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Chapter Eighteen

D amian

Marco’s presence behind us serves as a constant reminder of our purpose here. Show enough skill to satisfy Tony without revealing too much of my abilities. A delicate balance I’ve walked before, though never with such strange expectations or rules.

“Rico’s waiting in the back,” Marco announces, his hand resting casually near the bulge in his jacket that I’ve learned means “gun.” Another marvel of this place—weapons that kill from impossible distances without skill or honor.

Maya’s shoulders tense as we approach a door guarded by another man with a gun. Her usual confident stride falters slightly. “Remember what we practiced,” she murmurs. “Nothing fancy. Nothing that might—”

“Trust me, Domina ,” I reply softly, though the title feels increasingly false on my tongue. Whatever connection exists between us now, it’s not the simple relationship of master and slave, though she still has the power of my life in her hands if she grows angry with me.

The backroom reveals itself as a fighting space stripped of niceties and pretense. No machines here, just a raised platform surrounded by metal links instead of ropes. The floor below shows dark stains that speak of battles fought without regard for rules or safety. This, at least, feels familiar. It reminds me of the practice yards where new gladiators proved their worth.

A heavily muscled man separates himself from the shadows. Rico Martinez carries himself like a predator, all coiled energy and barely contained violence. His eyes assess me with cold calculation, reminding me of the lanista who once hoped to break my spirit.

“This is him?” Rico’s gaze moves from me to Maya. “Doesn’t look like much.”

The insult is deliberate. A test. I let it pass. Better to seem weak now and strike when it matters. Maya starts to speak, but Rico cuts her off. “Let’s see what he’s got. Axe!”

A fighter detaches himself from the group lounging against the far wall. Shorter than me but powerfully built, with the quick, aggressive movements of a man who enjoys hurting others. His smile reveals a gold tooth that catches the harsh overhead lights.

“Keep it clean,” Rico says, but his tone suggests the opposite. “Just a friendly sparring match.”

Maya’s hand brushes my arm—the briefest touch, but I feel her concern. Axe must have a reputation, then. Something in his eyes confirms it—the look of a man who fights not for glory or necessity, but for the pleasure of causing pain.

The platform feels strange under my feet, though I’ve sparred with men in Maya’s gym on a surface similar to this. Axe circles, bouncing on the balls of his feet in a style I’m still learning to read. Maya has shown me the basics of “MMA,” and I’ve practiced in her gym, but sparring and fighting are different things.

“Begin!” Rico’s voice carries the same eager bloodthirst I’ve heard from dozens of arena masters.

Axe strikes first—a probing jab followed by a low kick. I slip the punch and check the kick, careful to make the movement look less practiced than it is. Let him think me slow, uncertain. My sixteen days in the sun taught me patience.

Another combination comes faster this time. I block what I must, absorb what I can, always moving just enough to avoid serious damage. Axe’s frustration grows with each exchange. He’s used to opponents who either break quickly or fight back recklessly. My measured defense confuses him.

“Fight back!” he snarls, launching a wild hook that whistles past my ear.

I counter with a simple straight right, pulled just enough to sting without stunning. Can’t show my true power yet. Can’t reveal the years of training that make such strikes as natural as breathing.

The fight continues this way—him growing more aggressive while I maintain careful control. I see Maya watching, understanding and appreciation dawning in her expression. I’m not just defending, but learning. Each exchange teaches me more about how these modern warriors move, think, and fight.

Axe overcommits to a high kick. The opening begs for a cestus counter that would end the fight instantly, but I can’t use those techniques here. Instead, I slip inside his guard and land two quick body shots. Pulled punches, but enough to make him respect my power.

“Enough!” Rico’s voice cuts through the tension. “I’ve seen enough.”

Axe backs away, frustration evident in every line of his body. He wanted a decisive victory, a chance to hurt someone for his master’s entertainment. Instead, he got a tie that revealed more about his skills than mine.

“Not bad.” Rico’s praise carries an edge of suspicion. “Where’d you train before?”

“Various places,” Maya interjects smoothly. “Picked him up in California. Doesn’t speak a word of English.”

Rico seems to accept it.

“We’ll see how he does when it comes down to the real thing,” Rico says finally. “Tournament’s got some heavy hitters this year. Guys who won’t play nice like Axe here.”

The threat in his words is clear. This was just a taste, a preview of the violence to come. But he doesn’t understand—I’ve faced far worse than his modern warriors. Fought men trained from childhood to kill, armed with weapons designed to maim and destroy. These underground fighters are dangerous, yes, but they lack the discipline, the focus, and the deeper understanding of combat as both art and philosophy.

Maya’s relief is palpable as we leave, though she maintains her professional facade until we’re safely in Marco’s vehicle. Only then does she allow her relief to show.

“You did well,” she says softly. “Showed just enough without—”

“Without revealing too much.” I meet her eyes, seeing the worry there. “I understand the game, Domina . Perhaps better than you know.”

Her breath catches at the title, but there’s something different in her reaction now. Understanding, perhaps, that I use the word not out of obligation but as a reminder of the roles we must play. At least for now.