Page 25 of The Masks We Burn
Orlov Association, as my mother deduced after inspecting the long ass NDA, is just an Elite Amateur MMA club for the wealthy. It’sasecretto make it seem fancier, and held in a nice place like this so they reel in more money. And I’m not gonna lie, standing in this building, surrounded by these types of spectators, is really a vibe. I feel much more important than I should, and for the first time, I actually feel a bit of nervousness creeping into my muscles.
And the moment I acknowledge the butterflies, I fall.
The intrusive thoughts of being on the field under bright lights, wrapped in heat, surrounded my muffled voices, and staring through my helmet barrel in. I try to take a breath, but it isn’t enough, and my lungs squeeze beneath my ribs. An ache pulsates in my knee and the mass of people around become loud, screaming spectators. A dizziness overtakes me with the lack of oxygen and in seconds, I feel myself plummeting.
Ground yourself, son. You have to find something to tie you down so you’re not spinning. When you find it, don’t focus on anything but that.
I try to listen to one of many speeches my father gave me when I spiraled. But I’m in a roomful of strangers, and there’s nothing… no one.
My vision blurs under the dim light as I desperately scan over the crowd for an anchor and a hue of pink catches my eye. The moment I see her, my lungs fill with the perfumed air, burning my esophagus, but I don’t care. I can breathe. I focus only on her, taking in every last detail, until the light in the room slowly expands.
She’s flawless. A black dress clings to her long body, the front cutting so deep it reaches her navel, exposing the sides of her breasts. Two long slits run down each thigh and pool slightly on the floor next to insanely high heels. My mind memorizes the three freckles under her left breast and the black wings just barely visible through one of the slits near her groin.
Absentmindedly, I run a hand over the butterflies covering my own arm as I readjust my bag, taking another breath, and letting my pulse return to normal. It only takes a minute before the crowd is gone, the screams turn to casual chatter, and the grass disappears into marble tile.
Then Amora’s eyes find me. I don’t miss the fraction of a second they light up at my grin, and with all the hostility woven between us, it’s nice for her to be happy to see me, even if it’s only for a second.
She excuses herself from the couple she was speaking with and winds through the few people and stops a foot in front of me. Holding a microscopic purse in one hand, and playing with the dainty necklace around her throat with the other, her eyes take me in. With the moment of nerves forgotten, I take in the way she has her hair. She’s worn it up plenty of times, but with the way she’s got it styled now I hadn’t noticed how…tempting her neck is.
Amora lets a cocky little grin grace her lips as she tilts her head. “Eyes up here, chief. You ready?”
My brows lift in mock confusion, and I clear my throat. “I haven’t the faintest clue what you’re talking about.”
She huffs, drawing my attention to a loose strand curling around her face. “After our conversation, I called my dad. He made his own daughter sign a damn NDA before he would tell me anything, but I did and here we are.”
She’s irritated he made her do that. It’s written all over her scrunched-up features, and I hate I can’t offer any kind words to relieve her anger. Her relationship with her family is all hidden secrets and closed mouths while mine is based on open communication and support. I can only imagine it’s hard living in that type of situation, because I for one, wouldn’t make it without my people.
“Besides.” She brings me back to her as she adjusts the stray hair. “This is my payback for you making me coffee.”
“By coming to a fight?”
A sweet giggle takes me back as she glances over my shoulder. “Yes. It’s called support. And since no one else knows about the damn place, what better person than your fiancée.”
“Exactly. Myfiancée. You’re supposed to come to these things.”
“Fakefiancée,” Amora corrects, looping an arm around mine and turns us both toward a roped-off hallway.
The initial contact is surprising, but definitely the good kind. Her skin is soft as fuck, and I draw my arm closer to my body to press us together. She either doesn’t notice, or maybe doesn’t care and walks toward the security guard standing in front of the rope. He’s about six-two with black eyes, and has to be pushing three hundred pounds. It must be the fighters’ entrance John told me about.
“Cassidy?” he questions, peering down at an iPad.
I nod and he glances at Amora. “No guests.”
“She’s not—”
“I’m his fiancée. AmoraOrlov.”
The man’s eyes widen for a brief second before he unlatches the barricade and lets us through. “Room 932, code is your birthday. Someone will get you when it’s time.”
“Thank you,” Amora replies before I can and tugs me down the hall where elevators line the walls.
With her skyscraper heels, we’re nearly eye-level and when she turns to look at me, I allow my gaze to dive into hers. There’re light and dark hues in her irises. They resemble a freshly filled pool in the middle of summer. The one where the surface glistens, and all you want to do is dive in and feel the coolness on your skin.
I wonder what it would be like to dive into her. Just once.
My gaze flits to her red lips, and I speak before I think. “Let’s make a bet.”
Her fan of dark lashes flutter but she doesn’t look away from my mouth, a challenge in those damn eyes I’m starting to like. “And what will I win?”
