Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

I don’t know if I can do jump rope today. I don’t know if I can do any of this today. I know it’s only been four days since I last had a nice meal, but my stomach hurts. Bad.

Rally, Anya, the survivor’s voice inside my head says. Rally and do what you’re told. That’s how you get out of here intact.

But then what? What happens to me when we leave this rig?

Nothing good, that’s the only thing I know. There is nothing good in my future.

Stick to the plan, Anya. Make him see you as an asset, not a liability.

I’m not sure it will work, but I don’t have any other options. I haven’t seen a boat around here, so it’s not like I can escape. And even though I can see lights off in the distance at night, they are tens of miles away There is no hope of swimming anywhere. I don’t even know what country I’m in. Or if this rig is considered part of a country. Perhaps Udulf van Hauten’s oil rigs and giant ships are all their own country?

I suddenly notice that the snick, snick, snick of Cort’s jump rope has stopped. And when I look up, he’s watching me. I turn my back to him, pick up my jump rope, and start my day, stomach burning and rumbling, mind a little bit foggy, and my prospects—well, they seem nonexistent at the moment.

I don’t do anything fancy. I don’t even try to do the single hop. I just can’t seem to manage it this morning. I feel like my mind is swimming in the ocean down below and then, without warning, I find myself on the ground, a sharp pain shooting through the back of my head.

My vision goes blurry for a moment and when I force my eyes open, Cort is hovering over my face. He snaps his fingers in front of my eyes when I try to shut them, then he picks me up and carries me inside the little building, setting me down on a small bed in a dark room.

I turn over, ready to fully appreciate this bed, but Cort snaps his fingers again. And when I open my eyes, I see that there is blood on them.

Shit. I reach up, touch the back of my head, realizing I actually hurt myself. I fainted. From lack of food.

Asshole. I scowl at him. Point at him. Accuse him.

He sighs—his default answer with me, it seems. Then he gets up and walks across the hall, leaving this room dark. He flips on the kitchen light and I catch a glimpse of him pulling out the rice maker.

Oh, my smile is sweet. He’s going to feed me. And all it took was a head injury.

That’s cynical, I know. And he deserves a little more credit than that. Because I’ve fainted from lack of food before and, trust me when I say this, no one carried me to a bed and started making me food afterward.

So I am grateful.

He prepares more than rice too. It only takes a few minutes for me to realize he’s making fish. I’m sure it’s some disgusting dried fish that has been on this rig for months or even years, but I don’t care. I’ll eat anything right now.

He comes back, flipping on the light in my room, and then busying himself at a counter on the far wall. That’s when I realize I’m in the clinic where he wrapped my hands yesterday.

Cort comes at me quickly, supplies in hand. He slips my feet off the bed and pulls me up to a sitting position, making me turn so he can see the gash on the back of my head. He sighs again.

He’s mad, I think. He’s mad that he has to feed me. And even though I’m happy about this now, I know everything comes with a price. I will pay for this later. Some way, somehow, this extra meal will come back to haunt me.

Cort presses his hand on the top of my back, right between my shoulder blades, urging me to lean forward. Then he pours something over the wound. Peroxide, from the smell of it. This bubbles against my scalp and he’s not very careful about any of it, so the foaming liquid spills down the side of my head and drips over my arm and on to the floor.

He’s certainly no Maart when it comes to bedside manner. I saw how Maart cared for Cort after the fight. He was very concerned and careful.

Cort stops pouring and then his fingers are probing the wound. And then he actually mutters, “Fucking hell,” under his breath and I turn my face up to him with a smile.

He points at me. Signs something at me with angry fingers—it’s probably Fuck you—and then pushes me down so I can’t look at him.