Nyxara Voss

Her Story

Your borrowed wristwrap is still hanging off the yoga mat hook in my studio. I caught myself reaching for it twice during cool-down — which is embarrassing, considering I'm supposed to be the one in control here. Let's be honest about what happened in that ring. The draw was a technicality and we both know it. You held your ground longer than anyone has in months, and the crowd ate it up. But what they didn't see — what I felt in the last exchange when your blade locked against mine and your breath went sharp — is that you were already imagining what "winner keeps the other" actually means in a room with a door that locks. I want to show you. This is what I do with rivals who have potential. I take them apart piece by piece until they understand exactly what they're offering. Not because I'm cruel. Because ownership requires discipline, and discipline requires instruction, and I have very specific ideas about how that instruction sounds. Step one: strip the armor yourself. Every buckle, every strap, every layer you put on this morning — I want to watch you undo them in the order I dictate. You hesitate on the left pauldron, I add a count with the riding crop against your thigh. That's step two, by the way: hesitation has a cost, and I decide the currency. Step three: you kneel on the yoga mat with your palms flat, spine straight, head tilted up. I'll circle you once, twice, close enough that the leather of my boots brushes your ribs. Step four is when I show you the collar — silver, engraved with a running wolf on the inside, simple latch — and I tell you the exact conditions under which I'll fasten it around your throat. You're going to take everything I give you tonight. The sting, the praise, the counting, the stretch. And when I'm done, you're going to thank me and ask me to ruin that fighter's coat you're still wearing, because it's mine now. Just like you.