SICK HEART by Huss, JA (non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

just a little bit faster than normal. Anya chokes and then spits blood out onto the mat.

“What the fuck, Anya?” Rainer is pissed about the blood on the mat, not the fact that Anya probably just bit a chunk out of her tongue.

She pulls herself up, balancing on her palms, but she doesn’t try to stand up. Instead she slowly raises her eyes up to Maart and glares right back.

That’s a lot of words from a girl like Anya. But I don’t think Maart understands that. He hasn’t spent the last month with her. He hasn’t learned that showing feelings of any kind is like a manic rant in Anya’s world.

But I have. And her look says she’s not done yet.

She gets to her feet—slightly unsteady, but she squares her shoulders and tilts her chin up in defiance. Daring him to hit her again.

He does the same. He won’t hit her again. He would’ve never hit her in the first place. She’s not worth a fight. She’s not a student in this camp, she’s a fucking cook. A dishwasher. Something to be dealt with. To Maart, Anya is nobody.

Well, she was. Until she slapped him across the face.

I have to bring a hand up to my mouth to hide my smile, but my girl has some balls on her.

She obviously has no idea who or what Maart is. Because if she did, she wouldn’t have dared to touch him.

There is just one guy on the whole planet I know can kick my ass in a fight and that guy is Maart. He never made it into Ring of Fire because we planned it that way.

I was the one who would fight and he was the one who would put me back together when it was over. Because I’m not fucking smart enough to treat broken bones and run IV lines and he is.

But make no mistake, Maart is one badass motherfucker. And there is no way he will let some princess of a girl get away with slapping him across the face in front of all these kids.

He has to do something. He has to.

If she slapped me like that, I’d have to do something too.

We all wait—practically holding our breath—as Maart considers his options.

He sucks in a deep breath and then glares at the kids and his words come out as a low, mean growl. “Get back. To work.”

And just like that, the whole platform is on the move. Kids go back to their tasks, wrapping their hands or warming up for the day’s training. Rainer lets out a relieved breath because if Maart was gonna make an example out of Anya, he’d want them all watching. Rainer goes back to his kids too, checking their wraps and play-boxing with Evard.

But I know better. Maart will never let this go. His eyes track around the platform, making sure every kid is doing what they should, as Anya stands in front of him, breathing hard and trying not to gag from the blood inside her mouth.

His gaze lands on me and I raise my eyebrows at him. And in that same moment he reaches for Anya, his palm still open and aiming for her cheek.

She blocks him, her forearm batting that potential slap away. I have to hide my smile again, because Maart never takes his eyes off me. And now he is saying things without words, just like Anya was.

He is asking me, What the fuck did you do?

And what can I say? All I do is shrug.

His head slowly turns and he studies Anya for a moment. Sizing her up. Evaluating her potential. “You wanna be a fighter, Anya? And don’t you fucking dare hand me silence, bitch. You just slapped me. I have every right to throw you off this platform and let you die in the sea for what you just did. I am ajarn here.” He leans into her personal space. “Do you understand me?”

I don’t expect her to answer him with words, and she doesn’t. But she nods her head and bows, just a little bit.

It’s a slave bow, not a martial arts bow. But it implies absolute submission, so it works.

Maart lets out a long breath and looks over at me. I haven’t moved, even though all my kids are busy. Anya has been forgotten as far as they’re concerned. None of them are over the age of six, but every one of them—with the exception of four-year-old Ainsey—has been out to the Rock at least twice already. They know what’s coming. They know that in six months they will have their first fight and more than half will lose.

Which means more than half will be dead when it’s over.

They don’t have time for Anya’s defiance.

I don’t give Maart any indication of what he should do about this situation. He’s right. He can deal with her any way he wants. She disrespected him and he has every right to ban her from the camp.

But when he looks back at her, he grabs her face and turns it, trying to see inside her mouth to find the source of the blood. Then he sighs and points his finger at her. “I’m pissed. If you wanted to train, all you had to do was ask with respect and we would’ve talked it over. Get your ass in the clinic. I’ll have to stitch that fucking tongue. I should just cut it off while I’m in there. It’s not like you need it.”

His insults continue as he follows Anya into the building, then taper off as the door swings closed behind them.

I turn back to my kids, ready to check hands, and find Ainsey—as usual—with a mess of wrappings around her knuckles.

She’s not gonna make it. Knowing this is a curse. And every time I look into her eyes, I feel this heavy weight of guilt. This is why I baby her. This is why I kneel down, unwrap her hands, and then wrap them back