SICK HEART Read online

  Contents

  SICK HEART

  DESCRIPTION

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE - ANYA

  CHAPTER TWO - CORT

  CHAPTER THREE - ANYA

  CHAPTER FOUR - CORT

  CHAPTER FIVE - ANYA

  CHAPTER SIX - CORT

  CHAPTER SEVEN - ANYA

  CHAPTER EIGHT - CORT

  CHAPTER NINE - ANYA

  CHAPTER TEN - CORT

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - ANYA

  CHAPTER TWELVE - CORT

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - ANYA

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - CORT

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - ANYA

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN - CORT

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - ANYA

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - CORT

  CHAPTER NINETEEN - ANYA

  CHAPTER TWENTY - CORT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - ANYA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - CORT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - ANYA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - CORT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - ANYA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - CORT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - ANYA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - CORT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - ANYA

  CHAPTER THIRTY - CORT

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE - ANYA

  CHAPTER THIRTY - TWO - CORT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - ANYA

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - CORT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE - ANYA

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX - CORT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN - ANYA

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT - CORT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE - ANYA

  EPILOGUE - CORT

  END OF BOOK SHIT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SICK HEART

  Edited by RJ Locksley

  Cover Design by JA Huss

  Cover Photo: Sara Eirew

  Copyright © 2021 by JA Huss

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-978-1-950232-62-8

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  DESCRIPTION

  Cort van Breda has won 35 death matches as a fighter in an MMA circuit so deep underground there are no rules and only the winner gets out alive.

  They call him the Sick Heart.

  They say he’s a shameless monster.

  They say he’s a ruthless killer.

  They say he’s as twisted as the man who owns him.

  They say a lot of things about Cort van Breda.

  But in our world violence is money, and money is winning, and winning is life, and life is the only thing that matters.

  Except… he wasn’t meant to win that last fight.

  And I wasn’t meant to be his prize.

  But he did.

  And I am.

  And now his sick heart owns me.

  WARNING: This is a sweet love story adrift in an ocean of evil. It is about two survivors dealing with their darkest secrets while they fight to change their lives. It is for mature readers only and has descriptions of deeply disturbing situations. There will be pearl clutching.

  DEDICATION

  This book is for us.

  The survivors.

  Never let them shame you into silence.

  And never, ever, apologize for winning.

  CHAPTER ONE - ANYA

  Cort van Breda’s body conjures up images of sculpted marble, the pages of a master’s sketchbook, or the god Adonis come to life.

  Eyes are drawn to him and once your gaze lands, it’s caught. Like a prisoner. He is a cage with steel bars and bulky locks with large keyholes.

  His dark hair is cropped short, but he runs his hand over his skull like maybe just yesterday there was something there. Something to feel that has since been removed. He pauses for a moment, taking in the ship and the people around him. This gives the reporters an opportunity to swoop in, but one of his entourage pushes the people back with force. And even though I can’t hear what he’s saying, I read his lips.

  “Get back! Get the fuck back!” He’s pushing them. Hard. Making a scene.

  But it works, because Cort is ushered into a cleared area by some mercenary types and I get an even better look at him as he’s led down the stairs closest to me. No shirt, so I can see the dozens of tattoos on his upper body with perfect clarity as he walks towards the command center.

  He looks over his shoulder, down the main deck of the ship. His father’s ship, so he’s probably been here many times. His expression is flat and unreadable and if I were pressed to pin an emotion on him, I would call him indifferent. Maybe even apathetic.

  I’m six stories up in the reception room above the command center. Which is not that close, so maybe I’m wrong.

  But I doubt it.

  I’m very skilled at reading men.

  I’ve read up on Cort van Breda. He’s the reigning superstar of the underground fighting ring my father and his ilk are obsessed with. Cort was on the cover of Ring of Fire three months ago when this match was announced, and after my father was done with the magazine, and I was sure he wouldn’t notice that it went missing, I took it and read every word about the man they call Sick Heart.

  He’s ruthless, they say. Undefeated for the past twenty-two years, which is almost unheard of in this world we live in. He has won every fight they’ve put him in since he was placed in his first fight-to-the-death match at age five.

  There are no real records of those fights. No vids or even an article. Five-year-old fighters aren’t newsworthy. They almost never turn into a Sick Heart. But I wish there were. I would like to see those fights. My mind begins to picture this man as a boy, all those years ago, and all the things he’s had to do to stay alive since then.

  I quickly rein those thoughts in. There is no point.

  He is six foot two, a hundred and seventy-five pounds, and covered in tattoos. The Ring of Fire article was obsessed with his body art and so am I.

  Skulls. He is partial to skulls. And each one—if the rumors are true—represents someone he’s killed. He didn’t admit that in the article, of course, so it’s just a rumor. But there are rumors and then there are reputations. Cort van Breda, the Sick Heart, is more of a reputation guy at this point in time, so even if you’ve never seen him fight it’s not hard to imagine that the rumor might be true.

