Understanding dawned. This partner thing wasn’t about capability to him. It was about vulnerability. “I think you’re going soft in your old age.”
He wasn’t baited. “Call it whatever you want.”
“Okay. I’m calling it a pain in my ass. You’re not my father, Raphael.”
“No, but I hope I’m your friend.”
Damn him. He was always doing this kind of shit to her. His kind, truthful words making her flinch. Making her belly go kind soft. Okay, fine. She knew she could be difficult.
She was aloof. Aggressive. And prickly.
A genuine bitch.
But she deeply valued the few people she allowed past her barriers. Like The Six. And this awesome leader of the Pantera. The male who’d found her, freed her.
“Of course you are,” she said, chewing her lip. “Course you’re a friend.” Jeez.
He folded his arms over his chest, giving a faint shake of his head. “When I asked you to be a part of the Pantera Security League, I hoped that it would give your life a sense of purpose.”
“It has.”
He acted as if he didn’t hear her. “But I didn’t count on the fact that your work would isolate you even more.”
“I’m not isolated,” she protested. And she wasn’t. She spent most of her time in big cities, trolling the streets for information that couldn’t be found by more formal techniques. It was amazing what she could learn, shit that was just floating along in the sewers of humanity.
Raphael wasn’t fooled by her flippant response.
“Oh yeah? When was the last time you spent more than an hour or two with your friends?” he challenged. “Or taken a lover?”
She sucked in a harsh breath, holding up her hand. “Cerviel’s bullshit has rubbed off on you. Clearly.”
“I’m deadly serious.”
“So am I. And grossed out. You might want to check yourself.” Okay, so maybe he was kind of a father figure, after all.
“This isn’t about mating,” he pressed. “This is about connection. With anyone or anything.”
“Okay, this conversation is over.”
Raphael ignored the prickle of warning in the air. Typical. “Because you don’t like the questions,” he bit back.
“No, Raphael,” she said tightly and pointedly. “Because who I do or don’t have in my bed is none of your damned business.”
He stared at her, eyes narrowed, silent as the grave. Waiting for more. Waiting for her to cave.
“Christ.” Elyon spun on her heel and started away, from the water, safe house, and him. “I’m out of here. I have explosives to prep, and an asset to retrieve.”
“Be careful, Elyon,” Raphael called after her. “I’m here if you need me.”
Please. She didn’t need anyone. Not that she was going to turn around and tell him that because weapons prep was a helluva lot more interesting than standing around defending her capabilities or chitchatting about connection or who she was or wasn’t boning.
As she moved farther away from the border, and her overly concerned mentor, her cat snarled with caged frustration inside her chest.
CHAPTER 2
Brewing coffee.
Steaming garbage.
Sizzling meat.
New York City, baby. Elyon grinned as she moved down the street, her long legs eating up the stained pavement. It was just after seven o’clock. Darkness had fallen over the Lower East Side, but the lights from the various bars and restaurants spilled out onto the sidewalk.
Dressed in a black leather jacket that hit her at the waist, skintight spandex pants, and heavy shitkickers, Elyon ignored the lingering stares from both men and women. She was single-minded now, utterly focused. Turning into a narrow alleyway, and only pausing long enough to stuff her small backpack into a dumpster. A bag that contained a hotel key card and enough explosives to take out the nearby brick building.
She grinned. She was definitely a female who liked to be prepared.
And hey, if she couldn’t get her target? Same rules apply. She’d be forced to turn the place to rubble.
Not to mention, destroy anyone inside.
Once satisfied the bag was hidden beneath a layer of trash, she circled back to the front door and headed inside the restaurant. Instantly she was assaulted by the smell of meat, onions, and roasted beets. In the center of the dimly lit space there were a half dozen tables, all occupied by older men and women, large plates of stroganoff or bowls of borscht spread out before them. Immigrants who occasionally sought a taste of home? she wondered. Or paid shills who kept both an eye out and shit looking real.
She sniffed. Maybe a mixture of both.
She’d see soon enough, if anyone tried to stop her from…exploring further.
Her gaze searched the shabby interior, finally landing on a black curtain in the far back, opposite the kitchen. Feeling the eyes of the patrons clinging to her, she headed straight for it, ready to answer any questions with her fists, or her knees, or her foot. Her smile widened as she pushed past the curtain. The right one had been known to break multiple bones.
And the occasional boner.
But surprisingly, no one stopped her. Behind the black fabric, she found a narrow hallway, lit with the same god-awful florescent crap you’d find in an elementary school. Moving with a lazy grace, she crossed the cracked linoleum floor and turned right into another hallway that led to a narrow flight of stairs going up. The smells of food receded and were instantly replaced by the scents of a gym. Rubber mats, disinfectant, and sweat.
Bingo.
The lighting sucked the farther away from the restaurant she went. Only a bare lightbulb that did a piss-poor job of battling the thick shadows. Something that might have been dangerous if she didn’t have her cat senses. As it was, she could easily see the man approaching her through the gloom.
As if his heavy steps and rank stench of vodka hadn’t warned her first.
