He had stripped his shirt off, leaving him in black cargo pants. He had also removed his boots and her gaze was drawn to his feet. They were the same as his hands, big and strong. Bone allowed her gaze to travel up, over long legs she knew were thick with muscle and then up over his trim waist. There was a large scar along his abdomen. It wrapped from his navel toward his back as if he’d been almost cut in half. The muscles of his abdomen rippled and flowed into chest draped in more heavy muscle. His shoulders were wide enough to carry the weight of her world.
She wouldn’t allow him to bear that weight.
She noticed the bandage on his left shoulder and thought perhaps it was good she’d killed Azrael.
“Do not call me Etzem,” she said in a tight voice.
“Ah yes, things have changed since San Sebastian. What should I call you then?” he asked, arms at his sides, hands loose. His stance indicated he wasn’t worried. His face though was shut down, devoid of all emotion.
It was the reminder she needed that she faced a killer much as herself, one with a conscience.
“Ubiytsa is fine.”
“You speak my native tongue as if you were born there,” he told her.
Was he trying to distract her from her rage? She almost laughed. There was no escape from the hallowed embrace of that emotion.
“Did you hear me, ubiytsa?” he asked calmly.
Ninka’s language had always brought Bone a measure of peace. She had learned it first. Then Japanese, Gaelic, French, Arabic, Portuguese, and Spanish. Russian came as easy to Bone as breathing when she was with Dmitry.
She shrugged. “I speak many languages as if I were born in the country of origin. Another talent of mine Joseph made sure to hone. I have an ear for inflection.”
As she waited on his next move Bone catalogued her surroundings. A fifty by fifty foot mat covered the floor right in the middle of the room. The ropes dangled at each corner and she smiled, let the demon loose to flow and ride the blood in her body, bringing heat and hate to every molecule of her being.
He cocked his head. “I will not call you killer. Not here.”
“But you already have and I suspect it’s because you understand the truth. A killer is all that I am. Taking life is all that I know.”
“I disagree. There is more to you. I have felt it. I have tasted it. But you need the fight, so let’s fight.”
“I know who trained you,” she admitted casually, stepping onto the mat he stood in the middle of.
The lighting in the room was low, but it did not matter. She had been trained in the dark, in the light and every nuance in between.
He nodded. “I suspect you know much about me that I don’t know about you. One day soon we will talk about it all, da?”
“I killed Abela when I was nine years old,” she told him.
His reaction surprised her. He clapped. It was a taunt. “I heard he was killed by a student and once I knew about you I wondered. You move like him but lighter, faster. You are also emotionless, which is something he prized in his students. He was an evil man.”
“I wrenched his head from his body and took it back to Joseph. Abela was vain. He thought no one was as good at killing as he. Unfortunately, his student had become his teacher.” Bone sighed, letting it flow through her body and out her mouth. “I have known nothing but the fight for too many years to count. I have ended more life than you can imagine and you want to fight with me?” She snorted delicately.
“I would rather we spar but you seem determined to talk me to death. I came prepared for your best. Shall we?”
He took two steps and was in her space, breathing down her neck. The T-shirt she wore was no match for the heat he generated. It slithered down her neck, pebbled her nipples and sank under her skin. She shoved her reaction aside.
“We will dance. Are you strong enough to stop me from killing you?” she asked mildly. She wanted to applaud her restraint but could not move, strangely frozen by his warmth, by how he made her feel.
“Let us see.”
She flexed her hands and struck between one breath and the next, striking him in his injured shoulder with her open palm and curving around his body to stand behind him. He went to a knee at her punch, caught his breath and turned in less time than it took for her to blink.
He was good. Controlled enough to take the pain and remain composed so as not to strike out in fear or rage.
“Abela taught me how to channel my rage, but I fear here with you, I am out of control,” she mused, more to herself than him. She was afraid she would damage him even as she refused to acknowledge how much it would hurt her to do so.
He turned and swept out with his foot. Bone jumped and avoided the move with ease. As soon as her feet touched the mat, he was on her, striking everywhere—head, neck, abdomen, legs. She blocked his blows and turned many right back on him.
He was pulling punches and it pissed her off. She grabbed his left arm and twisted, sliding under it before pulling up and back. He grunted but turned into her hold, breaking it.
He rushed her, taking her down with sheer brute force, the same technique he’d used in St. Petersburg, but she slithered out of his hold and kicked him in the side. He rolled with her kick and came to his haunches. She stood five feet away and began walking in a circle around him. He didn’t try to follow her with his eyes and she admired his strength. Most men would be desperate to keep her in their sight.