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“Yeah?” I said, folding my arms and letting my weight shift to one hip. “I don’t recall asking for his permission.”

That earned a couple of laughs. Not warm. Not cruel either. Just that rough, street-edged amusement that said they weren’t sure whether to fuck with me or start respecting me.

“Can’t believe Nik is getting married,” one man called out from the far end of the mat. He was dark-haired, tattooed, and had more ink than skin down one arm. He leaned against the ropes like he was watching a Broadway show, sweat gleaming on his arms, voice rough with amusement. “Man doesn’t share shit. Can’t imagine him letting someone sleep in his bed unless he’s fucking the attitude out of her every night.”

A second one barked out a laugh. “Bet he holds her down, makes her beg for it. Or maybe he skips the begging. That the kind of thing he’s into, sweetheart?”

The third chimed in, chuckling as he tossed his towel aside. “Hell, with a mouth like yours, I’m surprised you’re not gagged twenty-four/seven.”

This was the kind of crude, testosterone-drenched bullshit I expected in a boy’s locker room, but I didn’t flinch.

I didn’t smile, either.

I just stepped toward the one who said it—brown eyes, busted lip, still grinning like he thought he was clever—and looked him dead in the face. I knew enough about him from my research into the underground fights to take him down.

“That’s funny coming from someone who hasn’t lasted more than two rounds since Nikolai stopped sparring with you. Maybeyouwant to be held down, huh?”

The room cracked open.

Laughter exploded, deep and loud. Not at me—withme. One of the men actually bent over from laughing so hard, while the one I’d snapped at just shook his head, grinning through his bruises.

“I see why Nik wants to marry a girl like her,” someone muttered.

“Maybe that’s what the boss likes: A smart-mouth girl who puts him in his place. Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s puttinghimover her knee every night,” another added, louder this time.

Laughter rippled through the gym again, and one of them whistled. My own backside tensed as I remembered his threat to belt me this morning and I lifted my chin, feigning false bravado.

“She’s got that look,” someone else chimed in. “Bet she ties him up and makes him beg.”

Another snorted. “Or maybe she just makes him say please before he gets to come.”

“Cute,” I said, stepping forward. “But if any of you think for a second that Nikolai Morozov would let someone tie him up without snapping the cuffs and breaking their jaw in the same breath, you clearly don’t know him at all.”

The laughter started to die.

“And if you thinkI’mthe one doing the begging,” I added, slower now, “you’re fucking delusional.”

Silence rippled outward like a dropped stone.

Then, from somewhere behind the bags: “Damn.”

One of them stepped forward. He was taller than the rest, lean muscle and intelligent eyes, short blond hair plastered to his forehead from sweat. A towel hung around his neck and he grabbed it, wiping his face. He didn’t laugh, didn’t smirk, just studied me with curiosity and maybe a hint of respect.

“I’m Mikhail,” he said, voice quieter than the others, but carrying more weight. “You’re brave,” he added. “Or reckless. Maybe both.”

I lifted a brow. “That’s not a secret.”

“No,” he said. “But the thing about girls like you is you don’t always know the difference.”

He didn’t wait for a response, just jerked his head toward the far end of the gym, toward a hallway that led to the side storage rooms. Empty, shadowed, away from the rest of the fighters.

“Come on. Talk’s better off the main floor.”

I hesitated for half a second and then followed.

He didn’t touch me or crowd me, just moved with that same unwavering confidence that all of Nikolai’s men seemed to carry like a second skin. Once we were out of earshot, he leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching me like he was still deciding if this was worth it.

“I’ve seen your name before,” he said finally. “In the news, online, even in magazines. You bring trouble.”