The stranger was a large beast. He had at least six inches on her, which was saying something, with powerful, broad shoulders. His dark hair was cropped into a military flat-top and his features were bluntly cut, with pale eyes.
He was wearing a pair of camo pants and a white ribbed tank top, and he had that expression that said, I’m either going to kill you or eat you.
Poser.
And so boringly predictable.
She headed for the stairs, already prepared for Mr. Meathead to get in her face or grab her arm.
“Hang on, sweetheart,” he growled, doing both. “Where do you think you’re going?”
She arched a brow, then glanced down at the thick fingers that circled her arm. Another asshole thinking it was okay to get in a female’s personal space. As she glanced back up, making a tsk tsk sound with her tongue and teeth, she noticed a second human male. This one had come out of a door to the left and was climbing down the stairs.
“One. Two,” she counted slowly, her gaze returning to the hand on her arm.
“Did you hear me?” the man snapped.
Elyon grinned. She’d have to be deaf not to hear this asshole’s grunts.
Her nostrils flared and she let the scents wash over her. “Three. Four.” She continued her counting.
“Bitch, you’d better get your hot ass out of here or I’m going to—”
“Five.” She interrupted his flattering yet unwelcome threat, moving with blinding speed.
The man released a shrill scream as Elyon wrapped her fingers around his wrist, squeezing hard enough to shatter his bones. Pretty.
She didn’t stop there.
Still holding his mangled wrist, she whirled to the side. The motion dragged him off his feet and slammed his body against the brick wall. There was a loud thud. Like a sandbag hitting cement. A very large, very sweaty sandbag.
She released her hold, a taunting smile curving her lips as the man gave a groggy shake of his head and forced himself to his feet.
“I did count,” she said in sweet tones.
The guard swore in Serbian, then charged forward. Elyon heaved an uninterested sigh, neatly stepping out of the way. Really, it was sad. There was a time when the Russian mafia hired only the best fighters. Now it seemed their standards had gone straight into the gutter.
Who the hell charged in such a narrow space?
Waiting until he was lumbering past her, Elyon swirled to lift her leg. She kicked him in the ass, sending him shooting into the brick wall on the other side of the hall. This time the sound was more of a crack than a thud as his skull connected with the bricks.
He groaned, sliding to the floor with a dazed expression.
“Nice move.” A male voice sliced through the air, his accent hinting to a childhood spent in Moscow. “Can I help you with something?”
With a last glance to ensure the guard wasn’t intending any surprise attacks, Elyon turned her attention to the man who was standing on the lowest step.
He was short and square with thick salt-and-pepper hair that was greased back from his florid face. He had heavy jowls and dark-rimmed glasses that were tinted to hide his eyes. An old trick that was supposed to intimidate opponents back in the day.
He looked like the stereotypical Russian mob boss.
Seriously, the entire place was just one big cliché, she silently, and irritatingly, concluded.
“That depends,” she told him.
“On what?”
“On how much money you can offer me.”
He shrugged, raising his hand to study his manicured nails. “You know how to cook stroganoff? Or are you a waitress?” he asked, pretending not to know why she was there.
Heh heh. Idiot.
“I’m asking how big your purse is,” she bluntly demanded.
There was a gurgled sound from the guard who was trying to raise his bloody head.
“Grr?” Elyon released a sharp laugh, nudging his ribs with the toe of her boot. “Is that Serbian for ‘I just got my ass kicked by a girl’?”
The man on the stairs clicked his tongue. “Clearly I need to upgrade my security.”
“You’re Victor Sokolov?”
The man glanced toward the opening that led to the restaurant. The sound of muted conversations drifted through the air. Along with a new scent that made her stomach rumble. Meat and vinegar. She’d really hate having to blow this place up before she got a plate of whatever that was.
“In my office,” he abruptly commanded.
Victor turned to climb the steps with surprising speed.
Yes, sir. Grinning, Elyon followed behind him, taking the stairs three at a time. Once they reached the top, she had a brief glimpse around an open space that had been converted into a gym with a large boxing ring in the center of a wood-planked floor. There was the typical weightlifting equipment, an area with several punching bags, and a treadmill.
There were also three separate doors that were closed.
The man in front of her opened the closest one, and stepped inside. She paused, allowing her senses to sweep the confined space to ensure there was nothing lurking inside.
It was empty.
Still, she waited until he’d moved across the cramped space to lean against the desk littered with messy piles of papers before she stepped over the threshold.
“Look, milaya—” the older man started.
“Name’s Elyon,” she interrupted, her expression hard with warning.
No one was allowed to call her honey or darling or sweetie or babe. In any language.
Not unless they wanted their face rearranged.
“Fine, Elyon,” he conceded in patronizing tones. “I appreciate your…” He deliberately paused. “Balls, but I run the best club in town. Which means I don’t let every stray fighter who walks through the door in the ring. Even if they’re smoking hot. It’s invitation only.”
She reached into the pocket of her coat, removing the email she’d printed out before leaving for New York.
“Consider this my invitation,” she said, holding it out.
The man grabbed the paper and swiftly scanned the brief note. His brows climbed up his forehead. If this man considered himself the best in New York, then he had to know that Karl Richardt was the best in the world.
