by Huss, JA
She is a threat. Lazar knows it, Udulf knows it, and now I know it too.
But… she’s here with me. Her hand on my cock this very moment. And I understand what she’s doing. I understand her power. But I don’t care.
That is the kind of shit that comes later.
This is the kind of shit that comes now.
I reach down and place my hand over hers, helping her jerk me off. I look into her eyes and find them lit up silver. Shining with the waxing moon above us. Bright with the idea—or maybe even the anticipation—of sex. And searching me, like she knows I hold some secret that could change her life.
I search her like that too. I think she is the secret that can change my life.
She tugs on my shorts and I help her out a little by lifting my hips and sliding them down my legs.
Now we are both naked. Both bathed in the ancient light of the stars. Both stuck in between worlds like prisoners. Neither of us caring.
She climbs into my lap, her full, round breasts taunting me as they sway in front of my face, her long, wild tresses flitting against my arms and my shoulders. She takes my face in both her hands and stares down at me.
And then we blink and the moment changes.
It becomes urgent and heated as she positions her hips over mine. As her hand reaches down between her legs to grab me and place me at her entrance. As she sits down, forcing me to fill her up. I almost moan, that’s how good this girl feels.
My arms instinctually wrap around her middle, pulling her close to me until her breasts are pressed up against my chest and our sick hearts are beating the same staccato rhythm. She releases my face and bends her head until we are bumping foreheads as she moves back and forth across my lap. Slowly and deliberately.
And I want to kiss her so bad, but her injury… So instead, I tip my head up, grab fistfuls of her hair, and hold her there. Capturing her essence and becoming her prisoner in the same breath.
There is this need that flows between us. I don’t know what it is, but I feel it. And she feels it too. Because her hips begin to move quicker and with more determination. Her fingernails grip my shoulders, digging into the flesh. My hands wander across the smooth, pale skin of her thighs and then I grab her hips and drag her back and forth across my lap, thrusting my cock deeper inside her with each pass. She closes her eyes, and arches her back, and points her face up at the moon as her pussy begins to contract around my shaft.
And then she comes, biting her lip and silencing herself in a way that seems… sad. And practiced.
And in this moment, I feel nothing but hate.
I hate Lazar. He ruined this girl. Ruined her.
I fucking hate that man. I want to get him alone in a crowd. I want to stumble into him on a sunny day. I want to rip his arms from their sockets and slice his throat so deep his head falls off. I want to dig into his chest the way I did Pavo and take out his heart. Feed it to the scavenger gulls and watch them rip and shred it into pieces as they swallow him whole.
And then I come too. With this pale fairy girl on my lap. With this hate in my sick heart. With this dream of revenge.
Filled up with anger and loathing, I come too.
We stay like that for several minutes. Nothing but two broken bodies breathing heavily. Nothing but two lost souls with sweaty skin. Nothing but captured and wasted innocence.
But eventually, the spell wears off and she gets up from my lap, looking for her clothes. And I pull my shorts up, turning to face the stairwell.
And that’s when I see him. Maart.
Watching me?
Watching her?
Watching us.
I can hear his sigh, even though he’s way up on the top platform. And I can see his disapproval in the slight shake of his head.
You’re going to ruin everything. That’s what his head shaking means.
I’m going to ruin everything.
And I might. I just might.
Because this girl has awakened something inside me. Something I’ve been hiding away in a deep dark place for over twenty years.
I’m not sure what it is yet, I just know it’s there. I’ve always known it was there.
I just never wanted to look too hard at the shadows in the corners of my memory. I have always thought it better to walk away and focus on the future.
But what happens when the future is now?
What happens to those shadows when there are no more distractions to keep them at bay?
What happens to me if I take a good long look at who I am and how I really got here?
This is what Maart is afraid of. And up until now, I have been too.
But Anya… there is something uncannily familiar about her.
She is my secret.
No.
She is my answer.
That’s what Maart is really afraid of.
She is my answer.
CHAPTER NINETEEN - ANYA
After Maart slapped my face so hard I bit my tongue, he took me into the clinic and gave me a piece of wet gauze to bite on while he got his things ready to stitch me up. The amount of blood that came gushing from the side of my tongue was crazy. And sickening. I threw up four times, unable to follow his simple direction of “Don’t swallow it.”
It took a while to fix me up, mostly because it wouldn’t stop bleeding enough for Maart to see where he needed to stitch, so he made me lie down on the cot with my head elevated, biting on the gauze until, when he changed it, there was just a soggy splotch of pink.
I was hoping he’d say the stitches weren’t necessary because he had already warned me that there would be no numbing. He was going to stab my tongue with a razor-sharp needle.
But that’s not what he said. He looked at the gauze, then looked at me, then shook his head with an expression that looked a little like disgust and told me to lie on my side.
He scooted up very close to me on one of the doctor stools, my face in his lap. It was a weird position to be in. Clinical, I guess. But… I did have sex with this guy. And two other guys at the same time. So… not that clinical.
He wore gloves, but I could feel the heat of his skin against my cheek as he worked. The needle turned out to be so sharp, I didn’t really feel it. So that was good. But I could feel the suture sliding through my skin and that was gross.
