows, just a little bit.

It’s a slave bow, not a martial arts bow. But it implies absolute submission, so it works.

Maart lets out a long breath and looks over at me. I haven’t moved, even though all my kids are busy. Anya has been forgotten as far as they’re concerned. None of them are over the age of six, but every one of them—with the exception of four-year-old Ainsey—has been out to the Rock at least twice already. They know what’s coming. They know that in six months they will have their first fight and more than half will lose.

Which means more than half will be dead when it’s over.

They don’t have time for Anya’s defiance.

I don’t give Maart any indication of what he should do about this situation. He’s right. He can deal with her any way he wants. She disrespected him and he has every right to ban her from the camp.

But when he looks back at her, he grabs her face and turns it, trying to see inside her mouth to find the source of the blood. Then he sighs and points his finger at her. “I’m pissed. If you wanted to train, all you had to do was ask with respect and we would’ve talked it over. Get your ass in the clinic. I’ll have to stitch that fucking tongue. I should just cut it off while I’m in there. It’s not like you need it.”

His insults continue as he follows Anya into the building, then taper off as the door swings closed behind them.

I turn back to my kids, ready to check hands, and find Ainsey—as usual—with a mess of wrappings around her knuckles.

She’s not gonna make it. Knowing this is a curse. And every time I look into her eyes, I feel this heavy weight of guilt. This is why I baby her. This is why I kneel down, unwrap her hands, and then wrap them back up the proper way.

But I smile the entire time for two reasons. One. Anya blocked Maart’s slap and he wasn’t expecting that. And two. I have to wear this mask with Ainsey. I don’t want her to know what’s coming. I want her to spend these last few months with me thinking it’s all gonna turn out OK, even though it’s not.

By the time the kids are done jumping rope, Anya and Maart are walking back out to the mats. I pause and watch them as they make their way towards me.

“She’s with you.” Maart sighs out these words. Like he’s tired. Or maybe just tired of her. I can only imagine the conversation that took place in the clinic.

Maart hates drama. And every time we get a new girl, he lets them know this. Maart is the complete opposite of Rainer. He is cold. He is calculating. He is serious, he is focused, he is intense. That’s why Rainer has always been in charge of Evard.

Though Maart has warmed up to Evard over the past year, ever since I fought for his freedom and won. Maart knows he’s here for good. Unlike Ainsey. Her clock is ticking so loud, Maart goes out of his way to ignore her completely.

I’m not sure what he thinks about Anya. Especially now.

“What?” he asks.

I shake my head and smile.

“Just…” He runs his fingers through his thick, dark hair and sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t care what you do with her. Three fucking months. I can deal with anything for three fucking months.” He gives Anya one final glare, then turns to me. “It was only three stitches, so if she starts getting lippy and whining about how she can’t work hard today, send her back into the kitchen.”