Scorpion

Oxygen slams into me all at once. I buckle over, gasping for air, choking on each breath through my bruising esophagus. Rolling onto my elbows, I try to steady my pulse and focus on filling my lungs, but I can barely manage the simple task. I spit blood onto the floor covered in fresh crimson droplets, then drag my hand across my eye to stop the liquid from impairing my vision even more.

H-Brawn’s blurry figure circles the ring with his arms up.

No. No. Fuck.

I bite back a groan as I pull myself up onto my feet and try not to limp on my walk of shame back to the locker. But everyone can see it. There’s no denying that I can barely put any weight on my foot, or that I’m practically dragging it across the ground. I can feel all their eyes on me, their disappointment and smug victory. But it’s nothing compared to the next twelve hours if I don’t fork up some cash.

Red rims my vision, whether from the blood or from rage, I’m not sure. My bruised body protests against my movements, screaming at me to sit down. I slam the door to the locker room open and stagger inside.

“Fuck,” I growl, slapping the wall. The sound vibrates through the room, followed by another bang when I level my fists with the metal lockers.

No money. No health insurance. No fucking place to live after tomorrow.

Pathetic. Just like my parents always thought I was.

I don’t care if I’m on the street or living off food scraps. I’m not going to go crawling to my brother for a handout when he always took our parents’ side. Now Gaya is dead because they convinced her to visit our relatives in India, and her corpse is somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, rotting alongside the parents who never gave a shit about us and two hundred other people.

I haven’t got many things—most of what my sister owned stayed with her wife, Amy—so I can rent a storage room and set up a tent in the forest until I figure it out. Plus, there’s no way I can share a space with someone, especially if I’m in a mood. Amy should be fine if I don’t send her any money for the next few weeks.

I’m just so fucking tired of everything. I’m sick of moving. I’m sick of living like this.

Yanking the towel off the bench, I hobble over to the sink to dampen the material, then attempt to wipe as much blood off my face as I can. The cut on my forehead and lip doesn’t let up, leaking crimson from the gaping wound.

I grit my teeth as I press the towel to my forehead, letting the metallic coat my taste buds, as I rummage around for my first aid kit. Red stains the Band-Aid I press onto my forehead within seconds. It needs stitches, but I can’t afford to get them.

My busted lip isn’t doing much better. It’s soaking a separate piece of cloth that I’m holding between my teeth. Every part of my body screams in pain as I drop down onto the bench to unwrap my knuckles and hiss as I shove my arms into a hoodie, leather jacket, then backpack. Clasping my helmet beneath my chin, I give the room a passing glance before limping out into the hall, taking the back exit to avoid facing the crowds.

I should be tracking down the promoter to get me in another fight, but I’m in no condition to get in the ring for another few weeks. Hell, I haven’t been in the right condition for months since I drunkenly fell down the stairs one night. My foot has been making me pay double time for it ever since.

I can barely smell the crisp night air as I limp toward my bike. It’ll be a miracle if I make it to my apartment in one piece. Every breath hurts, and I’m going to have to rely on my right leg for the drive. I’d rather risk getting into an accident than call down a taxi to take me home—not that I can afford it anyway.

Biting down on the towel, I throw my leg over my motorbike and slump down onto the metal to catch a moment’s reprieve from the pins and needles rendering my left foot numb and aching.

The bike rumbles to life beneath me, and I flinch, blinking back the image of the roaring flames coming from the armored car. My arms shake as I grip the handles. I don’t let myself think about my exhaustion as I peel away from the park and make my way to my apartment. Probably for the last time.

I’m not entirely sure how I made it home, but I know I did it, driving on autopilot until I’m struggling up the stairs with my helmet tucked beneath my arm and my hand in a death grip around the railing.

I lean half my weight against the wall, focusing on the dirty linoleum floors beneath me as I lift my knee higher than necessary to stop from dragging my foot. The edges of my vision blur and my head swims. Blood trickles out of the Band-Aid and down the side of my temple, as well as from the middle of my lip.

When was the last time I ate a proper meal? Do I even have any painkillers left for my foot?

Fuck. I should have died in that explosion too.

