Page 14 of Punish Me, Daddy

I typed:The Hammer underground fighter Boston

Bingo.

I found a blurry photo from a private Discord leak—his back turned, blood on his shoulder, a crowd screaming behind him. The post had dozens of comments.

Hammer doesn’t lose.

This guy’s untouchable. Deadass he fights like he was trained by the fucking Spetsnaz.

My spine prickled.

Then I saw one comment buried in the thread:

Name’s Nikolai Morozov. One of the Russians. Don’t mess with him unless you got a death wish.

Morozov.

The name landed like a rock in my stomach.

I knew that name.

Everyone in Boston’s elite circles did, even if we weren’t supposed to say it out loud. The Morozovs were the kind of people my father never talked about directly. He would just get all tense when they were mentioned. He’d change the subject and have security sweep the perimeter twice.

My throat went dry.

That’s why he felt so different.

He wasn’t just dangerous because of his fists. He was dangerous because of who he was.

Which meant last night, I walked straight into the lion’s den and made eye contact with the lion himself.

I sat back in my chair, wet hair dripping onto the carpet, heart pounding. I should have felt scared, but instead, I felt something else entirely.

Hooked, and a little unhinged.

Because now that I knew who he was?

I wanted more.

CHAPTER 5

Nikolai

My knuckles were still raw.

Split skin, dried blood, a little swelling along the second metacarpal. Nothing serious. I’d had worse from guys half Volkov’s size. It wasn’t the injury that bothered me.

It was the distraction.

“Nik,” came Sergei’s voice from outside the gym room where I was hitting the heavy bag barefoot, bare-knuckled, and running on nothing but caffeine and leftover adrenaline. “Got something you’ll want to hear.”

He didn’t wait for me to answer, just stepped inside and tossed a phone down on the bench near my towel.

“There’s a rumor going around,” he said, folding his arms. “Someone said the mayor’s daughter was at the fight last night.”

I stopped mid-swing. Not because I was surprised; of course people were talking. She wasn’t exactly subtle.

She wasSloane fucking Kingsleyand exactly the kind of chaos that got noticed—especially when she was draped in that little black dress and that leather jacket, eye-fucking the ring like she belonged there.

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