Page 28 of Forced to Marry the Bratva

“Park farther down the street,” I suggest. “We don’t want him to see us.”

Anoushka nods, steering our car to a spot hidden in the shadows. We watch as Lev exits his vehicle and disappears through a rusted iron gate.

“Stay close,” Anoushka whispers, her eyes bright with determination. “And be quiet.”

We creep along the damp sidewalk, and my heart is pounding against my ribcage. As we follow Lev’s footsteps through the narrow passageway, the sounds of the city fade away, replaced by the eerie silence of this desolate place.

“Genevieve...” Anoushka murmurs, her voice laced with concern. “Are you sure about this? It isn’t too late to turn back.”

I hesitate, my thoughts racing with all the possible dangers that could await us. But the desire to uncover Damien’s secrets overpower my fear. “No,” I say firmly. “I need to know what he’s hiding from me.”

I need to know how to get close to my husband. I need answers to feel a little less worried and lonely.

“Alright,” Anoushka sighs, her grip on my arm tightening. “But if anything goes wrong, we stick together and get out of here. Deal?”

“Deal,” I agree, swallowing the lump in my throat.

As we continue down the passageway, it gives way to a door that opens up into a dimly lit, cavernous space. We walk down a hallway filled with doors and, at last, reach the end. Through that door, we hear an electric, almost deafening energy.

“What the hell?” I gasp as Anoushka opens the door, and we peer inside. Right in front of us are hundreds of people, mostly men, and the air in the room is thick with sweat and testosterone; the deafening roar of a frenzied crowd echoes off the walls. My eyes widen as I take in the sight before me: an underground fighting ring packed with spectators thirsting for violence.

“Damien’s here,” Anoushka whispers, her voice barely audible over the din. “Of course he is. Why didn’t I think of it earlier? I thought he left…” she speaks now, almost to herself.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I inquire in panic.

“Damien, he—” but just then, she stops speaking, and her eyes go wide as she points a trembling finger toward the center of the room. “Look,” she bellows at me, directing me to one of the makeshift rings. “There he is.”

My breath catches in my throat as I spot Damien, stripped down to only his shorts, his lean muscles glistening with sweat under the harsh lights. The man I knew as my husband, lean, reserved, and polished in his tailored suits, is gone. In his place stands a savage warrior, every inch of him radiating power and menace. His arms and back are covered in intricate tattoos that seem to come alive as he moves, adding to his imposing presence.

“Is that really him?” I whisper, unable to tear my eyes away from the spectacle.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Anoushka sighs, her brow furrowed with worry. “This is his dark secret, Genevieve. This is what he does to escape the pressures of our world. This is what I thought he’d left behind when Boris told him to give it up.”

“But why?” I demand, my voice cracking with emotion. “Why would he do this?”

“Because it’s in his blood,” she replies solemnly. “No matter how hard he tries to suppress it, the Zolotov rage always finds a way to surface. And for Damien, this is his outlet.”

Just then, Damien delivers a brutal punch to his opponent, sending the man crashing to the ground. In that instant, the room erupts around us, and everyone urges him on with “Killer! Killer! Killer!”

In that instant, my hands turn cold. I realize now that these hundreds of spectators are calling my husband The Killer, and he’s reveling in it, prancing in that ring like a lion waiting to be let out of its cage. Watching him is exhilarating, exciting, and, most of all, terrifying.

Chapter 11 - Damien

I watch as my opponent staggers back to his feet, the raucous crowd closing in around us. Their cheers ring through the air, praising me as The Killer they‘ve come to know me as since the start. Sweat drenches my body, and I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins as I size him up once more.

“Come on, Damien! Finish him!” a voice shouts from nearby.

My opponent’s one of the dirtiest fighters I’ve ever faced, but I’ve learned to anticipate his every move since I lost that first round to him. With Alexai watching my every move, I don’t have the option to lose this match. I will win my boxing ring operation and be the last man standing, no matter the cost.

To do that, I know I have to rely on my intelligence and strategy to counter my opponent’s relentless onslaught. It’s a twisted dance that we’re engaged in, one that I secretly enjoy despite the pain it brings me.

“Is that all you got?” he taunts, blood smeared across his nose from the last hit I landed.

I smirk at him before launching into a series of calculated moves. My fists fly, each strike calculated to bring him down further. Left jab, right hook, a swift knee to his gut—my mind races as I quickly analyze his reactions, predicting his next move as if it were a game of chess. But this is no game; there are no winners or losers here, only survivors.

“Nice try,” I sneer as I dodge his wild swing, feeling the rush of wind as his fist narrowly misses my face.

As long as I stay focused and use my wits, I’ll walk away from this fight victorious. I try to tire him out, my feet moving in successive fast movements, taking him in circles with me. But just then, from the corner of my eye, I think I see a familiar face. It seems impossible, and I look again and lose all my focus when I realize I’m not seeing things—there, in the middle of the crowd, stands Anoushka.

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