SICK HEART Huss, JA (best way to read e books .TXT) 📖

times than I can count as I scan the helipad for the knife I know is here.

Except it’s not.

There is nothing on this platform. It is bare. It is flat. It is empty.

So that means it has to be somewhere else, somewhere close enough that Pavo can get to it. There are only two choices. The stairwells. I jog over to the closest one, searching, my fingertips gliding along the smooth steel frame.

There it is. Fastened to the underside of a thick railing.

I pull, and it comes free with a rip of Velcro.

And then I turn back to the men… and walk into the fight.

CHAPTER FOUR - CORT

 

The worst thing about fighting Pavo Vervonal is his incessant chatter.

It’s like this asshole has no respect for the value of silence. My very first goal in this fight has nothing to do with winning and everything to do with knocking out his fucking teeth so I can make him shut up.

“You like her, don’t you?” He says this as I ring my arm around his neck and take him down.

But he’s slippery, just like the snake painted on his body, and he maneuvers this way and that until he’s out of my reach. On his feet, opposite me, crouched low with eyes fixed on mine. We circle each other.

“You want to take her home, don’t you, Sick Heart? You’re imagining the party that comes next, aren’t you? The Lectra. You want to—”

I attack and cut him off. But his talking was nothing but a trick, a way to distract me as he planned his moves. I crack him in the jaw with my right elbow, but he dodges the follow-up move and my left fist crashes into his blocking forearm instead of his head.

But I’m no stranger to tricks. I’ve been fighting for my life since I was five years old. I hold the current Ring of Fire world record for the number of times I’ve been on the platform opposite an insane asshole just like Pavo.

And I have tricks of my own.

I’ve got him on defense and his eyes are assessing my elbows, and knees, and fists, and feet for their threat value.

He does it in that order. Because my elbows are always what takes them down in the end. And my knees are always looking for that weak spot. And my fists are always going for the knockout punch.

So when his threat assessment finally catches up to my offensive moves, he’s expecting a kick.

But I don’t kick. I simply sweep him off his feet.

He falls backwards, and even over the pounding of the drums, I can hear the crowd.

They are not rooting for me.

They never root for me.

They will put money on me, because I like to win. But in this fight, I’m not the favorite. At twenty-seven, the mere fact that I’m still alive is just luck to them. And just before luck runs out, it runs slow.

They came here thinking my luck has been running slow for years now.

This is it. Money on Pavo.

But fuck that. I’m not even down, let alone out.

Pavo responds to my sweep with a series of grappling moves that leave behind a rash of concrete burns on my skin when we finally get back on our feet, once again crouched and circling.

One of my ears is ringing, blood is seeping down my throat, and I’m pretty sure at least one rib is cracked because every time I inhale, a sharp pain makes me wince in the back of my mind.

Pavo attacks. He’s rammed me twice now, and I know he won’t do it again, even though he comes at me with all the intentions of a bull. He pulls out of it in the very last second, but I’m ready for him. I swing up, grab him in a flying arm bar, and slap him down onto the concrete so hard his breath leaves his body in a loud grunt.

He lies there, still. This is my chance. This is the moment that I finish him.

And I’m just about to do that—just about to chop him in the throat, break his trachea, and spend the next three minutes watching him slowly suffocate—when I see a streak of white out of the corner of my eye.

Anya comes towards me with a knife.

I stand up and back away a little, unsure if her loyalty to Pavo has turned her insane or if this was part of the plan.

I realize my mistake when Pavo grabs my ankle and pulls. He was down, but not out.

There is no way out of this move. But I break the fall with the flat palm of my hand and land on my side, forgetting to favor the cracked rib.

Pain leaks out of me as nothing more than a low grunt of acknowledgment. But on the inside, the sharpness of the injury takes me by surprise. And my head is filled with nothing but screaming.

Screaming.

Little voices in the dark. The smell of blood in the night. The cackling laughter of the man who took us.

And then… the instincts. My instincts. Once I realized there was nothing more to lose.

And then Pavo is looming over me, sitting on me, crushing my already bruised and broken ribs. His bloody mouth grinning, his dark eyes flashing, his overdeveloped sense of self-importance rearing up like a wild stallion who just won a whole herd of mares.

My legs kick up, knees connecting with his back the same time his fist connects with my face.

Stars shimmer in the night even though there are no stars tonight.

I push up with my flat palms, connect with his chest, and roll him over my head.

There is a sick thunk as his skull hits the ground, and I think, That’s gotta hurt, but in a life-or-death fight it’s not over ‘till it’s over.

I get up on my hands and feet, pausing for a moment to assess Pavo. He’s lying face down and blood is streaming along the side