It was only three stitches, and once Maart got started he was quick and efficient. Silent too. I expected a lecture from him, warning me not to try that bullshit again, or something along those lines. He said, I am ajarn here. And I am no martial arts expert, but I have read enough Ring of Fire magazines to know that means the person in charge of the training camp.
But he didn’t say anything until he started giving me instructions. “Try not to spit.” He paused and narrowed his eyes at me. “This should stop the bleeding, but it’s gonna swell. Good you’re a mute. Shouldn’t affect you at all.” He paused again, waiting for a reaction.
I considered my options in that moment.
Maart has power here. He’s not Cort, and from what I can tell, Cort is the actual one in charge. But they came from somewhere. These kids don’t live here, this is just… what? Some kind of retreat, maybe? A breakout session. Or something. It’s temporary, that’s my point.
So Maart runs this place because Cort, for whatever reason, is silent here. Sort of. The rules these people live by are murky and seem rather variable if you ask me. But Cort is the champion, right? They serve at his pleasure. Maart is a manager. Like Lazar’s top assistants. I didn’t have to listen to them. Not technically. But it was very easy for them to make my life miserable if I didn’t.
Maart is Cort’s top assistant. Rainer too, but Rainer doesn’t seem to care about power, and Maart does.
I bowed my head a little in submission. I didn’t want to work in the kitchen. I mean, I don’t mind cooking or the other stuff that comes with it, because I have the illusion of being in control of something. But we only eat twice a day. What about the eight hours in between?
Maart seriously thought I should just sit in the kitchen and do nothing? That’s dumb. I had to take a stand to get my point across.
But now it was time to submit and beg. I lifted my eyes up, head still bowed, and begged.
He recognized this move immediately and sighed, blowing out a long breath that indicated he was tired of me. But tired is OK. It was when they got bored of you that you have to worry.
“Anya, we are not playing. We’re here to save these kids. They will all have to fight the way we did when we were that age. And the Rock is a place where they truly advance. This is a proven technique. Thirty percent of our kids will live to see the age of ten. Five percent make it all the way to the Ring. And as pathetic as that sounds, we are the number one camp in the fucking world with this record. And now you’re here, fucking up our good thing, and these kids will be the ones to pay for that, not you.”
I lowered my eyes again. And this time my submission was real.
He placed a finger under my chin and lifted my head back up. “If I let you train with us, you follow the rules.”
I was nodding before I could stop myself.
“You do exactly what you’re told.”
I nodded again.
“And you still have to cook and clean the kitchen, do you understand me? Because someone has to do it and in four months Irina will be fighting for her life. She needs this time. You don’t. You have no idea what it’s like to be a camp kid. And I get it, OK? Slave kids don’t have it easy. But you have never felt the fear of walking into a ring knowing your opponent has been told to kill you in any way possible. No rules. No holds barred. Only one of you gets out alive. So you will cook and you will clean and maybe, if Irina wins, you can tell yourself you had a part in that.”
And that was all he said. After that he took me out to Cort and Cort paired me up with a tall, skinny, dark-skinned boy who looked like he was maybe eight, but was probably the same age as the others in Cort’s group, which was maybe six, and he was just tall for his age. I learned, through Maart’s nagging shouts from across the platform, that his name was Jafari. And he was going to be fighting soon for real, so he was super focused on kicking my ass.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur. I just did what I could without any instruction. Cort spent the entire time babying the small one, teaching her how to hit his palms with her tiny fists. He was good with her, though. And that surprised me. Like he cared about her. And maybe he does. But he didn’t treat any of the others that way. Not even the other little brown-haired girl, who was probably the same age as the boys.
It took me a while to realize why he was giving the tiny one more attention because she was always looking at her feet and her hair was always in her eyes. But then, at dinner, when I was plopping her rice into her bowl, she looked up at me and I actually gasped.
Her eyes were silver-gray. Cort’s eyes.
She is his daughter.
And that’s when I noticed that the boy who came with them on the ship for the fight—the one they call Evard—he has those same eyes too.
These two, and maybe more of them, are Cort van Breda’s biological children.
And he was being forced to train them for the fights. Knowing full well that they were not going to make it.
My entire reality flipped with this realization and nothing would ever be the same again.
I was still thinking about this—maybe I was even asleep and dreaming about this—when Cort came to me in the night and took me down the stairwell for a sip of Lectra.
That’s all it really was. Just a sip. One shot. But it was enough, and I guess that was the point. It was just enough to warm me up and make me sweat in the hot, humid night. Just enough to relax my shoulders and let out a sigh. Just enough to lower my defenses and let Cort van Breda be nice to me.
And he was nice. But I couldn’t let my guard down. I can’t ever let my guard down.
This was stupid. I had already let my guard down. I had already showed him my secret, he just didn’t realize it yet.
And now, three weeks later—and with no more special night-time moments from Cort—I was starting to wonder if maybe letting go of the secret might be a good thing.
Maybe Cort and his band of fighters were the answer to my endless, unanswered prayers?
