Vassili
Why the fuck am I already offering to tell her whatever she'd like to know again? Zariah apologizes, wrapping her arms around my neck. This time, instead of using that mouth to argue, her mouth is soft against mine.
“I'd love to know more about you. I feel hypocritical, damn, like I’m part of the group that’s stereotyped you.”
“Nyet, you aren't a hypocrite. You’re just slow to warm up and trust. That’s why it took us seven years to get to this. You've got to trust me. I swear I would've never bothered you if I were really a bad guy.” I’m legit, I tell myself that it's true. The only drug I've ever touched was cocaine, and just enough to catch a celebratory high. Nothing more. I’d rather vomit than lay a hand on Malich’s most esteemed bitch. I. Am. Legit.
“I trust you,” Zariah utters before my tongue soars into her mouth, searching for her sweetness. We kiss until our lungs burn for oxygen.
“Mmmm…” She inhales deeply, spinning around before me like she's drunk off the taste, too.
“Now that you see things my way, let’s jog to Vadim’s,” I paw her ass, offering a hard squeeze. “We’ll see how much this ass can lift.”
“How far is Vadim’s?”
“Did you drink breakfast?”
“Drink breakfast? What a very confusing phrase. How about I catch a Lyft to Vadim’s?” she asks. “What's with the killer face? I'll even do a light stretch during the ride, get myself all hot and bothered for you.” Her giddy little grin is heart-stopping, but still I glare at her.
“Run now or pay later,” I order. My growl in her ear prompts her to move. My lips twitch as I follow her and then lead the way to the gym.
###
“You brought meat!” shouts one of the loyalist at the electronic machines in Vadim’s Gym, as Zariah opens the bottle of water I just grabbed from the industrial refrigerator in the lobby.
“Don't get your ass handed to you, brah,” I snap.
The guys at the weights station all mention how beautiful Zariah is, calling me a lucky fuck.
“Where's Vadim?” I tell him.
“Dayyyum,” Zariah presses her face into my bicep. “Is that the Sergio… Sergy,” Zariah corrects herself, “that I came to beat up. Some of those other faces look familiar, too. They were all like wolves, offering him to me. I never apologized to him.”
“Yeah, that’s Sergy, but we call him the Three Head Monster. I'd never let you apologize to him, no matter how wrong you were,” I tell her. “Don't look in fear, you can probably beat his ass right now. He's all steroids and salt. We're going to make it so that you can takedown any of these cunts on the weights.”
We make it toward the octagon where Vadim is shouting at two guys sparing. He's dressed in a collared shirt, jeans and a golf cap on his head, mostly just to cover that balding spot he’s got now. He steps down when he notices us, never taking his eyes off Zariah.
“Old man, meet my woman.”
“This mudak has himself a real gorgeous one. And you're smart, too!” Vadim shakes her hand.
“Thank you.” Zariah grins.
“No more eye-fucking. Vadim, you’re half blind until a krasavitsa—beauty—comes around.”
“Yeah, yeah, Vassili. I can still bring you to the canvass,” Vadim says.
“He wishes,” Nestor steps down out of the cage, in sparring gear. The rookie in the cage glares at me, I glare back. It makes sense. We have a rule of not cutting in on anyone's practice time.
“Zariah, I'll show you the ropes in a few. Rhy has about thirty minutes to go.” Vadim eyes me wearily. “You're early.”
I watch Vadim retreat toward the cage. I smile at the rookie, who will ensure that every second of my interruption is accounted for, once Vadim gets back to him. And then I tune into Nestor as he flirts with Zariah.
“Oh you know my name already?” His eyes brighten, and she slides her hand away from his grasp.
“Yes, it's very nice to meet you, Nestor.”
I place my hand against the soft meat along his shoulder blade, applying hard pressure. Nestor’s face contorts, and he winces in pain as I speak. “This is my ace! Nestor is always in my corner when I hit the cage.”
“Oh, he is? You should probably be a lot nicer to him, then,” Zariah admonishes, eyes twinkling.
“Yeah, well he didn't catch on to the fact that you're mine.” I let go of his shoulder. Now, he cusses up a storm in his native tongue.
“Shit, Nestor, if I’m not mistaken, you're talking about me!” I waggle my finger at him.
Zariah’s eyebrow lifts. “You don't speak Russian?”
“This mudak is Ukrainian.” I shrug. My voice rises, in order for the undercard to hear me. “All right, Nestor, get back in the cage with Rhy. Teach him to strengthen those lungs. If he makes Vadim look bad in ten weeks, we all look bad.”
“Fuck you!” Rhy points a finger at me.
I toss a middle finger over my shoulder, and escort Zariah to the mat area.
“Wow, Vassili, it's like pulling teeth to get you to smile. Now, I see you reserve those sexy smiles for mockery,” she turns away from Rhy, “What happens in ten weeks?”
“I defend my belt, as usual. Rhy is the undercard, his first pro televised fight, and he'll probably get slap boxed to the ground and strangled to death. I want you to come. We fight in Vegas.” I nudge my head to the rope. “Pick it up, beautiful.”
“There’s other, more appealing, workout routines we can be doing right n…” her seductive voice drowns out as she tries to pick up the ultra-thick conditioning rope. “Damn, Mr. Cocky Pants, I’m not trying out for a triathlon.”
“Cocky? You should've stuck around seven years ago. I was the spitting image of Rhy in demeanor, not looks, that face of his is like the rear end of a bitch in heat.”
“So you were out of breath easily.” She tosses back exactly what I told Nestor to assist Rhy on, while struggling to hold up the rope.
“Fuck, no. I'm a bull, baby.” I place myself behind her, ass so fat against my cock that I have to remind myself we are here to train her. Make her better. Her best. I can’t keep tabs on my woman at all times, and I don’t believe in a being woman unable to defend herself. My teeth grit as I realize that Anatoly will learn about her in the future. He’ll ask to meet her. For all his politeness and my outright denials, he’s relentless. It’s a good thing we both are.
I place my forearms along hers, and my hands engulf the back of her hands, steadying her hold on the rope. I kiss the nape of Zariah’s neck, and pray that God always keeps her safe when I’m not around. My voice is surprisingly steady as I continue with our conversation, “I was all about power, about just knocking a motherfucker out.”
“Damn, how much does this weigh.” She grumbles. “TKO’s were your main motivation. Hello, isn't that what you're supposed to do unless the judges call it?”
With the flick of my wrist, I help her position the rope to move. “Not entirely. I’ve never had to win through decision. However, what’s better than a TKO, is submission, ultimate control. TKO is power, nice and quick. Submission is a mentality, setting that shit up, and waiting to go in for the kill.”