I come to the third night of the tournament in a fog of disgust.
I’ve been sick for three days.
The night Yakov called me, I had to meet him at a warehouse. When he saw what I was wearing, the pretty wool coat and the suede boots, he scoffed.
“Is that your work clothes, Princess?”
I flushed, worried that he’d smell the scent of sex on me, too.
Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice that.
Instead, he led me inside what seemed to be some sort of loading bay. There I saw the body of a man lying on the ground. He’d been shot in the head and chest, several times each. I ran over to him and checked for a pulse, even though it was obvious he was dead.
“You’re not here to save him,” Yakov sneered. “You’re here to cut him up.”
“W—what?” I stammered.
“We have to get rid of the meat,” Yakov said slowly, as if talking to an idiot. “You’re the butcher.”
My stomach rolled over.
“I can’t do that,” I said.
“You will do it,” Yakov informed me.
“I can’t!” I shook my head, backing away from the body. “I’m a doctor, not a . . . an undertaker!”
Yakov laughed.
“You’re not embalming him,” he said. “You need to pull the teeth, cut off the fingers, then dismember the rest. Cut off any tattoos as well. This one can’t be identified.”
I just kept shaking my head in horror. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t do any of that.
I looked down at the body again, trying not to focus on the bullet hole over the right eye.
I didn’t recognize the man—from the look of his suit, his gold watch and rings, and his tattoos, I assumed he was Bratva. But I couldn’t tell from which family, or even if he was one of Krupin’s men.
He was just a normal-looking man, average height and build, dark hair, tanned skin, a bit of stubble on his face. Undeniably solid and human. Not a carcass I could just hack into.
“I can’t do it,” I said again.
Yakov narrowed his eyes at me. He was dressed as nattily as ever—tight blue suit, highly-polished, tan oxfords. Definitely nothing he’d want to get blood on. Which was probably why he’d called me to do the job. Plus, the fact that he hates me.
“I’m not telling you again, you dense bitch,” he said. “Get to work, or I’ll call Krupin right now and tell him his pet doctor isn’t worth keeping on a leash anymore.” His eyes were cold and filled with loathing. “You know what happens to pets no one wants?” he said. “They get put down.” He spat on the floor to punctuate his point.
He threw a new duffle bag at me, heavier than the one that became my doctor’s kit. It clanked as it hit the warehouse floor.
“Get to work,” he said.
And I did it. God help me, but I did it, exactly as Yakov instructed. It was brutal and disgusting, and it made me want to vomit the whole time. Still, I did it all.
When I finished, all my pretty clothes were soaked in blood and hair and bits of bone.
Yakov told me to burn the man’s suit in a barrel. I burned my coat along with it. When I got home, I stripped off my dress and boots, even my underwear, put it all in a trash bag, and threw it down the garbage chute.
Then I sat in a hot shower until the water ran cold.
Yakov didn’t call me at all the following two days. If he had, I don’t think I could have answered.
I came to the fight night just as I was supposed to, however.
The howling crowd and the scent of blood in the air don’t help my state of mind.
I patch up the first two rounds of fighters, still feeling dazed.
Then Yakov pokes his head into the infirmary.
“Boss wants to see you,” he says.
Just the sight of him makes my stomach roll over all over again.
I silently follow him out to Krupin’s table.
I can see Stepanov sitting next to Krupin, as usual. He stands up when I approach. I hate the way he looks at me. He’s worse than Yakov. At least with Yakov, I don’t have to pretend to like him.
“The pretty doctor,” Stepanov says, looking me up and down.
“Dobryy vecher,” I say politely.
“Krupin and I were just making a little bet,” he says to me. “Who do you favor, in the third fight?”
I glance up at the board. My heart does a little flip when I see Snow’s name, paired up with somebody named Black Eye.
“I . . . I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know anything about boxing.”
“Come now,” Stepanov lays his hand on my arm. His hand is warm enough, but his gaze is predatory. I long to shake him off. “You’re an expert on the human body,” he says, his voice low and suggestive. “Surely you can compare one man to another.”
“I say . . . Snow, then,” I tell him.
I can’t tell if Krupin is giving me a sharp look. I don’t know if my voice sounds normal, or if I’m blushing.