It was a very dangerous thought to entertain. Faith was a precious thing and trust… well, trust was both priceless and expensive. Because if you trust the wrong person in my world, you don’t get a second chance.
“What the fuck, Anya? Are you even trying?”
I snap my eyes over to Maart. He’s been lecturing us for the better part of the morning. Carefully watching each group. Not correcting us, just studying us. I have no idea what this means.
Meanwhile, Jafari’s small, sharp, bare knuckles hit me right in the nose and blood rushes down my face.
Maart lets out an exasperated breath and walks over to Cort. I can’t hear the whole conversation because Jafari and I are wrestling on the mat now. I’m trying to wiggle out of his hold. And even though I was a little embarrassed that a tall-for-his-age six-year-old could kick my ass a couple weeks ago, I’m so over it now. This boy is mean. Like, he’s out for blood every time I step onto the mat with him.
So I’m mostly concentrating on trying not to breathe my own blood while I make attempts to eavesdrop.
I hear Maart say, “Don’t even try…” And “She will test like the rest.”
And that’s that. Jafari and I will be matched for the test tomorrow.
This marks one month on the Rock for the kids, but two months on the Rock for me and Cort. That’s what all that moon-pointing is about. We are counting the days that lead up to the new moon. What happens to us after the test, I have no idea. A belt ceremony? We don’t wear those white uniforms you see on martial arts kids. So I’m pretty sure it’s not a belt ceremony, but I’m also pretty sure there is a ceremony. Why else do we have Lectra? Not that these kids will be drinking it. I’m like a thousand percent positive that’s only for the men. But we have cookies. And chocolate. And beef in the freezer. This food is here for a reason and I have not been allowed to serve any of it.
So I’m pretty sure there’s gonna be a party and I can’t wait.
I’m on my feet now and this is Jafari’s worst nightmare. Because while I might not be tall in the grown-up world—coming in at only five foot three and a half—I’m a fucking giant compared to this six-year-old. I lock my arms around his waist, pick him up, and slam him down. The breath rushes out of him with a grunt and Cort comes in to stop the fight, which means I won.
I pump my fist in the air like an asshole and walk over to the sidelines where tiny Ainsey high-fives me with a crooked smile. She’s my BFF now.
This entire world, and my place in it, is pathetic, and sad, and insane. I get that. But this is Fight Club, OK? It’s every man for himself and fuck the rules. And besides, kicking Jafari’s ass means I am making him better. When he fights for his life in a few months his opponent won’t be eighteen years old. He or she will be six. And Jafari’s gonna win that fight. He’s gonna live because of me.
“Go clean yourself up,” Maart barks. “And don’t be late with dinner. I’m fucking starved.”
No “Good job!” from him. No pats on the back. No encouragement of any kind. I’ve watched him with his own kids, and he definitely treats me differently. He only has four—Irina, the oldest girl who I have decided is probably thirteen, and Maeko, Peng, and Paulo, who are right about that age as well. Paulo probably a year or two older than the other two. Maart’s four kids are serious fighters. They practically kill each other every single day during training. And Maart is forever calling out encouraging things. Especially to Irina, who I’m pretty sure is his favorite because while I’ve deduced that Paulo is the most accomplished, Irina is definitely the most ruthless.
Maart hates me. I’m very sure of that. He hates the way Cort looks at me, and the way Cort pays special attention to me on
the mat, and most of all he hates that Cort and I were out here alone for an entire month before Maart showed up.
They have a thing going. I’m not sure how to explain it, but they definitely have a thing going. I haven’t caught them doing anything, but we had sex together the night of the fight. And maybe I don’t remember very much of it, but I remember enough to know that there were no inhibitions. Sex together was something these men did.
At first, I thought Rainer was gonna be the same way with me, but he’s not. He’s nice, always cracking jokes. But he’s that way with everyone, so I’m nothing to him. He has five kids—Evard, who I am now one hundred percent sure is Cort’s biological son, plus Raffie, Budi, Oscar, and Rasha, the middle girl in camp. They are all about eight or nine. Also tough as nails and ready to kill or be killed when on the mat.
I walk into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face to wash away the blood, then study the reflection looking back at me from the dirty mirror on the wall.
Bexxie would not even recognize me if she were here. My skin is bronze now. My normally blonde hair has nearly-white streaks running through it. It’s tangled and wild from lack of proper care. There have been no more baths or showers. Only Cort, Maart, and Rainer are allowed to use the shower. They let us hose each other off every four days and the rest of time we just jump into the ocean and swim around until our caked-on sweat floats away.
But I like the way I look.
It’s a wild look.
An abandoned look.
A look that says I’m a savage.
I think the savage life suits me.
Cort does pay attention to me on the mat, but after we’re done training, he barely looks at me. At first, I was hurt. I mean, he took me down to the stairwell that first day of my real training and we had sex. So what the fuck, right?
But then I looked at it all logically. Sex in our world means nothing. It’s just a physical act and nothing more. I knew this. I was hopeful that it would be different with Cort. But now I’m glad it’s not. His cold shoulder forced me to concentrate on more important things. Like fighting.