“I would say your control is a thing of beauty.” He was barely winded.
But barely was enough and her rage knew it.
“You haven’t offered up much of a fight. I need more,” she bit out.
“I’m afraid I will hurt you, and that is something I find myself surprised I cannot do. It is the only thing that saves you, I fear.”
She laughed. Threw back her head and laughed, the sound hollow and ringing through the room. “What does it save me from?”
His face hardened, the blue of his eyes darkening to a storm-tossed sea. “Me taking you to this mat and fucking you until you can’t breathe, and I no longer crave the feel of you wrapped around my cock.”
Her heart knocked against her lungs begging for her breath back. There was nothing she could say—both her mind and body numb at the thought of him doing just that.
“You should hate me,” she whispered.
“It hasn’t happened yet, and believe me, I’ve tried. But maybe I can make you hate me enough that it’s no longer an issue,” he responded.
The heat in his voice singed her.
“You will hate me,” she assured him.
He inclined his head and the sadness of the gesture chased the numbness and replaced it with…pain.
Two more men entered from another door, and then there were three men to her one. She’d seen them in the courtyard earlier. They were part of Raines’ team and by the looks on their faces did not find her diminutive form a threat at all. This was his play then.
As the numbness had disappeared, so too did the pain. Red hazed her vision and she breathed through it, controlling the deceptive pull of the hate, making it hers thus making it a weapon.
“You cannot hurt me but you will let others?” she taunted him. “So much for your truth.”
He cocked his head and sighed. “I do not like the thought of anyone touching you—that was my truth. But you need a fight I can’t give you at the moment. Besides, they will be easy pickings for you, ubiytsa. They are here to tire you out for my grand finale.”
Killer, he called her. She sank low, her stance solid and balanced, one foot slightly in front of the other, both knees bent. Bone closed her eyes and waited, giving over to the rage.
She closed her eyes. “Let us do this.”
They struck as a coordinated unit and she ducked low, avoiding each of them as she turned and punched one in the head and the other in the side. Both men grunted and fell but got up immediately. They rushed at her again and it was more of the same, a punch, a kick, and she was back in the forest outside of Vadim Yesipov’s mansion, craving death and needing the release.
She turned her mind off and kept her eyes closed. Bone opened her ears and her mind, drilling past the obvious noises of feet over rubber. She allowed the beat of their hearts and their breathing to reverberate in her ears. So many times she had faced opponents. So many times she killed. The lust rose and ebbed, a black wave pulling her under. Soon she would not be able to stop.
She followed their footsteps, all the time aware of exactly where Dmitry was in the room. He became her anchor and it was unacceptable. She stilled, took a deep breath and centered herself.
She didn’t need an anchor. She had her hate and in the times when she couldn’t handle the fires of her hate, she had her sisters.
Her senses flared out. The men hadn’t feared her when they’d walked in but now the room was permeated with their sweat and panic. She reveled in it.
Bone tossed one man in a classic Judo throw and followed him down, pulling her punch before she crushed his windpipe. She didn’t know what held her hand—maybe it was the subtle scent of juniper and pine entwined with her quarry’s fear that stopped her. The second man took advantage of her stillness, grabbing her around the neck and pulling her to her back. He wrapped his legs around her waist, but her arms were there so she was able to leverage and twist, gaining his top and punching him in the head, in the chest and capturing his hand, crushing the bones with ease. He screamed and tried to push her off.
The first man punched her in the side of the head and she rolled, taking the blow and coming to her feet for a split second before she pirouetted in the air and took him down with a single kick to the side of his face. He spun and fell, out cold while the first scrambled away from her, terror on his face as he tried to ward her off with his good hand.
Then Dmitry was there, wrapping her in a bear hug similar to what he’d done of the roof in St. Petersburg. She went limp and the demon inside scratched at her mind.
“Stop,” he urged in a gruff voice.
She hung there in his arms, the rage spiraling. “Fight me, goddamn it!”
“I will not. I cannot do this with you, Bone. Do not ask it of me. You are tearing yourself to pieces,” he said and in his voice was a struggle.
“It is all I know, Asinimov. Please do not do this to me.”