“Sergeant Bhatia.”

I snap upright, flooded with a sudden burst of energy. No one has called me that in two and a half years, and I’m sure no one from the club knows I’m ex-military.

My vision focuses on the man leaning against the door to my apartment, and a wave of emotions crashes through me.

No. He isn’t meant to know that I’m back, let alone know where I live.

I always thought I’d be in a casket the next time I saw the boy I left behind. But there he is—Mathijs Halenbeek. Even more beautiful than the last time I saw him. Age has done him wonders. He no longer has a layer of baby fat concealing the sharp edges of his bone structure. The boy I knew held wonder in his green eyes, and his pale skin radiated sunlight. But the man before me has lost the light; sunken cheeks and chiseled jaw, sharp eyes, and platinum hair that’s two shades lighter than I remember.

Hollow. Haunted.

Like a ghost.

Still, even under the dim hallway light, he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He’s out of place in this decrepit apartment, wearing his three-piece suit and woolen coat that fits his slender waist to perfection.

Just looking at him hurts. I lost him and my parents in a single night. Then, I lost my sister and my best friend within a week. The only person who survived the last ten years is him. Even then, it looks like every day that passes, his grip on life has been weakening too.

“I’m not a sergeant anymore,” I grumble through the cloth, dropping my head to avoid him seeing more of my ruined face.

I shoulder by him to get to my door, but he blocks the way. Irritation slices through me, and I have to stop myself from lashing out at him for something that he has no fault in. I’ve lost everything, and his presence is only acting as a reminder that I’ve failed every single person in my life.

I yank the cloth out of my mouth. “What are you doing here, Mathijs?”

He looks at me for a long moment, dragging his gaze over the cuts on my face, my disheveled braid, down to the way I’m holding my foot. He catalogs every inch of me as if he’s waited a lifetime to do it, and he has no intention of rushing.

The weight of his simple gesture crushes my chest, making me feel seen in a way I haven’t felt in almost a decade. It’s different from the leering I got when I was a new recruit, or when I’m in the ring. Those looks came with the intention of taking. Mathijs’s look is calculating with the air of something warmer. Something heavy.

It almost tastes like longing.

For the first time since I stepped on the bus to get shipped off to training, I can’t help wondering how I look through his eyes. Messy and bloody, ashen from too many days spent in a bed surrounded by empty bottles. I’m almost tempted to run my hand over my head to flatten down any loose strands.

Does he see Zalak, the girl he once loved, or Zalak, the one who let him down?

When he breaks the silence, a part of me tears in two because I never thought a dream could become reality.

“Sergeant Zalak Bhatia of the 75th Regiment. Thirty-three confirmed kills.” He leans against the wall, crossing his arms and long legs. His voice lacks the softness I grew up falling asleep to the sound of. It’s clinical and monotonous. I’d think he didn’t care for any of it if it weren’t for the way his eyes light up with pride. “By twenty-five, you set the record as the woman with the highest confirmed deaths outside of wartime. You were commended for executing a confirmed kill at thirteen hundred meters during your deployment in the Middle East—another record for women.”

“That’s confidential.” No one knows that. I was discharged on grounds of injury and PTSD, and everything me and my team did was sealed shut.

“You executed a surgical high priority Special Operations Raid in Senegal before you were discharged.”

I suck in a sharp breath. If I hadn’t swapped seats with TJ on the way back to base, he’d be alive, and I’d be the one six feet under alongside my sister. It was a standard intel gathering mission. No one was meant to die. But I didn’t see the group waiting for us up on the cliff. No one did.

“You moved here six months ago and you’re in need of a job,” Mathijs continues.

“Get out of my building.” God, it sounds just like the last words I said to him.

Mathijs’s eyebrows twitch like he’s trying to hide the fact that he’s realized the same thing. “Let me rephrase. I need security—a bodyguard, if you will—and you need employment.” He glances at my front door where an eviction notice is taped to it. “And a roof over your head.” His eyes drop from the saturated Band-Aid on my forehead to my drop foot. “And medical assistance.”

“I’m fine.”

