Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

Pain leaks out of me as nothing more than a low grunt of acknowledgment. But on the inside, the sharpness of the injury takes me by surprise. And my head is filled with nothing but screaming.

Screaming.

Little voices in the dark. The smell of blood in the night. The cackling laughter of the man who took us.

And then… the instincts. My instincts. Once I realized there was nothing more to lose.

And then Pavo is looming over me, sitting on me, crushing my already bruised and broken ribs. His bloody mouth grinning, his dark eyes flashing, his overdeveloped sense of self-importance rearing up like a wild stallion who just won a whole herd of mares.

My legs kick up, knees connecting with his back the same time his fist connects with my face.

Stars shimmer in the night even though there are no stars tonight.

I push up with my flat palms, connect with his chest, and roll him over my head.

There is a sick thunk as his skull hits the ground, and I think, That’s gotta hurt, but in a life-or-death fight it’s not over ‘till it’s over.

I get up on my hands and feet, pausing for a moment to assess Pavo. He’s lying face down and blood is streaming along the side of his head. But he’s not out.

He rolls over, one, two, three full revolutions. And then he’s on his feet.

They never go down easy. Not at this level.

Another flash of white. Fucking Anya and her knife.

Pavo grabs her out of instinct, wraps one arm tightly around her neck, catching the vulnerable part of her trachea in the crook of his elbow. She drops the knife, both hands reaching for his arm to pry it away as he begins to strangle the life out of her.

And then the sound of metal on concrete changes everything.

A weapon. On the battlefield.

The crowd had faded into the background, but now it all comes roaring back.

Pavo’s eyes dart to the knife, but I’m looking at him. He throws Anya and she goes stumbling to the side, still grabbing at her throat and wheezing as she desperately tries to suck in air.

I lurch back, but I’m too late. I am cut and bleeding before the pain even sets in.

Pavo is very good with knives. His skill with them is impressive, even to me.

He doesn’t cut me again. Doesn’t even try. He throws that fucker right at my neck.

I dart to the side, and still that knife pierces my flesh as it passes by and hits the ground several meters behind me.

My hand reaches up to find the damage and is instantly covered in hot, sticky blood.

Again the sound of the crowd and the drums fades back in. They are going wild for him and my head is spinning a little. Did he cut me deep enough? Did he hit the artery? Nick it? Am I already dead?

I don’t have time to think about it, because Pavo is attacking again. His kick is swift and there are twenty years of practiced force behind it when the length of his lower leg hits me across the hips.

But I’ve got twenty-two years of practiced checks behind my defense as well. I grab his leg. He immediately checks me, hooking his knee, pulling me forward. And then he jumps up, left arm circling my head, holding it tightly in place while his right elbow finds the side of my face.

Stars. I stumble backwards and let go of his leg.

His defense wasn’t an original move. But it was effective. I have to retreat, taking steps, and steps, and steps backwards as Pavo advances.

“Finish it.” They are chanting now. “Finish it. Finish it. Finish it.”

Pavo is their winner. They are here to see him. Not because they love him, but because they hate me.

They want to see me fall. After all these years, all these fights, all those prizes—they are done with me. They want me dead.

I too am a sacrifice. Just like this girl on the platform with us.

His legs are battering me and I am blocking. One blow after another. And each time I block his legs, his elbows are there because he’s high on the kind of adrenaline rush one only ever gets when they think they’ve already won.

The drums stop.

The final moment is nothing but the maddening crowd. They forget who they are in the outside world when they’re at the fights. All those rules they live by fade into the background. They stop caring about their role. They stop thinking about the gifts they accept. And maybe—if they’re very lucky and they win their bets—maybe they forget about the things they gave up to be here. Maybe they forget the price they’ve already paid.

And if they get lucky enough, and drunk enough, and they find a lover tonight who knows what they’re doing—then maybe they even forget how much they still owe.