ROMAN
SWEAT TRICKLES DOWN MY back.
Every inch of my body burns.
I glance at the wall behind the big fucker’s head, where the time stares at me in big, red, blinking numbers.
Fourteen minutes and thirty-six seconds since the match started.
Another three minutes and twenty-four seconds, and another two grand will be added to my wallet. If we last to the twentieth, five grand will be added.
They want a show, not a quick knockout. But if one of us is still standing by the twenty-fifth minute, people get bored, and the money stops coming.
This isn’t boxing. There’s no break every three minutes. So we’re tired and sloppy, but it still makes for a good show.
Vargas’s fighter looks even shittier than me. The guy is probably the best fighter that gang has. He’s strong but slow. His right hook is deadly, and my head is still swimming after failing to block one. But I’d wager that Bella has better endurance than him.
The bigger they are, the faster they burn.
He swings, narrowly missing my nose. With his arm suspended and flank open, I pivot on the balls of my feet. My kick flies into his ribs. It isn’t enough to make him stumble, but it takes him by surprise. I use the shock to land a punch to his cheek.
That’s the beauty of street fights; there are no rules.
Big guys like him prefer boxing, all hands and no feet. Until now, he thought I was a boxer, too, just a slippery one. Hopping from foot to foot, dodging more hits than I’m throwing to tire him out.
After fifteen minutes, he’s just found out that I am a slippery asshole who can kick. Guys like him are the same, all about smashing with zero tactics. Muscle and brawn, but no brain.
Spittle explodes from his mouth guard, and he blocks the next kick in time. None of my hits are doing anything but annoy him, but I’m just doing it so he finally moves, and I can go back to seeing Bella behind him.
My stomach sinks even further to my feet when he does move. She’s not there.
It’s been four minutes. She’s still not back.
Where the fuck did she go with Damien? Did they get a drink? Go to the bathroom? Are they in my changing room? I told Damien I didn’t want her
leaving the building without me.
For the first time since the fight started, I look at Rico. Unease settles low in my gut. His annoying grin isn’t plastered on. He isn’t even looking at the action.
Something is wrong. I can fucking feel it.
I go back to our dance, keeping one eye out for Bella. But as the seconds crawl by, the rock in my stomach grows heavier. And when Damien comes back to his seat, shaking his head at Rico, the rock sharpens and pierces my skin.
Bella isn’t with him. He isn’t with Bella.
The second they glance at me, I know. I just fucking know it. Something’s wrong with Bella.
A demon takes over me. A beast. I don’t see anything else anymore. I don’t know how I do it, not even sure if my limbs moved or if everything unfolded through willpower alone. I barely see The Unseen Destroyer fall to the ground beyond the red haze over my vision. The referee calls my win, but I couldn’t care less.
One second, I’m in the ring, and in the next, I have Damien in my clutches. Rico tries to pull me away, but it’s useless. Bella is the one thing I’ll never let go of.
“Where the fuck is she?” I roar. Damien—the fucking asshole—is calm as ever. “She said she went to the bathroom. But she’s not there.”
Nothing else he says registers because, from the corner of my vision, I notice someone looking at me. Not just anyone. Him. Vargas in the flesh. The man smiles ear to ear, staring straight at me.
I lurch in his direction, but someone holds me back. I swing my elbow and twist my body to try to break out of their grip.
“Don’t be stupid. They’ll fucking kill you,” one of the brothers hisses in my ear.
Vargas doesn’t look away, challenging me to take him on. He watches everything play out like this is going according to his plan.
If she’s hurt, I’ll fucking kill him. I’ll kill all of them. If she’s dead—
It hurts to even think about it. There’s no story where Bella ends, and I don’t go with her.
Bile rises in my throat. I lunge for the asshole, only to be held back. “You better not have fucking touched her!”
“Shut the fuck up and go find her,” Damien growls. Vargas just laughs. Laughs.
My chest tightens. My blood is no longer red and hot; it’s black and electrified. There’s one thing on my mind, and it has everything to do with Bella.
Damien—the useless fucker—is right. Attacking Vargas will do nothing. It won’t help me find her, and I’ll have to get through his men to get to him. One of his men walks toward me, but Damien steps in front of me before
I can rip his head clean from his fucking body. “Call off your dogs, Vargas.” The cartel boss just laughs, as if this is all a fun game to him. He opens his mouth to say something, but I turn and start running without listening to
the words. He’s stalling me.
Someone’s hot on my heels, but I don’t care to see who. Because if it’s one of Vargas’ men, there would be no running; I’d be fighting like my life depends on it—because her life depends on it.
