Page 6 of Punish Me, Daddy

My spine prickled. I learned in.

Whispered, “Forged in fire.”

The door creaked open.

A wave of heat rolled out first, the unmistakable fog of sweat and adrenaline and too many bodies packed into one place with too much to prove. The air was thick and heavy, the kind you had topush through to breathe. It was a heady experience, and I wasn’t even inside yet.

I stepped through the door.

And just like that, I wasn’t in my Boston anymore.

Not the Boston of wine fundraisers and prep school galas and cameras always watching. Not the one with my father’s smile on every damn billboard.

No, this was something else.This was blood and concrete andreal fucking living.

The warehouse was massive with shadowy corners and cracked walls and scaffolding that looked ready to collapse. A red glow bled across the ceiling from some overhead lights, as if hell itself was sweating through the rafters.

In the center of it all, ringed with ropes and sweat and maybe bloodstains, was the fight pit.

People crowded around it like it was holy ground. Betting money, drinking from flasks, screaming names I didn’t recognize. Some of them were dressed like me—black, leather, tough—but most looked like they belonged here in ways I didn’t. At least not yet.

I kept moving.

One step.

Then another.

I pushed through a group of men who barely looked at me, then I slipped past a girl with brass knuckles clipped to her belt.

I found a space along the edge of the ring, maybe four rows back. Just enough room to see everything. Just enough cover not to be seen.

The air thrummed around me like static.

I stood there, perfectly still, heart pounding like it knew something I didn’t.

Then the lights shifted, the crowd roared, and the world tilted on its edge when he stepped out.

The Hammer.

At first, all I could see was the size of him—tall and broad and carved like a statue someone had chiseled out of violence and bad decisions. His shoulders were massive under the black sleeveless hoodie he wore, fists taped, veins roped down his forearms like he was born to break people.

Then the hood dropped.

And holy fucking hell.

Jet-black hair, buzzed on the sides, but thick and tousled on top like he’d run his hands through it and didn’t give a damn what it did. A jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds. Stubble that looked like it would burn if he kissed you hard enough.

And his eyes—God help me—his eyes.

I’d never seen blue like that. I didn’t even know that kind of blue existed. Cold and electric all at once, like a glacier on fire. Like he saw everything. Like he sawme.

Tattoos covered both arms, crawling up his neck, black ink sprawling like folklore across skin that looked like it had takenhits and given worse. He didn’t walk—heprowled.Like a predator. Calm. Sure. Utterly unshakable.

People screamed his name—Nikolai—and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even look at them. He just climbed into the ring like he belonged there more than he ever belonged anywhere else.

I stared.

I didn’t mean to. I just… did.

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