“I heard stories about a sweet little girl. Just look at you now, Nika. All grown up.” I don’t understand why the nickname rolls off my tongue so easily, but I roll with it.
I dodge a flurry of kicks as she lurches and slips along the roof of the vehicle next to mine.
All I can do is duck and weave until I’m finally out of reach of those long legs, and she slides to the floor.
I studied that video for hours, listening to her voice, watching every change of expression. From the way her mood shifted on a dime, I viewed her as psychotic.
Now, staring at the woman who orchestrated this entire mess—her focused gaze, her deadly aim—I wonder if every second was a performance.
“The locket.” Just like in the video, ice laces her tone. “Give it to me.”
Who the fuck does she think she is?
Just because the Pakhan—a devoted and destroyed father—listened to her demands doesn’t mean I will.
That’s why I’m the perfect man for this job.
Not because I will blindly do Roman’s bidding, but because I’ll protect him from himself and his own shattered feelings if necessary.
I switched off my emotions decades ago. I won’t weaken in the face of a woman’s wiles.
I open my mouth, debating what to say. She advances before I make up my mind.
Fast.
My adrenaline spikes, tingling in my limbs and sharpening my concentration. Her roundhouse kick streaks for my ribs in a blur of motion.
I raise my arm to block, but she adjusts mid-strike. Swiveling at the knee, her leg swings up and connects with my shoulder instead. Without my evasive tactic, she would have nailed me in the head.
I absorb the hit, drop my pack, and use the momentum to gain distance. Almost as if she’s reading my mind, she intercepts me. I lurch toward a nearby rusted-out pickup truck, attempting to put a metal barrier between us. She reaches my destination before I do.
How the hell is she this quick?
My hand smacks the truck’s hood as I pivot. A second later, she’s on me, her fist flying at my face.
I duck and throw a low punch at her stomach. Air whizzes over my head, ruffling my hair.
She twists to take the blow on her upper hip rather than center mass. There’s no softness, only hard muscle.
Her smooth, economical movements suggest years of training. Of perfecting violence.
She’s good.
Facing off with someone who’s close to my league really gets my blood pumping.
I feint left, then go right, aiming a jab at her jaw. She evades and counters with a blow to my throat that grazes her knuckles across my Adam’s apple.
Too close. Way too close.
Impressive, Nika.
I grab for her wrist, catch bone, and twist.
Her body follows the motion. Using my own leverage against me, she spins in instead of away. A second later, her elbow comes up, pointed at my face.
I parry with my forearm, pain jarring up to my shoulder as I shove her back. She stumbles just long enough for me to seize the advantage and slam into her.
We hit a concrete pillar, with her back suffering the bulk of the impact. The air blasts from her lungs in a loudoof.
