Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
And I didn’t like it. It didn’t feel relevant. Not when everyone else—older than me, of course—and all boys, of course of course—was still training for the ring.
Not the Ring of Fire, obviously. But Maart had a place for them all. And he didn’t have a place for me.
It’s not like I just left without saying anything, either. I didn’t tell Anya or Cort, but Maart knew. And he didn’t stop me. I stood out there, on the corner of Bolivar and Atlantica, looking right into his office window, and dared him to stop me from leaving. Dared him to give in and let me train again.
I remember—and it’s so clear in my head what happened that morning—he stood up, looked me straight in the eyes, and then he shut the blinds.
It hurt. I’m not gonna lie. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, swallowed down the pain, and then I walked away.
That was the last time I bothered caring what the fuckin’ rules were.
I was so mad about being left behind, so mad about being forgotten, that I made a vow to myself that day. I would never, ever let someone else determine my future.
I didn’t come all this way—I didn’t win those nine death fights—just so I could let Maart tell me what to do, and who to be, and how I should act.
So I left.
Even though I’m only about twenty years old, my ID says twenty-six. There was no possible way I was gonna enter America under the stupid drinking age. Not that I drink a lot, but I don’t have the patience for rules like that. I don’t mind living within the confines of laws. However, every country has two sets of those.
One set for those with money and power and one set for those without.
And this is how I see it: if a country can’t have one set of laws for everyone, all laws are invalid.
I don’t want trouble, I don’t want to break the law—I don’t even have a reason to—but the American government can fuck right off if they think they’re gonna tell me what I can and can’t drink because I’m only twenty years old.
And anyway, I could be twenty-one right now. I might even be as old as twenty-three. Or possibly as young as eighteen.
Age didn’t matter to Udulf when he bought me, put me in Cort’s camp, and told me to fight until my opponent was dead. Didn’t matter that I was six and he was going to turn me into a murderer.
So why should I give a single fuck about what the American government thinks about age?
I knew how to survive. Being on my own in a strange country at sixteen wasn’t even that big of a deal. It’s not like I ever had parents. And I do love Cort, Maart, and Rainer, but parents they were not.
There was no booboo-kissing when I got hurt. There were no bedtime stories. And I know us kids in Cort’s camp had it much better than most, but let’s be real here—it was a fucking fight club.
Being a homeless teenager on the streets of Miami was a cakewalk compared to fighting for my life at age six in São Paulo.
When I got here, and found the underground fights, and did that one modeling gig—it was my chance to start over. To be someone totally different. Not Russian, not anything.
Just… Irina.
And I don’t think about them. I don’t.
But sometimes, when I can’t sleep at night, I think about the fights, and how familiar the pain was. How limping was a sign of strength. How breathing past the scream of broken ribs was a reminder. How a bloody face and a broken nose was proof that I was still alive.
The injuries were a badge of honor.
A testament to survival.
Proof that I was a winner.
I was six years old when Udulf van Hauten stretched out his hand to me.
This took place outside. Somewhere hot. And although I am not any kind of expert on Russia, I know that this meeting did not take place in Russia.
I don’t know what language Udulf was speaking, but someone was speaking Russian. That’s why I have verbal memories of that day. Little snippets of conversation that have stuck in my brain along with a few images and, of course, the heat. It was so fuckin’ hot.
Udulf was offering me his hand. He was very tall. I was very small. So the memory of this moment, when I play it back in my head, highlights this disparity. He looked like a giant to me.
I took his hand. I remember that. It was cold, which confused me because I can’t stress enough how damn hot I was that day. The coldness of him in the middle of that sauna bothered me. But then I figured out it was the air conditioning. He had just gotten out of a limo and it was air-conditioned.