He lowers his shoulder and clasps his hands behind his back, a subtle upward tilt to his lips as if he knows he’s going to get the answer he wants tonight. “I offer my staff a 401(k), health insurance, and free accommodation. Tell me, how much would you make in a fight?”

“Enough.”

Nowhere near enough to survive off or have any savings, especially if I’m sending money to help Amy finish her degree now that Gaya isn’t here to support her. And I don’t exactly have any savings.

I hate that he knows how desperate I am. That he knows the state of my life when I know nothing about him beyond the fact that I’m not the only one who lost family.

I don’t want to live in a fucking tent. I don’t want Amy’s things to be in storage. I don’t want to keep feeling pain in my foot all because I don’t have the means to get it treated. Sure, I had surgery on it after the accident. But no one has looked at it since. This country doesn’t give a shit about its veterans.

“Before the accident, you could disable someone twice your size within forty-eight seconds. You graduated top in your class. Your shots hit more than they miss. Would you like me to go into detail about all the successful extractions and hits you did?”

“I’m still not interested.” If I have to work security, I’ll do it for someone other than my ex.

I limp around him and use the door handle as support while I fumble for the key.

“The starting salary is ninety thousand for someone of your expertise.”

I’m interested. “Fine.”

The response comes out quicker than I intend it to. Money like that could wipe out Amy’s student loan and some of her medical bills.

I make the mistake of glancing up at Mathijs to find his lips stretched into a half smile. Still as arrogant as ever. “You can move in tomorrow and start work in two weeks. I’ll send you the address.”

“I have an apartment.”

He nods. “Until tomorrow, I believe.”

I narrow my eyes. That’s not on the notice taped to my door. “How do you get all your information?”

I don’t know why I bother asking. His family’s hedge fund business is only a front; their real money comes from the underbelly of this city. Mathijs’s father wouldn’t have been impressed if he knew that his son told his fifteen-year-old girlfriend that their family is in a gang-like secret society.

“You and I aren’t the same kids we used to be. In our line of work, the better we are at something, the more enemies we have.” He steps forward as if he wants to touch me. “Zalak…” I turn away, knowing the next words that will come out of his mouth. “I’m sorry to hear about your sister and your team. I’m… I’m here for you if you need a—”

“I don’t need your handouts,” I snap when pain spikes up my leg. Fuck, I need to sit.

It’s not exactly how I should be talking to my new boss or someone who is just trying to make my life better. I need a fucking seat and a drink. Which means I need him gone.

“You can say many things, but do not insult me by referring to yourself like that. I don’t have a death wish, Zalak. If I wanted to open a charity, I am well capable of doing so.”

“When did you become such an asshole?” I’ve always been one. The Mathijs I remember was the king of sugarcoating.

“When I lost the one thing that was important to me.” His stare bores into me, picking apart every part of me that I’ve kept hidden away. “Take my condolences or don’t. It’s there for you either way.”

I nod, swallowing the boulder that’s lodged itself in my throat. “Thank you. And I’m… I’m sorry to hear about your parents.” Taking a solidifying breath, I stand straighter. “I was on deployment, and I only found out about what happened two weeks after the funeral. I wish I could have attended. They… they were the parents I never had.”

He gives me a sad smile. “You were the daughter they always wanted.”

Tears sting my eyes, and I avert my attention to unlocking the door so he doesn’t see how far I’ve fallen in the past decade. The lock clicks open and I inch the door wider to end the conversation.

Instead of staying put like a gentleman, the little shit barges past me and enters my apartment, switching on the lights as if he owns the place.

“I never invited you inside,” I grind out, hating that he’s seeing how pathetic my studio is. There’s a beat-up double-seater couch, a coffee table with a thousand ring stains, and a duvet that should have made its way to the dump a long time ago. Other than a single photo frame of me, Gaya, and TJ next to the TV, nothing about the apartment seems like a home.

Despite how measly my living situation is, and how horrific I must look, he doesn’t bat an eye, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed as if I’m the one intruding on his space. “Then tell me to leave.”

I’d rather choke than say those specific words to him again.

