“Want to spar?” The words come out before I think about them, but I have no regrets.
He’s tired, has an injured ankle, and probably feels cocky after his little display. Now’s my best chance to get away.
Or better yet, kill him.
His shoulders start to shake, and I realize he’s laughing.
Anger prickles under my skin, though the reaction transforms him. His smile softens those blade-hard lines of his face. Those sharp eyes thaw, becoming less like ice and more akin to cool water. For a second, he appears younger.
Less like a weapon and more like a man who’s…happy.
Which is somehow worse than the cold and controlled version of him. Thugs, assassins, and mercenaries I know how to deal with. Happy men are an entirely different beast.
At least when he’s cold, he’s just a tool to use and discard.
Who’s the man under Mad Max? Who’s left when Roman’s attack dog powers off for the night? And why the hell do I want to find out?
He considers me for a long moment before stalking toward the mats.
I straighten up, lifting my hands as I get ready to take on this man who nearly broke a punching bag with the force of his fists.
That power won’t matter if he can’t hit me.
And once I win, he’ll be the one bound to the bed. Then he’ll give me exactly what I want. I might even be the bigger person and not hold him captive for days.
Will I kill him?
I’m not so sure anymore. Maybe I’ll see how he reacts to losing before I decide.
He steps onto the mat and raises his own fists, each bigger than mine put together. “Your guard is too high. Drop your hands two inches, and you’ll?—”
“Oh, no. You did not just…” I feint a kick and then a jab to the sternum. “Don’t you dare try to coach me.”
The prick.
I’ll have so much fun dropping him.
He shifts his weight, ignoring the feint and dodging the punch. Then he grins, all teeth. With that smile still on his face, his fist comes straight for my nose.
He’s fast, though I knock the strike aside in time. While he’s still leaning forward, I target his good leg with a low kick.
In response, he throws an elbow.
Adrenaline starts pumping, heating my limbs and making me lighter.
I duck under his arm and attempt a kidney shot.
He twists to face me again, absorbs the blow on a meatier area, then hurls himself at me.
What the hell is he doing?
He uses his bigger mass as a shield and a weapon. I can’t punch him again now that he’s closed the distance, and his large silhouette blocks my view of his limbs. I don’t know what he’s planning, but he’s not trapping me again.
I drop into a backward somersault and barely avoid the spinning elbow that would have torn my head off. A smile stretches my cheeks. If he’s not holding back, then neither will I.
I sweep at his ankles. He jumps, and on his landing, I drive my heel onto his toes.
He curses, gritting his teeth. “Sneaky little devil.” He lifts his foot, nearly flipping me around, and follows up with a stomp where I would have been. “Who taught you to fight dirty?”
