Page 8 of Fight

I pictured the bones of my face giving way under his hand, pushing back toward my brain when he finally made contact. As the nanoseconds passed, I thought that maybe I’d be saved if I moved my head, tried to avoid him in some other way.

But the reality was that avoiding him for the few seconds I might manage would only be putting off an eventuality.

An almost wounded-sounding cry rang out, and it was only after I heard it that I realized it had come from me. That realization hurt almost as much as his punch inevitably would.

I had never let Markov, let any of them, see me cry, but here in this final moment, I had broken.

I stopped struggling against the man’s hold, and decided I would retain what little shreds of pride I could.

So I watched as his fist got closer and closer to my face, huge and growing larger with every single nanosecond that passed. At the very last moment, though, I closed my eyes, and felt the rush of wind as his fist sliced through the air.

The punch never landed.

“No, Ciprian!”

My eyes flew open at the sound of the new voice, and my gaze immediately clashed with dark eyes.

Eyes with something human in them.

He looked like the rest of them, tight T-shirt, arms covered in tattoos, but compared to the one who held me, he was practically an angel.

And right now, he was my favorite person in the world, because he held the monster’s hand in his grip. He didn’t let it go when Ciprian struggled against him, and he didn’t let it go when Ciprian looked at him.

“No,” he repeated, still holding Ciprian’s fist.

Ciprian frowned, his expression one I would have called confused were it someone else.

Confused didn’t quite fit, though. Instead, he seemed overloaded, like a computer that froze when it was pushed too hard or too fast, a machine told to do two completely incompatible things.

He didn’t seem to be processing what was happening, and that, at least, we had in common. I wasn’t processing it, either, and I looked from Ciprian to the one who held him.

I had no idea why he had intervened, or what I would have to give him for doing so, but in that moment, I could have hugged him. I stayed still, though, hoping and praying that this new potential savior had something else up his sleeve.

That hope was almost instantly dashed.

“Ciprian, you have your instructions,” Markov said.

Even though he didn’t speak loudly, I recognized Markov’s voice immediately. Not even the noise in the room was enough to mask it.

And the room was loud.

There was a near rapturous noise, dollars changing hands with almost dizzying speed. I didn’t doubt that most of the bets that were being placed were against me, the grumbles and curses confirming it. And apparently, there were at least a few brave souls who were being handsomely compensated for placing their faith in me.

When I saw Markov’s frown, the realization hit me.

I’d lasted longer than a minute, and from the expression on his face, doing so had cost him.

It was almost enough to make me smile.

Markov sliced a hand across his neck, and the DJ—I wondered if that was what he was called—grabbed the mic and said, “That’s it for tonight.”

Then he looked at Markov, clearly waiting. Markov stood, his gaze on the man who still held Ciprian, the expression in his eyes promising terrible retribution, not that the man seemed even remotely concerned.

Markov finally looked away and then began speaking. “She didn’t last a minute.”

A low murmur of displeasure rippled through the crowd, probably the few who had been reckless enough to bet on me, only to see the unexpected windfall taken away. No, I corrected myself. They hadn’t bet on me. They’d just thought it would take me more than sixty seconds to die.

My stomach dropped, and for a moment, I thought I would be sick. I breathed past the feeling and then looked at Markov.

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