Page 34 of Vow to Protect
Two fine figured women, draped in silver sashes, parade the empty ring as the suited host takes the microphone and struts into the middle. “Next up. Zatruc.”
Animalistic clapping welcomes the svelte fighter onto the roped stage. Tall and toned, supple and unrestrained. Clenched fists are bound in citrine to match his bluish green silk shorts.
Zatruc.
Polish for poison.
“Any takers?” The host offers the fight to the pulsating room. “We’ve seen him pulverise champions, annihilate dreamers and upper cut the curious.” A hush blankets the gluttonous onlookers and a murmur passes between competing contenders.
My pulse whirls. I’m not in it to win it. I’m in it to forget, but this guy is Blaine’s sidekick—Dexter. He’s ruthless and taking the fucker will attract unwanted attention.
Aix shoves me forward into the stillness. I stumble and growl.
“You.” Zatruc points through the crowd, latching his gaze with mine. “I challenge him.”
“Dólás.” My name echoes through the microphone. “Do you accept the challenge?”
Fuck!
Someone slaps my back. A forceful hand shoves me into the chanting masses. Voices roar for the underdog to win, for Dólás to be triumphant.
Adrenaline fires up in my stomach. My chest contracts and expands at hypersonic speed. Zatruc doesn’t smile when I bob beneath the ropes and lift up to greet him. “I accept.”
Venomous eyes slither over my performance when I yank a hooded sweat top over my head in preparation. I stand before the room in petrol black shorts, bare chested and hands unbound.
Zatruc lifts two fingers, gestures to his eyes and rotates them slowly, pointing at me with accusation.Does he know I rescued Raen from the trafficking compound?
A violent temper wracks through my extremities. I bet the fucker knows. I’ll never let those scumbags anywhere near Raen.She’s mine now. Mine.
Bouncing from foot to foot, I shake out my shoulders and flip him the bird.Fucker.
I came to Scrios to fight and forget, now I’m fighting to win.
We dance around the ring with fists guarding and eyes focused until the host finishes his rules. The fight only ends when either opponent is rendered unconscious or succumbs to surrender. Either result will announce the victor.
Zatruc spits left and wipes a hand over his slick brow. There are no words spoken in the hush, only a searing glare that seethes with red-blooded power play.
A whistle blows, and the fight starts with a deafening roar from the masses. We dance and weave. A well-timed punch greets his jaw with force. His eyes squeeze shut briefly, and when they flick open, all I see are bottomless pits of fury.
I reel back, dodging a burst of direct jabs. My defence is compromised as a right hook connects with my cheekbone. Holding my stance, my brain vibrates with a vengeance. My swift retaliation drills into his chest with a mighty rhythm. He ducks. I weave. He round-kicks. I dodge, instinctively grabbing his shin.
Zatruc’s precise movements, born from discipline and strikes repeatedly. We’re not matched in this war. I’m not a professional in ‘no rules mixed martial arts’, whereas Zatruc is a machine fixated on killing me. Tiredness spirals as my quick blows rain with force.
White-hot anger fuels my body. I’m in the zone. Every punch snapped out, meets two of his in return. Sweat flicks off my torso, blood trickles down my cheek and glorious pain rockets everywhere. With a hook, I land an energetic punch to his liver. His knees buckle and he sways. Our gaze locks, and in that split second, he laughs. The fucker stretches his neck and shakes out his arms. “You won’t last long, Dólás.” He winks.
I clutch on to the reason for being here, why I’m banishing my lust for Raen. Those inner demons rile me up, and I snap. A seasoned fighter wouldn’t give in to rage. He would bide his time and play cat and mouse. Fuck that, I charge at the bastard.
We snarl like primeval beasts, entwined in a barbaric wrestle. An arm wraps around my throat and grips in a choke hold. A knee thrusts into my groin. The dirty, cheating bastard goes for my balls. I crumple in agony, pushing back the wave of nausea rising.
“Are you out?” the suited man yells in my ear.
I won’t surrender to Zatruc. Ever.
Scrambling to bare feet, I force laughter. It bubbles free like a deranged patient in a psyche ward. “It’s not over until one of us is carted out of here on a stretcher.” I push down the possibility that it may well be me and raise my fists.
I can't let Tilly see me like this. Not again.
My veins jump like live wires, and my heart slams against my breastbone as I prepare for war. I lash out with a capable jab laced with wrath, following it up with a hook that connects with his sharp nose. Even over the jeers, I hear the bone splinter. He dives to his knees, covering his face. A warm smattering of blood decorates my chest and pasts tight lips as we lock eyes.
