No.
Rainer intercepts me, pushing me back as I try to make my way across the mat towards Maart. “Let it go,” Rainer says. “Don’t you dare interfere. She needs this.”
Fuck that! I sign. Fuck that! Irina will kill her!
Rainer leans into my ear just as Maart catches my eye from across the platform. Anya, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she is about to take the beating of a lifetime, is already in the middle of the mat, bouncing a little and shadowboxing, like she’s got a chance in hell of making it out the other side conscious. “She needs this,” Rainer repeats in a whisper. “Yesterday, after she fought Jafari and won, she walked off the mat and high-fived a four-year-old in celebration, Cort. She needs this.”
I look at him, shaking my head. Not Irina. That’s not fair and you know it. Irina could give me a run for my money. Hell, she could kick your ass, easy. This isn’t fair.
“Life isn’t fair,” Rainer whispers. “Anya has two months. And I don’t know what happens to her after that, but I do know this. It’s gonna be a very dark time for her. It might even be the end of her. She needs this, Cort. And if you have any feelings for her at all, you will let her learn her lessons.”
And by this time, it’s too late. Because Maart has already started the fight and Anya and Irina are circling each other on the mat.
Irina toys with her like a cat playing with a mouse before the kill. She swipes at Anya, allowing her to block, building her confidence. And then that first kick across Anya’s cheek is so powerful, Anya literally spins in place before falling over on her knees.
Irina backs off. Patient. No gloating from her. She isn’t here to fight Anya. She is here to teach Anya a lesson.
You are nothing. You do not matter. Your life has no value.
We are all going to die, but you? You’re going down sooner than later.
Anya is stunned, but she’s already up on one knee. I want to tell her to stay down, but I already know Maart doesn’t care. He has instructed Irina to keep this fight going for as long as possible. And that’s exactly what happens.
There are no rounds in this ring. There is no resting. You fight until it’s over.
And this one goes on for nearly nine minutes before Anya is unconscious on the mat, one eye swollen shut, the other one quickly following suit. Her lip is split in two places and every time she exhales, a little bubble of blood forms around her left nostril.
Maart and I meet in the middle of the mat at the same time. I am filled with rage, my breaths coming hard and fast. And I would knock him out right now. But a part of me knows… I’m not sure if I could.
And besides, I need him to stitch her back up.
He waits for me to figure all this out, his dark eyes daring me to be stupid.
And then I nod at him and we pick her up by the arms and drag her inside to the clinic.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - ANYA
I am not fully aware of everything happening to me. But I know two things.
One. I got my ass kicked by a ninja girl who is nearly half my age.
And two. I have swallowed so much blood, I am now puking.
Rainer’s calm voice is in my ear, telling me to relax, I’m fine. Then Maart, snarling at me to stay still as he stabs my eyebrow with a needle and suture.
Cort is there too.
At least, I think he is.
Because someone is playing with my hair.
I drift after that. Maybe they gave me drugs or maybe I fell unconscious again. Hard to tell, probably doesn’t matter.
But now I am lying on something very soft. So, so, so soft.
This is when I realize I’m dreaming. Because there is nothing about the Rock that is soft. It’s all concrete and steel. So different from how I grew up.
Everything about that place was soft. My huge bed. My comfy chairs. The thick rugs under my bare feet.
I lived like a little princess for the past… what, ten years? No sleeping on concrete for Anya Bokori. No swallowing fish whole. No rehydrated chicken bits. No saltwater baths that never wash that sweat off, just add to it, so that each day you are stickier and filthier than you were the one before.
My life was clawfoot tubs filled with champagne bubbles. It was fancy dinners. Food cooked by a private chef. It was long rides on luxury jets and weeks spent wandering foreign cities with pockets lined with money. It was fresh fruit, and special dresses, and pretty hair and nails. Only the best for Anya Bokori.