Page 67 of Forced to Marry the Bratva

My opponent stands opposite, masked and brooding.

I’ve never seen him before.

He’s new around here. Must be from out of town. He’s bigger than most, with the scars to prove it.

He growls at me, trying to scare me off. Someone else might have trembled.

But he hasn’t faced anyone like me.

I peel off my shirt, muscles rippling under the dim lights. Tattoos stark against my skin, a map of where I’ve been and who I am.

Who I’ll always be.

The referee’s shrill whistle pierces the air.

The final fight begins.

***

“Ready to lose, pretty boy?” he taunts.

“Keep dreaming,” I retort.

“Talk is cheap,” he sneers, stepping closer to me.

“Then let my fists do the talking,” I reply, cracking my knuckles.

He laughs, a deep, mocking sound, but I refuse to be intimidated.

“Bring it on, pretty boy,” he sneers, raising his fists in a challenge.

I take a deep breath, steadying my racing heartbeat. Before I have time to dwell on my fears or doubts, I launch myself at my opponent. We exchange powerful blows, each of us unyielding, unwilling to give an inch.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he hisses, landing a solid punch to my ribs.

“Far from it,” I spit out, pain flaring in my side, but I refuse to let it slow me down. Just as he’s about to strike again, I sidestep and deliver a devastating blow to his jaw, sending him staggering back.

The next punch comes quickly, a blur of movement that slams into my cheekbone before I can react. Pain radiates through my face, and I stagger back, momentarily disoriented.

It shouldn’t hurt this much. That punch was weak.

“Come on, Zolotov,” he jeers, smirking as he dances around me with ease. “I thought you were supposed to be good.”

“Got something better than that?” I snarl, trying to regain my composure. Sweat beads on my forehead, but I push the sting from my eyes and focus on my opponent. He grins wickedly, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

“Much better,” he confirms, launching another series of small jabs at me. My body tenses, muscles straining as I attempt to fend off his relentless assault. His fists are like sledgehammers, each hit causing my skin to shudder beneath his fists.

“Keep it up,” I manage to spit out between breaths. “You’ll tire yourself out eventually.”

He laughs, a harsh sound devoid of humor. “We’ll see who tires first, Zolotov.”

The bell signals a brief respite, and we separate to our corners. As I lean against the ropes, panting heavily, doubt creeps into my mind, fogging my vision and making it difficult to concentrate.

What’s going on? Why is every little jab hurting so much? Is he truly a better fighter, or am I underestimating the strength of his hits?

Or am I just getting weaker?

***

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