Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

I am so stunned at the change in scenery—so surprised at the comfy feeling that floods through me at the sight of this room—that I just stand there in the doorway, looking around like a dumbass, forgetting all about the pain in my stomach and the newly stitched-up wound on my head.

Cort bangs a fork on one of the tables, and when I look over at him with a start, he’s pointing to the chair across from him. I walk over, unsure how to process what I’m seeing. What we’re doing.

What are we doing?

I sit and Cort shoves one of the bowls at me, then slides the fork across the aged varnished surface of the table. He starts eating immediately, eagerly shoveling the rice and fish into his mouth, and I realize he’s just as hungry as I am.

Well, of course he is, Anya. He’s twice your size and he’s working out like a… well. Like a fucking fighter. While you’ve been halfheartedly skipping some rope and throwing a few punches.

I look around again, still trying to fit the pieces of this place together. What is this? Do they keep kids here? Did he grow up here? Are those his books? His games?

Maybe, but… the Babysitters’ Club? That doesn’t make sense. Bexxie had those books on her shelf. And before they were hers, they were mine.

The sudden appearance of Bexxie in my thoughts makes me startle and a gasp escapes past my lips. Bexxie. Shit, I forgot all about her. I left her. I mean, I knew I was going to leave her, no matter what happened at the end of that fight. But I always thought I’d have time to say goodbye.

The painful rumbling in my stomach fades, the wound on my head forgotten. Bexxie. I left her alone. And I didn’t even give her a hug to let her know she was loved.

Cort taps the table with his fork again, but I don’t look up at him. I’m suddenly very, very sad. And I don’t know if it’s all the new stuff I’m dealing with, or the hunger, or the rough stitching of my head I just endured, but it all becomes a little overwhelming. And then the tears leak out of my eyes before I can stop them.

It’s not any of those things. It’s Bexxie. Because I am suddenly very, very, very sure that I will never see her bright, smiling face again. And that might be the most tragic thing to ever happen to me.

Cort sighs, clearly frustrated with me. When I look up, I see a blurry version of him through my tears. He’s slouched down in his chair, leaning back, his elbow propped on the chair arm, his fist under his chin. Like he’s about ready to throw me over the side of this rig and make me take my chances in the ocean.

And can I blame him? So far he’s had to wrap my bloody knuckles, stitch up my head, share his water and food with me, even though we don’t have enough for one person, let alone two a at this point, and now I’m sitting here—surrounded by his reluctant kindness—and all I can do is cry.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN - CORT

What the fuck?

Like, literally, what the actual fuck is wrong with this girl?

I seriously want to slap her. What is her problem now? I’ve fed her, I stitched up her head, I brought her into the kids’ room so she can eat at a fucking table and relax a little, and all she wants to do is cry?

I don’t get it. I mean, I get girls, OK? I have eight of them back at camp and only one of them would even think about crying in front of me. And she’s only four years old, so whatever.

But Anya is a grown-ass woman. Grown women don’t cry. Especially when I’m going out of my way to not only keep her alive, but keep her comfortable. She’s not even eating that food. I’m about to take it from her, eat it myself. Fuck her. Does she have any idea how dearly we’ll pay for this extra meal in two weeks?

No. She doesn’t. But she will. She’s not gonna like that day. At all.

She is weak and I don’t know if I can take much more of this.

I don’t like weak people. I don’t want to take care of her. I don’t want to take care of anyone, actually. Maybe Evard, but only on certain occasions. And Anya Bokori is no Evard. She is no one to me. Just a way to piss off Udulf and hopefully get some secrets I can use later to fuck with him or Lazar, if either of them ever forgets who they’re dealing with.

But she tires me out. Just thinking about all the stress that’s coming—and how she’s adding to it—pisses me off. I don’t even feel like getting my ass up out of this chair to train, that’s how weary she makes me.