DANCE WITH THE ENEMY

CHAPTER NINE

ZARIYAH

I hissed in pain and frustration, sliding out of the boxing ring toward Matteo, who had waved me over.

"You want to call it a day?" he asked, feigning concern.

"I'm good," I replied, dusting myself off. Matteo nodded.

"Victor!" he called out.

A burly man approached, looking irritated, his expression twisted as if someone had pissed in his cereal.

"I need you to work with Zariyah, brush up her moves," Matteo ordered, clapping Victor's back and walking away with an air of certainty.

"Come along," Victor ordered, leaving me to trail behind him to a less occupied corner of the room.

"Alright, show me your basic punches," Victor said firmly.

I threw a jab and cross, ignoring the searing pain in my sides. Victor watched, unimpressed.

"Your stance is too narrow. Widen it."

I adjusted my feet, throwing another jab.

"Better," Victor said. "Now add a hook."

I punched: jab, cross, hook. Victor blocked each strike with ease.

"Pathetic. Your hooks are wild."

I shot him a sarcastic smile. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Coach." He was pissing me off.

Victor's expression darkened. "You think you're funny? Throw a combination: jab, cross, hook, uppercut."

I took a deep breath and launched the sequence: Jab, cross, hook, uppercut. Victor blocked each strike, taking the chance to land a quick punch to my head; it veered back, and his smirk widened.

"You're slow, predictable, and weak," he taunted. "You'll never be a real fighter."

My anger flared, but I kept my cool, focusing on technique.

"Again!" Victor barked.

I repeated the combination, sharper and faster, but again he picked up on my moves and struck one of his own that had me tumbling back and slamming into a wall. Victor's condescending smile never wavered.

"You'll never be good enough."

By the time we were done with training, I was beat down and almost battered. Some men jeered at me as I walked by, gripping my side in pain. Others ignored me, like I was invisible.

Matteo caught up to me along the way. "You good?"

I cocked my head and raised my brow at his sudden tone of concern.

"Yeah," I whispered.

"I perceive a few bruised ribs; you should see the Doctor. Need help getting there?" Matteo suggested.

I gritted my teeth and hurried on, hating the streak of concern in his tone.

"What I actually need help with is knowing why my room is on the top floor and not down here with everyone else?" I gritted, glaring at him.

He sighed quietly. "Boss doesn't think you'll be safe with all these men, so he put you on his private floor. Very few people have access to that floor."

"So what now? Why does the boss think I'm some doll that'll snap if pulled too hard?" I snapped.

Matteo cocked his head with a small smirk on his lips at the murderous intent in my eyes.

"Bunch of assholes!" I cursed, hurrying past him to my room.

I showered and fixed myself up as best I could with the help of the first aid kit in my room. I requested a maid to bring me some ice packs for my side. I was mad—mad at Marco for treating me like some doll this entire time, never letting me learn what I needed to, and now I felt helpless in this territory of men handing me my ass, one after the other.

It's how they treat me like I'm nothing more than a face, tits, and ass. Some of them even went as far as eye-groping me, then making lewd remarks about how I've got a really nice ass, and I would be a good fuck. I'll chop off their dicks before I ever dream of letting any of them touch me.

Once I was done fixing myself up, I did the one thing I'd longed to do all day—call my son.

"Mummy!" Dylan gushed into the screen, filling my day with instant happiness.

"Baby, how is my baby doing?" I giggled, my cute little ball of happiness.

"Fine!" he yelps. "Miss you!" He sang, jumping around on his tiny feet.

"I miss you too, baby. So much..." I whine, craving the feeling of holding my son in my arms.

"Nana!" Dylan laughed, and his Gran Nana came into the screen, smiling lovingly at me.

"Hey, cupcake," I greeted, and Dylan screamed in the background.

"Me! Me, cupcake!" He sang, and we both laughed at his jealous pout.

"Yes, you're cupcake, sweetheart, but Mummy is big cupcake," Nana explained into the phone, and he nodded, running to pick up his stuffed toy lying on the bed.

"Nana," I sighed, picking up my son's name for her. "Please tell me, are you guys okay?"

"Of course we are, cupcake. Dylan whines about missing his mother every day, but he's a smart kid and understanding too, so we're fine. Are you, dear?" She inquired.

"I am," I nodded, watching her with teary eyes; it hurts to not be with my son, even though he needs me.

"I've got to go for now. I'll call you guys tomorrow. Same time." She nodded in understanding.

"Dee, come say bye to Mummy," she called out, and my son came running back into view.

"Bye, Mummy." He waved and giggled.

"Bye, love. Mummy loves you so much." I cooed, blowing him kisses.

"Love Mummy," he responded, pouting into the phone and pressing his lips to the screen.

The call beeped, and I dropped my phone, wiping under my moist eyes. One day I'll have him by my side, away from all this ruckus—safe and protected.