Page 29 of Corrupted Deception

“You should tell your friend, Charlotte, to back off,” he said, his voice heavily accented.

Caught off guard, the first blow came swiftly, a jab that landed on my left shoulder with a sharp stinging sensation.

Pain flared, but instead of ignoring it, I drank it in.

I feinted left and lunged forward, vaguely aiming for his ribs to get a feel for his agility and dexterity.

He deftly sidestepped, overprotecting his right side, and countered with a swift jab to my right shoulder.

He was taking no time to size me up, to learn about his opponent. He was strong but undisciplined, it seemed.

I ducked under his attempted hook and countered with a lightning-quick jab to his side.

The sensation of landing a blow was a visceral one. The impact reverberated through my knuckles, the feedback coursing up my arm, a jolt of adrenaline, a primal satisfaction.

His face screwed up as he grunted, and his body jolted. His right side was more vulnerable than his left; an old injury, perhaps.

As the fight continued, the pain became a constant companion. Each hit, each bruise, was a testament to the brutality of the sport. But it was a pain I welcomed, a familiar ache that grounded me in the present moment.

I bobbed and weaved, my body moving fluidly, each movement calculated, each step a strategic choice.

But for every blow I landed, there was one that found its mark on my own body. Minutes felt like hours. The crowd’s cheers and jeers were a distant hum, the world reduced to the relentless push and pull of combat. The air was thick with tension, with the knowledge that victory hung in the balance, a prize worth the pain.

Yet, his undisciplined approach was his Achilles’ heel.

As he launched a wild haymaker, I sidestepped his colossal swing, my instincts guiding me meticulously. With a lightning-fast combination of strikes, I pummeled his exposed flank, each hit a calculated blow that wore down his defenses.

His energy waned, and his attacks grew sluggish. Seizing the moment, I snatched his arm, twisted it with precision, and sent him hurtling to the mat.

The arena fell into a hushed awe as the ref’s count resonated through the air.

Then the crowd erupted in a deafening crescendo of cheers.

Victory was mine, but I crouched down next to the man, his chest heaving, his body bruised, and his face covered in blood.

“Speak her name again, and next time, you die in this ring.Capisce?” He wouldn’t be the first man to leave this place in a body bag.

He glared at me, tried to push up off the mat, then collapsed back down.

I stood up and walked out of the ring, my body battered and bruised, and my mind not nearly as at peace as it should have been.

I’d just stepped down onto the floor when Sienna, a blonde dressed in tiny shorts and a bikini top came running toward me. She frequented the place. We’d fucked after a few matches before.

“Hey there, fighter,” she crooned as she threw her arms around me, pressing her tits up against my sweat-slick chest.

My cock jerked, less from the girl and more from the memory of Charlotte’s body pressed up against me earlier, her nipples hard, her lips parted on a quiet gasp.

But Sienna was good. Obedient. Very little grit though, not like—

Son of a bitch.

“Another time, Sienna,” I said as I unhooked her arms from around my neck before I needed to get my ass kicked some more to calm down.

Leaving the woman standing there with a disappointed pout on her fuchsia-pink lips, I headed straight for straight for Vince Abruzzo.

“Who is he?” I asked, nodding to the asshole who was still trying to get his ass up.

Vince shrugged. “Says his name’s Pablo. Haven’t seen him in here before.”

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