  His eyes in the photographs I studied were a deep, soulful, silver-gray and when his gaze wanders up the side of the command center it feels like they land right on me.

  I take a quick step back from the window. I don’t want his attention. No one in their right mind wants his attention. Men like him—men who fight in these fights—they don’t make it to twenty-seven years old still psychologically intact.

  It’s not even remotely possible that Cort van Breda is sane.

  The article didn’t mention much about his personal life. Didn’t say anything about his wives or where he lives. Didn’t give anything up about his hobbies or interests. In fact, it talked more about the entourage of friends following him down on the deck right now than it did him.

  Two are not fighters themselves, but trainers in Cort’s camp. All the Ring of Fire fighters run training centers. It’s the only way to keep these fights going because there is a dead body at the end of every match.

  These men, they only exist to kill one another.

  This is Cort’s last fight. I overheard my father saying so a few weeks back and Cort is not the favorite tonight. He’s been around too long and at twenty-seven, he’s two years older than his opponent, Pavo.

  That’s two additional years of abuse.

  Two additional years of hardcore train
ing. The type of training that breaks a body down quicker and quicker with each passing year.

  Two years is a big deal in the ring. Cort has had at least a dozen more fights than his opponent tonight and in this world, too much experience is a liability.

  The article was mostly the rules tonight, the opponent, the prize, and, of course, the ring.

  There are no rules. It’s fight to the death by any means possible.

  The opponent is Pavo Vervonal. A ruthless man I’ve known my whole life because my father owns him and the training center he runs.

  The prize is complicated. As is the ring. Because it’s not a ring at all, it’s a ship. These fights never take place in a gym or an event center. That’s far too dull and banal for the people who run my world. They need drama. They thrive on it.

  The ship, called the Bull of Light, is definitely dramatic. It is a massive, floating oil-rig installation vessel currently carrying a fully-assembled five-story oil rig that will be carefully placed on a platform in the Gulf of Mexico sometime next week, but for now is being used as a hotel for over a hundred and fifty invited guests.

  We’re in the South Atlantic, somewhere between Vila dos Remédios and French Guiana. My family arrived yesterday. Pavo, the Sick Heart’s opponent, is… family, for lack of a better word. He needed time to acclimate to the sea because he trains in Thailand so we came early.

  I guess Cort van Breda didn’t feel the need for the same consideration because the fight is tonight and he, obviously, just got here.

  The ship is not just the ring, but also the prize. Part of it, at least.

  Cort’s father—for lack of a better word—is Udulf van Hauten. He currently owns an eighty-one-percent controlling interest in this massive two-point-eight-billion-dollar ship. But if Pavo wins tonight, my father will knock him down to forty-nine percent and the majority of the ship’s profits will change hands.

  The prize is as complicated as the ring. Because if Pavo loses, I will change hands as well.

  I wonder what the Sick Heart thinks about that?

  I take a quick step towards the window again so I can watch him as he approaches the command center. And just before he disappears inside, he looks up and pauses. Watching me watch him.

  Then his friend pushes him inside and he disappears.

  I walk over to one of the overstuffed leather couches and take a seat. It’s nice and cool up here in the reception room. Almost chilly, since I’m the only one here. But I enjoy it while it lasts. It’s sticky hot outside and later tonight, after the fight is over, all the important people will be up here for the celebration and I will have forgotten all about what it feels like to sit in cool comfort, alone and unbothered.

  And just as those thoughts manifest in my head, right on cue, the door flies open with a bang and Bexxie, my nine-year-old sister—for lack of a better word—comes racing in squealing with delight.

  “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. OMG. OMG. OMGeeeeeeeee! Did you see him?” She places a hand over her heart and sighs. “Ahhhhhhh. I’m dead. Dead, Anya. Were you looking?”

  I nod at her.

  “Of course you were looking.” She giggles. “You should’ve seen the lady crew from the laundry. They were all dy-ing. Dying, Anya! Falling over dead. He’s so gorgeous. Don’t you think?”

  I, of course, do not answer her. But someone else does.

  “No.”

  Bexxie and I both turn towards the door to find Pavo walking in to the reception room. He’s looking very put-together. Short-sleeved collared shirt, dark, pressed jeans, mahogany hair slicked back. He even smells good.

  He walks over to me, extends his hand, and pulls me to my feet. He spins me around, leans his mouth in to my neck, and whispers, “Do you find him pretty, Anya? Are your panties wet for him?”

  I roll my eyes.

  Bexxie makes a face. “You’re gross, Pavo. You should not talk to us like that.”

  Pavo laughs. “Get the fuck out of here, you little baby brat. I need some time alone with your sister.”

  “She doesn’t like you.” Bexxie sneers at him. “In fact, she hates you.”

  “Doesn’t matter, does it?” Pavo licks my ear. Bexxie and I both make a face. But I don’t move and neither does she. “It doesn’t matter if you like me, does it, Anya? Because after I win this fight tonight, you’re mine. Forever.”

  Bexxie frowns. “She’s not yours. And you’re not going to win. Cort is.”

