Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. I just did what I could without any instruction. Cort spent the entire time babying the small one, teaching her how to hit his palms with her tiny fists. He was good with her, though. And that surprised me. Like he cared about her. And maybe he does. But he didn’t treat any of the others that way. Not even the other little brown-haired girl, who was probably the same age as the boys.

It took me a while to realize why he was giving the tiny one more attention because she was always looking at her feet and her hair was always in her eyes. But then, at dinner, when I was plopping her rice into her bowl, she looked up at me and I actually gasped.

Her eyes were silver-gray. Cort’s eyes.

She is his daughter.

And that’s when I noticed that the boy who came with them on the ship for the fight—the one they call Evard—he has those same eyes too.

These two, and maybe more of them, are Cort van Breda’s biological children.

And he was being forced to train them for the fights. Knowing full well that they were not going to make it.

My entire reality flipped with this realization and nothing would ever be the same again.

I was still thinking about this—maybe I was even asleep and dreaming about this—when Cort came to me in the night and took me down the stairwell for a sip of Lectra.

That’s all it really was. Just a sip. One shot. But it was enough, and I guess that was the point. It was just enough to warm me up and make me sweat in the hot, humid night. Just enough to relax my shoulders and let out a sigh. Just enough to lower my defenses and let Cort van Breda be nice to me.

And he was nice. But I couldn’t let my guard down. I can’t ever let my guard down.

This was stupid. I had already let my guard down. I had already showed him my secret, he just didn’t realize it yet.

And now, three weeks later—and with no more special night-time moments from Cort—I was starting to wonder if maybe letting go of the secret might be a good thing.

Maybe Cort and his band of fighters were the answer to my endless, unanswered prayers?

It was a very dangerous thought to entertain. Faith was a precious thing and trust… well, trust was both priceless and expensive. Because if you trust the wrong person in my world, you don’t get a second chance.

“What the fuck, Anya? Are you even trying?”

I snap my eyes over to Maart. He’s been lecturing us for the better part of the morning. Carefully watching each group. Not correcting us, just studying us. I have no idea what this means.

Meanwhile, Jafari’s small, sharp, bare knuckles hit me right in the nose and blood rushes down my face.

Maart lets out an exasperated breath and walks over to Cort. I can’t hear the whole conversation because Jafari and I are wrestling on the mat now. I’m trying to wiggle out of his hold. And even though I was a little embarrassed that a tall-for-his-age six-year-old could kick my ass a couple weeks ago, I’m so over it now. This boy is mean. Like, he’s out for blood every time I step onto the mat with him.

So I’m mostly concentrating on trying not to breathe my own blood while I make attempts to eavesdrop.

I hear Maart say, “Don’t even try…” And “She will test like the rest.”

And that’s that. Jafari and I will be matched for the test tomorrow.

This marks one month on the Rock for the kids, but two months on the Rock for me and Cort. That’s what all that moon-pointing is about. We are counting the days that lead up to the new moon. What happens to us after the test, I have no idea. A belt ceremony? We don’t wear those white uniforms you see on martial arts kids. So I’m pretty sure it’s not a belt ceremony, but I’m also pretty sure there is a ceremony. Why else do we have Lectra? Not that these kids will be drinking it. I’m like a thousand percent positive that’s only for the men. But we have cookies. And chocolate. And beef in the freezer. This food is here for a reason and I have not been allowed to serve any of it.

So I’m pretty sure there’s gonna be a party and I can’t wait.

I’m on my feet now and this is Jafari’s worst nightmare. Because while I might not be tall in the grown-up world—coming in at only five foot three and a half—I’m a fucking giant compared to this six-year-old. I lock my arms around his waist, pick him up, and slam him down. The breath rushes out of him with a grunt and Cort comes in to stop the fight, which means I won.