Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

“Nope,” Rainer says. “Her tongue is still there.” He looks over at Maart. “She might need a stitch on it. It’s still bleeding.”

“I’m a little busy right now,” Maart says. “So…” He looks up at Anya. “Probably not.”

Anya grunts as Rainer releases her, pushing him away now that he’s already retreating.

So. She’s not silent because her tongue is missing.

They do that every now and then. If the girls object too much or they get caught trying to escape. Sometimes a slave will just see too much and that’s the most efficient way to silence them. If they’re not interested in simply killing them, that is.

But Anya isn’t just any slave. She is Lazar’s slave. And that means she’s been with him since she was very young. She would’ve been taught to read and write to make her worth more at the auctions, so cutting out her tongue wouldn’t silence her anyway. If Lazar had any concerns about Anya’s loyalties, she would already be dead.

So why doesn’t she talk?

I narrow my eyes at her and ask the question that way since she obviously doesn’t know how to sign. Why, Anya? Why don’t you talk?

She only frowns at me, but it’s enough.

I nod and lie back down. Closing my eyes again as Maart complains about all the ways I’m fucking up his stitching.

“Here.” Something cold presses against my flaming ribcage and I wince. “Evard brought you this. Figured you’d need it.”

Oh, hell yeah. I almost forgot about the Lectra. I feel around without opening my eyes until my fingers wrap around the neck of the bottle.

“Don’t spill it,” Rainer cautions me. “There’s no cork.”

“Don’t sit up to drink it, either,” Maart objects. “I’ve got two more internal stitches, then I’ll close, and you’ll be done. Two fucking minutes, Cort. Just be good for two more minutes.”

“OK, question.” Rainer taps my shoulder. “You wanna drink the Lectra for the pain? Or you want me to give you this?”

I open my eyes and find him holding a syringe.

Maart scoffs. “No, Rainer. Don’t give him that. He’s gonna drink the fucking Lectra.”

“Well, I know he’s going to drink it. But he still has to walk all the way over to the fucking reception room. And those ribs are gonna hurt. The Lectra won’t kick in for at least thirty minutes. One shot of this—”

“No.” Maart is insistent. He’s all practical like that when it comes to medical shit. It’s a bad idea to mix opiates with Lectra. “We can hang in here for thirty minutes. It’s no big deal.”

But I point at Rainer and give him permission anyway.

Maart sighs. “Why am I even here? You never listen to me.”

He knows that’s not true. I always listen to him about the important shit. But this isn’t about important shit. This is about getting fucked up.

My last fight. And I won.

I’m still here.

This night is going to be epic.

And tomorrow… tomorrow is a whole new beginning.

I don’t know what that looks like, exactly. But it’s been a long, long time since I had a new beginning, so I don’t even care.

I relax a little as Rainer ties off my arm, pats my vein with his fingertips, and then slides that needle in and pushes those drugs.

I love that feeling. Not the drugs. I give no fucks about drugs. I take them because… well, this happens at least once a year and I need a way to get through it. And back when I was a kid, this happened six or seven times a year. Most of those fights were even deeper underground than this one.

No. I just like the way I can trace the drug in my body as it enters my bloodstream.

It burns as it travels up my arm. I like that feeling when it enters my heart. Then it exits and then suddenly that drug is everywhere all at once.

It’s a weird, almost spiritual, experience.

Or I’m just fucked up and all this is just the delusions of a man on Demerol after killing someone.

I float for a few minutes as Maart finishes up. Then they help me sit up and I take my first sip of Lectra in over a year.

It even tastes blue. Something between too sweet and too cold. And I can feel that too. Going down my throat. Entering my stomach. Heating me up from the inside out.

I open my eyes and everything is blurry. But I can still make out Anya in the corner wearing her hospital gown. I sign a command to whoever is paying attention to find her some clothes.

But then I tell them not to let her wash the paint off. Not yet.

We’re still playing our parts.

Reality comes much, much later.

Time passes—I don’t know how much—but eventually Anya is wearing a loose white dress and I’m wearing a pair of olive-green cargo shorts and no shirt or shoes.