Page 9 of Punish Me, Daddy

Volkov took advantage, landing a glancing blow to my temple. Pain bloomed bright and hot behind my eye.

Motherfucker.

I shook it off, and smiled.

“You hit like a girl,” I muttered under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear. His eyes flashed, and he charged me after that.

Without pause, I sidestepped, catching him under the ribs again—this time with enough force to lift him half an inch off the mat—and when he hunched forward in reflex, I drove my knee into his face.

His nose broke with a satisfying crack. Blood poured out instantly.

He stumbled back. Dazed. Humiliated.

I didn’t chase him.

I straightened slowly, chest rising and falling, the sweat starting to drip down my back. I tilted my head—and caught her staring again.

Sloane.

Still standing near the barricade. Still watching me like I was the most dangerous thing in the room—and like maybe she didn’t hate that. Her mouth was slightly parted. Her arms were still crossed, but her eyes… they were wide.

Curious.

Turned on?

Fuck. Maybe she was…

I tore my gaze away and swung back toward Volkov. He wiped his face off, cracked his neck, his ego pissed off enough now to be reckless.

Perfect.

Stupidly, he charged again, clumsy and wild.

I met him in the middle, ducking and stepping inside his guard. Landed three shots to the gut, one to the jaw. He went down hard, flat on his back, arms flailing like a turtle flipped upside down on its shell.

The crowd lost its mind.

The ref started to count. I didn’t even move. Just stood there, staring down at him like I was bored.

Unfortunately, he didn’t make it to ten. He only made it to six.

Volkov pushed himself to his feet with blood dripping from his nose, eyes glassy but furious. He was hurt, embarrassed, and just conscious enough to be dangerous. Guys like him were all the same—too much muscle, not enough brain.

They didn’t know when they’d lost. Didn’t know when to quit.

“Come on,” I goaded, my voice lethal. “Make it interesting.”

He obliged me.

Rushed me with a grunt and swung wide—utterly predictable. I allowed the punch to glance off my shoulder, pivoted, and hammered a right hook into his jaw. His head snapped to the side, sweat spraying into the air like mist under the arena lights.

He roared. Charged again.

This time, he slammed into me full force, wrapped an arm around my middle, and tried to drive me into the ropes. I staggered back, boots dragging across the mat, crowd screaming like animals, blood in my mouth, eyes on his throat.

And then I twisted. Hard.

Quickly, I shifted my weight, slammed my heel down, and turned into him with a grunt, arm locking around the back of his neck. I drove my knee into his ribs—once, twice—feeling something crack. He grunted in pain.

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