Page 58 of Ruthless Lord

The world’s getting worse all the time.

“Yeah, soon.” I check the time and finish wrapping my knuckles.

“Good luck, old-timer. I’ve watched your last few bouts. You’re really good. I bet you were a beast in your prime.”

I slowly get to my feet. AcidRain grins at me. He’s got more shoulder than neck. “I’m still peaking.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Sick thing is, I believe you. But you do know who you’re up against?”

“I don’t look at the schedule.”

“Seriously?” His smile fades and he looks incredulous. “You really don’t know?”

“Now you’re getting on my nerves.”

“Sure, no harm meant.” He raises his hands apologetically. “But just a heads-up, you’re in with Vladimir tonight. Good luck, man.”

AcidRain walks off. I glower at his back, frustrated as hell.

This is why I don’t check my opponent. It doesn’t matter who’s across the ring from me. A fight’s a fight no matter who’s throwing the punches. But now that I know, doubts start to creep in.

There are two undefeated fighters that I know of. I’m one, and Vladimir is the other. He’s called the Butcher of Moscow, and he’s one vicious motherfucker. I’m pretty sure he’s a hitman for the bratva, but we don’t talk about that sort of thing as a professional courtesy.

Doesn’t matter. Keep focused. I do my prefight stretches, which get harder and more important every year, and methodically crack all my joints, from neck to toes. It’s the only way I can properly loosen up. When I’m done and finally feeling ready, about five minutes before showtime, a chill falls over the locker room and half the guys go quiet.

I look around, expecting to see Vladimir coming over to try intimidating me before we go at each other, but I find something much worse instead.

Charlie stands beside my locker, her fists jammed into her hips, looking both uncomfortable and deeply pissed.

God damn, that woman is beautiful. She’s in black ripped jeans, a black shirt, and a dark checkered flannel shirt. She’d almost fit in with half the normal people in this place, except it’s obvious everything she’s wearing costs a small fortune. Even when the rich girl’s trying to slum it, she still shines.

That’s not a bad thing, if I’m being honest with myself. She could shop at Goodwill and still walk away looking like perfection incarnate. It’s not the clothes, but the way she holds herself, like rooms should bow down at her feet. I’m constantly amazed at this girl, and even more impressed that she’d waltz in here a second time, now without a man chasing her.

“Didn’t expect you,” I say honestly.

“I heard you were on the list again.” Her scowl tightens. “What are you doing?”

“I guess you talked to Albert.”

“He’s smart enough to mention when my husband decides to risk getting killed.”

I grunt, shaking my head, aware of the other fighters listening. But fuck it, let them eavesdrop. “Not worried about that.”

“You might not be, but I am. Do you know how annoying it’ll be if you get killed in the ring?”

“Glad you’re worried about my safety.”

“The paperwork’s going to be a nightmare.”

“Feel free to dump my corpse in the Schuylkill.” I tilt my head, smiling slightly. “I know a few guys there. I’ll be comfortable.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be funny. This is stupid.”

“You know this is what I do.”

“Right, but I thought?—”

“What, that I’d change for you?” I step closer. I like the way her eyes drift to my bare torso. She’s looking at my muscular chest, at my defined abs. At the tattoos stabbed into my skin. The scars and the knotted flesh. The canvas of all my hurts. “This is who I am.”