  Pavo pushes me off him and crosses the distance to Bexxie in an instant. Her face is red from the slap before I can even move to stop him. “Shut up, you little whore. Go find your stupid daddy. Anya is mine.”

  Bexxie—not the kind of girl who can be deterred by a single slap—plants her hands on her hips and tips her chin up. “No. You go find my stupid daddy. And make sure you tell him you called him stupid. Because I will if you don’t.” She points to her cheek. “I hope it’s nice and red. So when he asks, ‘My dearest Bexxie, why is your cheek red?’ I will say, ‘Fucking Pavo did it because I told him he was going to lose and Anya would never have to let him lick her ear again!’” She screams this. Then makes a face and shivers. “Girls don’t like ear-licking, Pavo. Even a child knows that.”

  I love her. I really do. She is the very best thing about my life. But Pavo is just like any other fighter in the Ring of Fire circuit.

  Ruthless.

  Violent.

  Intolerant.

  Insane.

  He grabs her by the hair and drags her through the open door. My mind follows the sound of their feet stomping on the metal stairs as they descend. Then Bexxie is screaming and wailing and I know she is putting up a fight.

  I let out a long sigh and sit back down on the couch.

  Less than a minute later Pavo is back. He slams the door closed as he enters and the banging echoes off the high ceiling of the large room. “She is a stupid little whore. Stupid. Fucking. Whore.”

  I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say anyway. Pavo will rant no matter what I do. And even though I’m ninety-nine percent sure that Father won’t beat Bexxie over this, it still makes me mad that Pavo caused a scene.

  I don’t like scenes. I like calm.

  “You are mine, Anya. You know that, right? When I win tonight, you will be mine. That’s my prize. Your father can have control over this stupid ship. I don’t want it. I will take you back to Thailand and you will never see that stupid bitch of a sister again. Do you hear me?”

  Of course I hear him. He’s yelling in a reception hall that echoes.

  The door bangs open again and both Pavo and I startle and turn.

  “Oh, hey,” the man says with a broad smile. He’s one of Cort’s friends. The inner circle entourage people. Maart, if I remember his name correctly from the Ring of Fire article.

  But then he’s pushed out of the way by…

  I stop breathing.

  Cort van Breda’s steel-gray eyes find mine, but he looks away, searching the room. Then, without comment, he turns towards the bar at the far end and starts walking that way.

  Pavo and I are silent as Cort reaches for a bottle of electric-blue liquid on the top shelf. But then Pavo snaps out of it. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You can’t take that. It is Bokori.”

  He’s referring to the bottle of Lectra in Cort’s hand. And Pavo is right. Cort is insane if he thinks he can just walk in here and steal a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of Lectra. Since Cort’s father is the host tonight, the rest of the families have to bring gifts. This bottle is the Bokori family party favor. It goes to the winner. And clearly, there is no winner yet so…

  “Did you hear what I just said?” Pavo is crossing the room. “You can’t fucking take that!”

  “Listen,” Maart says calmly from his position by the door. “You can argue with him all you want, but he’s taking the fuckin’ bottle. If you want to have your fight, right here, right now, well, I’m pretty sure that’s not gonna go over well with the hundred and fif
ty VIP’s currently placing bets in the topside mess hall. So you should maybe shut the fuck up and back off before he and I kill you and put an end to this night before it starts.”

  My mouth makes a little o shape. And then I laugh. I can’t help it. This is the first truly funny thing I’ve witnessed in a very long time.

  Pavo is speechless. First, my bratty nine-year-old sister yanks his chain. Now, his current mortal enemy is stealing something precious—something he very much thinks is his—and there’s nothing he can do about it.

  Cort turns and heads back towards his friend at the door. But his eyes narrow down into slits as he passes me. I meet his gaze and realize… he is everything they say about him.

  Ruthless.

  Violent.

  Intolerant.

  Insane.

  Just like every other fighter in the Ring of Fire.

  But I drop my eyes quickly and then get a good, long look at those skulls on his body.

  This is the moment when I believe the rumors.

  This is the moment when his reputation sinks in.

  This is the moment I know in my heart he is sick.

  He has won thirty-five Ring of Fire death matches.

  This does not include all the people he fought on his way up as a child.

  Because there are a lot more than thirty-five skulls on his body.

  A lot more.

  When I look up again his steel-gray eyes find mine.

  And I feel like his next victim.

  CHAPTER TWO - CORT

  Hot.

  Everything about this day is just fuckin’ hot. So before I even get out of the helicopter, I take my shirt off and throw it aside.

  We exit, Maart first, so he can speak for me. His loose button-down shirt flaps in the vortex of wind created by the propellers. His slicked-back hair barely moves, and even though this day will turn into something shitty and dark no matter how it ends, I take a moment to internally grin as I admire Maart’s commitment to his fucking hair.

  Evard and I jump out next. He’s nervous, I can tell. But he’s still very young and those nerves are for me, so I don’t complain or poke him when he presses too close.