168 Chapter 168
168 Chapter 168
Seraphina’s POV T
The gym smelled like sweat, blood, and something that might have been fear.
I stood in the doorway at 5:55 AM, my stomach churning with equal parts terror and desperate determination. This was it. My first day of
training for underground fighting.
The space was nothing like the pack training facility. No clean mats, no organized equipment, no cheerful teammates encouraging each
other. Just concrete floors stained with God knows what, heavy bags hanging from rusted chains, and a boxing ring that looked like it
had seen actual deaths.
“You’re early,” Rico’s voice came from behind me. “Good. Shows discipline.”
I turned to face him. He looked different in workout clothes–leaner, harder, more dangerous. Like he could actually teach someone how
to hurt people.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“Coming.” He checked his watch. “You’ll meet the team at six. Fair warning–they’re not gonna be happy about you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a woman. And because you’re taking up space they think belongs to them.” His expression was matter–of–fact. “They’re
gonna test you. Push you. Try to make you quit.”
My hands clenched into fists. “I won’t quit.”
“We’ll see.”
At exactly six AM, they started arriving.
Men. All men. Big, brutal–looking men with cauliflower ears and scarred knuckles and eyes that had seen too much violence. They looked
at me like I was a joke. An insult.
“The fuck is this?” The first one through the door was massive–easily six–foot–four, built like a tank. His nose had been broken so many
times it barely looked human anymore. “We running a daycare now, Rico?”
“Flint, meet Sera. Sera, meet Flint.” Rico’s voice was calm. “She’s training with us.”
Flint’sugh was harsh and ugly. “Training? You serious? She looks like a stiff wind would break her.”
More men filed in. Eight total, not counting Rico. All of them staring at me with varying degrees of amusement and contempt.
“Maybe she’s lost,” another one said. His ent was thick, Eastern European maybe. Scars crisscrossed his shaved head like a road map.
“Yoga studio is three blocks down, little girl.
Heat flooded my cheeks. “I’m not lost.”
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You will be,” Flint said, cracking his knuckles with sounds like gunshots. “First time someone hits you for real”
Rico pped his hands once, sharp andmanding. “Alright,dies. Enough chatting. Time to work.”
The warm–up was brutal.
Burpees until my legs shook. Push–ups until my arms gave out. Sprints across the gym floor until I thought my lungs would burst. And
through it all, the men watched me struggle with barely concealed satisfaction.
“Come on, princess!” Flint shouted as I copsed after my third set of burpees. “My grandmother moves faster than that!”
I pushed myself up. Did five more. Copsed again.
“Pathetic,” someone muttered.
But I got up. Again. And again. Until the warm–up was finally over and my entire body was screaming for mercy.
“Sparring,” Rico announced. “Flint, you’re with Sera.”
Flint’s grin was terrifying. “With pleasure.”
In the pack training facility, Marcus, my former trainer–had been tough but fair. He’d pushed us hard but never tried to hurt us. Never
wanted us to fail.
This Flint was different.
He came at me like I owed him money. Fast, brutal, with no mercy or restraint. His first punch caught me in the ribs before I could even
think about blocking.
The air left my lungs in a rush. I stumbled backward, gasping.
“Block!” Rico shouted from somewhere far away. “Get your hands up!”
Flint didn’t wait for me to recover. He closed the distance with two steps and drove his fist toward my face.
I managed to get my hands up this time. His knuckles connected with my forearms hard enough to make my bones ache.
Then he swept my legs.
I hit the concrete floor so hard I saw stars. Before I could move, his weight was on top of me, his forearm pressing against my throat.
“Tap out,” he growled.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Panic wed at my chest.
“TAP OUT!”
My hand pped the floor twice. He released me immediately and stood up, leaving me gasping on the concrete.
“Twenty seconds,” someone said. “New record.”
Laughter echoed through the gym. Harsh and mocking.
“Get up,” Rico ordered.
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168 Chapter 168
I couldn’t. My body wouldn’t cooperate.
“I said GET UP!”
Something in his voice made me move. I rolled onto my side, then my hands and knees, then finally to my feet. Everything hurt. My ribs,
my arms, my throat where Flint’s forearm had pressed.
“Again,” Rico said.
“What?”
“You heard me. Again.”
This timested thirty seconds before Flint had me in a chokehold. I tapped out before I passed out.
The third time, Isted almost a minute.
By the tenth round, I was barely conscious. Blood dripped from my nose. My right eye was swelling shut. Every breath felt like someone
was stabbing my ribs.
“Enough,” Rico finally called.
I copsed to my knees, grateful it was over.
“Not bad for a first day,” Flint said, and there might have been the tiniest hint of respect in his voice. “Most people quit after round three.” <fndf2c> Updates are released by find[?]ovel</fndf2c>
The next three weeks were hell.
Every morning, I dragged myself to the gym at six AM. Every morning, the men were waiting with their cruel jokes and crueler fists.
Every morning, I got beaten, bruised, bloodied.
But I kept showing up.
“Your defense is shit,” the Eastern European guy told me after knocking me down for the fifth time in one session. “You leave yourself
open constantly.”
“Then teach me,” I gasped from the floor.
He looked surprised. “Why should I?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll keep being easy to beat. And where’s the fun in that?”
He stared at me for a long moment. Then, incredibly, heughed.
“Alright, little fighter. I show you.” He helped me to my feet. “Keep your elbows tight to your body. Like this. Hands high. Chin down.” 1
It wasn’t much. But it was something.
Slowly, painfully, I started learning. Not just how to take hits–though God knows I was getting plenty of practice at that—but how to
throw them. How to read an opponent’s bodynguage. How to find openings and exploit them.
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168 Chapter 168
“Hit him in the throat,” Rico instructed one day as I sparred with a newer guy. “Stomp on his instep. Gouge his eyes if you have to?
Back at the pack, Marcus would have been horrified. “We fight with honor,” he always said. “We protect each other, even inbat.”
But these men didn’t care about honor. They cared about winning. And slowly, sickeningly, I realized I was starting to think the same
way.
The bruises became constantpanions. Purple and yellow and ck, spreading across my ribs, my arms, my face like abstract art. I stopped looking in mirrors because I didn’t recognize the woman staring back.
The grocery store shifts became torture of a different kind.
I didn’t listen to Rico. I couldn’t quit. Couldn’t give up that tiny, pathetic paycheck, even though Rico had given me money. Because what
if the fighting didn’t work out? What if I got too injured to continue?
So I worked nights. Stocked shelves when the store was empty, my bruised body screaming with every movement. Tried to avoid
customers who might ask questions.
Three weeks into training, I showed up for my shift with a ck eye, split lip, and bruises covering half my face.
Gary took one look at me and his expression shifted from annoyance to something that might have been concern. Might <i>have </i>been.
“Jesus Christ, Sara.” He set down his clipboard. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Nothing.” I tried to move past him toward the time clock.
He blocked my path. “That doesn’t look like nothing. That looks like someone beat the shit out of you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You look like you went ten rounds with Mike Tyson.” His eyes narrowed. “Does your husband do this to you?”
The question hit me like a physical blow. “What?”
“Your husband. Boyfriend. Whatever.” Gary’s voice took on that tone men used when they were trying to be understanding but really just wanted gossip. “Is he hitting you?”
“I don’t have a husband,” I said through gritted teeth. My hands clenched into fists at my sides.
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