Page 42 of Scarred Bratva King

“You’re telegraphing,” I say, my voice even. “That’s why I keep beating you. Stop thinking so much.”

She rolls her eyes, her lips curling into that infuriatingly smug smile. “Thinking isn’t the problem,” she shoots back, her tone laced with sarcasm. “You are.”

I smirk, amused despite myself. Her wit is sharp, sharper than her punches, and it grates on me in a way I can’t quite describe. “Excuses already? You’re better than that.”

She huffs, resuming her stance, but there’s something different in the way she looks at me now. A spark of mischief flickers in her eyes, and I can’t tell if she’s plotting or just trying to get under my skin. “You’re not as unshakable as you believe, Maxim,” she says, her voice teasing.

I arch a brow, silently daring her to prove it. “Show me, then,” I say, motioning for her to attack. “If you think you can.”

She lunges forward, her movements sharper than before, but still predictable. I step to the side, dodging easily, and catch her wrist to stop her momentum. “Sloppy,” I say, releasing her. “Again.”

Her jaw tightens, but she resets her stance, determination etched across her face. “You know, you’re a lot less fun when you’re being all serious and broody like this.”

“And you’re a lot less effective when you’re talking instead of fighting,” I reply, smirking. “Focus.”

She mumbles something under her breath but goes for another strike, this time aiming for my side. I block her again, twisting her arm just enough to force her off balance. She grumbles in frustration, resetting once more.

But then something changes. Her stance shifts slightly, and she pivots, angling her body in a way that feels deliberate—too deliberate.

My eyes follow the movement, drawn to the curve of her hips as she turns, the way her ass moves with the motion. It’s subtle, but I notice. And she knows I notice.

That’s when it happens.

Using my brief distraction, she twists sharply, hooking my arm and leveraging her weight in a way I didn’t anticipate.

Before I can react, my footing slips, and she sweeps her leg out, knocking me off balance, using my bad hip against me.

I land hard on the mat, the impact jarring, and before I can recover, she’s on me. Her knee presses into my chest as she leans over me, grinning like she’s just won the lottery.

“Gotcha,” she says, her voice breathless and triumphant.

For a moment, I can only stare up at her, stunned. Not just because she managed to take me down, but because of how she did it.

The flicker of satisfaction in her eyes, the way her lips curl into that cocky grin—it’s all calculated, deliberate. She used my distraction against me, and worse, she enjoyed it.

A low chuckle rumbles from my chest, surprising even me. “Smart,” I admit, my voice rough. “But dirty.”

Her grin widens as she shifts her weight, keeping me pinned. “Dirty wins fights,” she replies, her tone teasing. “You told me that yesterday, didn’t you?”

I grip her hips, my fingers pressing into her skin just enough to remind her who’s really in control. “There’s a difference between dirty and reckless,” I say, my tone low. “And you’re crossing the line.”

She leans closer, her breath warm against my face. “Reckless is fun,” she murmurs, her words dripping with defiance. “And it worked.”

I let her hold her victory for a beat longer before gripping her waist and flipping her off me in one fluid motion.

She lands on her back with a soft thud, and I’m over her in an instant, my arms caging her in. Her eyes widen briefly, but then that spark of mischief returns, and she smirks up at me.

“Touched a nerve, did I?” she asks, her voice lilting with amusement.

“You’re dangerous,” I say, more to myself than to her. My gaze drops to her lips for a fraction of a second before I force it back up to her eyes. “But you’re playing with fire.”

She shrugs beneath me, her smirk never faltering. “Fire’s more fun than ice.”

I push off her, standing and offering her a hand. She takes it, her grip firm as I pull her to her feet. There’s something electric in the air between us, a tension neither of us is willing to acknowledge fully.

As she grabs her water bottle, she glances over her shoulder, her tone casual but cutting. “Guess I’m not the only one who needs to stop thinking so much.”

I watch her as she walks away, the sway of her hips deliberate, knowing exactly what it’s doing to me. She’s not just learning to fight—she’s learning how to manipulate, how to distract, how to win. And she’s damn good at it. Too good.