“You know Richardt?” he breathed.
“I’ve fought in his tournaments.”
The man tossed the paper on the desk and pulled out a phone from the inner pocket of his tailored suit. He was smart enough not to accept a possibly fake email as proof of her credentials.
Bravo.
He texted someone, hopefully Richardt, who owed her big time for that ex-lover issue she’d helped him solve, then typed her name into a search engine and pulled up the bogus information she’d uploaded.
“The Angel of Death, eh?” he read out loud.
She hid her smile at the ridiculous name she’d given herself. Cage match fighters were all about the drama. And hey, she was an angel to her PSL family. At least when she wasn’t being a hellish pain in the ass.
“When can I be added to the roster?” she asked.
His phone pinged and he glanced at it before returning it to his pocket, his expression now satisfied that she was who she was pretending to be.
“It’s not that simple,” he told her.
She rolled her eyes. “It never is.”
He shrugged. “If you aren’t a part of the local circuit then you have to fight our club champion before you can be included on the roster.”
“Fine.” She placed her hands on her hips, her foot tapping with impatience. “I’m ready. Anytime.”
The man considered her for a long minute, clearly calculating how best he could take advantage of her. His gaze skimmed up and down her tight, muscular form, lingering on her buzzed hair and the lean features that were more striking than beautiful.
He had to know that she would bring in large crowds if she could actually fight.
“Tonight,” he abruptly announced.
She gave a sharp nod. Hot damn. It was exactly what she’d been hoping for. “I need to see the facilities.”
He frowned. “Why”
“I don’t come into a fight blind,” she told him, her stubborn expression telling Victor she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “I want to walk the space and get a feel for the actual ring.”
Victor shrugged, pushing away from the desk to head out of the office.
“Follow me,” he ordered, crossing toward the center of the gym. “Max,” he called out.
Across the vast space, a door opened, revealing what looked like a locker room. A male stepped out wearing nothing more than a loose pair of basketball shorts. Even his feet were bare.
He closed the door behind himself and started forward. At them. At her. Elyon hissed out whatever was left of the air inside her lungs, feeling like she’d just taken a sucker punch.
And maybe she had.
Holy shit.
She’d never seen such a stunning example of male hotness in her life.
Her gaze moved languidly up his body. Like a tongue lapping at an ice cream cone. He was six foot six of pure muscle. His shoulders were broad, his chest thick, and his massive legs were long and perfectly formed. He had a thick black braid that swung down his back and a boldly handsome face with chiseled features. His eyes were an icy amber color rimmed with gold.
As he neared, Elyon could see dark markings across his chest. Not the usual “I’m the shit” tats that one normally saw on humans. Nope, these were dramatic angel wings that spread from his heart and over his pecs. They were exquisite, but Elyon didn’t miss the white blemishes beneath.
This man had been tortured.
This male, she corrected.
And it’d happened before he’d been given the Pantera blood that she could smell running through his veins. Otherwise, he would never have scarred.
“Meet our club champion,” Victor drawled. “Max. The Hammer.”
The Hammer, huh? Suited him. Suited him real well.
&n
bsp; Elyon forced an indifferent expression onto her face even as she felt the world tilt beneath her feet.
He was a hot, ripped warrior with eyes that would no doubt stay open and fierce as he fucked his female. She was all over that. But it wasn’t what was making her legs tremble, her breasts tighten, and her very soul shatter as she stared at him.
A moment ago, she was the same Elyon she’d been from her earliest memory. Strong. Wary. Class-A bitch. And now, she was completely undone and remade into a new, unfamiliar female.
Breathless.
Vulnerable.
Scared out of her freaking mind.
Ashamed.
And it was all because of this male.
Her mate.
The word came too quickly and easily from her insides. Impossible. Impossible. Impossible. She fought back against them. Punch, kick, stab, blow up! She was no one’s mate. Ever.
Attracted—that’s what was going on. Like, seriously wanting to jump this male’s formidable bones and maybe come up for air a week later.
Like, crazy insane lust.
Shaking her head for a second, she allowed her gaze to roam over him again. Up and down, then back up again. Every solid inch. Accepting the lust. But, that wasn’t it. Wasn’t all.
Oh, shit… He was trouble with a capital T, bold and in italics! And she was insane, off her game, ready to be committed. Good-fucking-Goddess! How could she accept the feelings rushing through her? She wasn’t that female.
Hell. No.
But no matter what her brain conjured as far as reality, refusal and impossibility—her blood, and the cat beneath her skin begged to differ. It screamed and raged that this was it, this was the one. It clawed at her ribs, and panted from the delicious wonder of it.
It was always the way. With everything. When the female on the outside tried to ignore the facts, the cat inside just…knew.
Fuck. Me.
This guy. This male… He couldn’t be the one, if there was ever really going to be a one, which she’d formally sworn that there wasn’t. He was her asset. She was on a mission.
Her shoulders slumped. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…
The words from “Casablanca,” her favorite flick, whispered through the back of her mind before she was grimly shutting down the inane thoughts once again.
Two to Go: Bayou Heat Page 2