“He is the favorite,” Stepanov agrees. “You like a sure thing, don’t you Miss Doctor?”
I don’t know how he manages to make every statement sound like sexual innuendo, but I hate it. I’m longing to get away from him.
“How do you like that wager?” Stepanov says to Krupin. “You want the underdog?”
“Double or nothing,” Krupin shoots back. “Black Eye can’t be knocked out.”
“Anybody can be knocked out,” Stepanov scoffs.
“Not him,” Krupin says stubbornly. “If Snow knocks him out, I’ll give you another 500k.”
Jesus Christ. They’re betting more than a year’s salary. For a serf like me, at least.
Krupin dismisses me at last, but I don’t go back to the infirmary. Instead, I linger at the edge of the bleachers, waiting for Snow’s fight.
I want to see him, just for a moment. In the sick fog of the last few days, the only bright spots were my memories of our afternoon together, exploring the Aurora, talking for almost two hours at the restaurant, and then our tryst afterward at his apartment . . .
Snow comes out of the locker room looking like the angel of death. He’s dressed all in white, as always. But his face is far from stoic. He looks absolutely livid—an ice-cold anger that frankly terrifies me. As Snow strips off his robe, even his opponent looks scared.
The bell rings. Snow unleashes a fury of blows that is calculated, relentless, and absolutely ruthless.
I’m shocked by him. I can’t believe this automaton is the man I let strip off my clothes and touch me as I’d never been touched before.
His hands were so tender and skillful then. Now they’re weapons, two clubs that he wields mercilessly to decimate his opponent.
Time and time again he knocks Black Eye down. The hits are so brutal that I don’t think the other man can possibly get up. But Black Eye staggers to his feet, only to be pummeled down again.
The crowd is loving it, cheering at the sight of the blood streaking the canvas. They’re insatiable; they howl for more.
The sight of all that bright red blood is sickening to me. It makes me remember how my hands were soaked in it, when I had to dismember the body for Yakov. I remember the feeling of the flesh in my hands, how I had to saw at it . . .
My stomach rolls over again, and I have to press my hand hard against my mouth to keep from vomiting.
I should leave, but I feel frozen in place, my eyes locked on Snow.
Again and again and again he hits Black Eye.
Finally, he lands a blow that smashes him to the ground, and Black Eye doesn’t get up again.
The ref counts down, and the fight is over.
Snow raises his arms, cold triumph on his face.
His pale blue eyes lock on mine.
Only then does the facade crack. Snow’s face softens, and I’m looking at an actual human again.
Somehow that’s even worse, knowing that he was under there the whole time.
I turn away from him and run back to the infirmary.
I only get about five minutes to compose myself before they bring in Black Eye, whose face is so swollen and battered that I can’t even tell what he looked like originally.
He’s still knocked out cold. Two of Krupin’s men throw him down on my table, his head lolling back.
For a second, I think he’s dead, and I think I’m going to have to dispose of his body like I did the other one. Panic flares up inside of me, so much that I can hardly check his pulse with the shaking of my hands.
But he isn’t dead. He comes around when I snap a packet of ammonium carbonate under his nose.
Actually, remarkably, he’s not in terrible shape. He’s dazed, and I have to stitch up a couple of cuts on his face, but there’s nothing unrecoverable. With all the swelling, I can’t tell if his nose is broken—his trainer tells me it’s been broken several times before, so it never looks too good.
“You must have a skull made of iron,” I tell Black Eye.
“He fell out a three-story window when he was a toddler,” his trainer says. “So yeah, he’s pretty much indestructible.”
I’m starting to calm down a little in my relief that Black Eye is alright.
I probably overreacted, watching the fight. I know how passionate Snow is about winning. What did I expect him to do, sing Black Eye a lullaby?
Right as my blood pressure is starting to come down, Yakov strolls into the infirmary to elevate it all over again. He thrusts a garment bag into my arms.
“What’s this?” I say.
“Put it on after the fights,” he says. “You’re coming to dinner with us.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because I fucking said so,” Yakov snarls. “You need to learn to follow orders, Princess. I’m not your friend.”
You’re goddamn right you’re not.
I lay the garment bag over the back of a chair, dreading unzipping it. I’m always exhausted after the fights. I just want to go home. And I can only imagine what’s inside.