I hobble inside, dump my helmet and backpack on the counter, then grab two bottles of beer from the fridge. He shakes his head at my offer, so I press one of the drinks against my swollen eye. The condensation mixes with the blood still trickling from my forehead and down my neck, but I try to play it off like I’m not about to lose my sanity and consciousness. I slump against the fridge, praying that my good leg doesn’t give out on me too.

It takes longer than I care to admit to figure out that there’s a red bag on the kitchen bench. It’s a med kit.

A med kit that does not belong to me.

Did he know I was fighting tonight?

Mathijs nods toward the single dining chair. “Sit.”

“I can deal with it myself.” It isn’t the first time I’ve had to treat cuts that needed stitches, antibiotics, and some damn good painkiller.

“You need stitches.” He glances around, then opens one of the drawers and holds up the emergency sewing kit. Has he been here before? “Unless you want regular cotton sewn into your skin.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

Fuck it. I’ll comply only because I can’t afford to replace my pillow and bedsheets.

The chair creaks beneath my weight, and it’s sad that I have to hold back a sigh of relief.

“Do you have strong painkillers?” Mathijs asks, following behind me with the little med kit.

I crack open the beer bottle using the edge of the wooden table, then hold up the drink in answer.

The muscle in his jaw twitches, but he says nothing as I down two-thirds of it in one go. It tastes like flavored dirt, and the added metallic tang doesn’t do it any favors.

Mathijs is methodical in the way he lays out his supplies, going so far as disinfecting the table before placing a sheet on it. The kit has everything he needs in it, from Panadol that he makes me take with water, to gauze, to tools he needs to stitch my forehead back together.

I have no way to prove it, or the words to ask, but I’m certain he planned for me to leave the ring broken. It’s the only way to explain why he’s carrying around the kit with him.

Slipping his hands into a pair of medical-grade gloves, he turns to me with a wipe and a cotton ball doused in iodine.

“This is going to hurt.”

I lift a shoulder. “I’m used to it.”

His jaw feathers again. I manage to hold back any reaction to the sting that hits my forehead beyond a shaky inhale. The burn is almost relaxing.

Controlled pain. It’s the best kind.

I finish my drink off then start on the other as he grabs the threaded needle and a pair of forceps. My fingers curl around my seat, and I grunt when the point pierces my skin. He doesn’t react, green eyes focused on my bleeding flesh, working quickly with practiced ease.

For the briefest moment, I can picture how he would light up every time he was around animals. If life gave him a family with different expectations, he’d be wearing scrubs and working as a vet, not wearing a suit, stitching someone up after an underground street fight.

I hiss when the needle punctures flesh again. “You know how to sew.” Not a question, but something to fill the tense silence.

“You were slower than usual tonight.”

My eyes snap up to his. “Than usual?”

Mathijs doesn’t answer.

He’s seen me fight? How many times? Have I become so far removed from reality that I’ve stopped doing a proper scan of the crowd? Fuck. What’s the point of knowing where the exits are when I have no idea where the danger is?

Part of me wants to know why he hasn’t approached me sooner. For years, I’ve known that there wouldn’t be a day that I’m ready to face him after leaving him behind. Maybe he knows it too.

I jolt, not expecting the next stitch. Sucking in a sharp breath, I stare at the ground. “You haven’t asked me why I left.”

“I have many questions, Lieverd,” he says softly. Darling. My breath catches. “That isn’t the one that keeps me up at night.”

Keeps. Not kept.

The boulder in my throat doubles in size and doesn’t go away when I swallow.

Why did you leave without me? Why didn’t you come to me first? Why haven’t you contacted me over all these years? Why didn’t you say goodbye?

This time, I say nothing.

I don’t feel the last stitch or the tightening as he ties it off. The cool touch of an alcohol wipe feels a mile away, and I barely hear his final words to me or the creak of the floor with his departure.

Once the door closes behind him, I just sit there, on a threadbare chair in an empty beat-up apartment I’m going to lose, and I make peace with what I am. What I’ve always been. I ran from home and hid from the world when it got too hard. I’ve been running and rotting away ever since my world came crashing down.

I know the answer to the questions he never asked.

I’m a coward.