Page 25 of Thrown to the Wolves

And now we both know our respective places in this hierarchy.

I nurse the second drink, idly tracking the sluggish crawl of the clock on the wall as I wait. Thirty interminable minutes drag by. I’m on the verge of getting twitchy when the door finally swings open and in she walks, drawing every eye.

Scarlett.

Damn, but she looks good, poured into those tight jeans again and a low-cut black sweater, a leather jacket on top to give her some edge. Heat licks at my clit, a twisted tangle of irritation, lust, and something uncomfortably close to admiration.

She’s glaring at me with murder in her eyes.

Delicious.

The bartender takes one look at her stormy expression, glances at me, and throws up his hands in warning. “Both of you, get the hell out of here before the Sokolovs show up. I mean it! I don’t want any blood on the floor tonight, you hear?”

I slide off the barstool, the movement liquid and lazy, and I don’t take my eyes off Scarlett. “Well, you heard the man. What say we get outta here, sweetheart?”

She glares at me, those haunting hazel eyes flashing with green fire. “Fine by me. I can kill you just as well in the street as I can here.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll get to that.” I head for the door, shoulder brushing hers as I pass, a deliberate invasion of space. A subtle challenge.

The game is on.

Outside, I turn to face her, ready for another scintillating round of threats and flirtation. Instead, I find myself staring down the gleaming black barrel of a silenced gun.

I sigh, the sound equal parts exasperation and anticipation. “Knock it off. I want some information before we get to the fun part.”

Her full lips thin, finger tightening on the trigger. The shot zips out, but I’ve already knocked her arm aside with a lightning-quick strike, sending the bullet to bury itself harmlessly in the crumbling brickwork. A twist of my wrist and the gun clatters to the trash-strewn pavement, her fingers left grasping empty air.

But Scarlett is tenacious. Undeterred, she breaks my grip on her arm in a move that leaves me blinking, and uses her twirl to mask yanking a wicked-looking switchblade from her boot, so that I only see it when the blade shoots out, glinting in the neon spill from the bar’s buzzing sign. “Why waste time talking when you could be dying?”

She lunges for me, the edge arcing toward my throat.

Oh, she’s good.

She’s much better than the other night, now that she’s prepared herself. Now that she’s focused.

On killing me, which is less great?—

The razor comes close enough that I feel the disturbance of air, but I flow around the slash like smoke, weaving just out of reach with an infuriating grin. “If you want to get your ass kicked first, be my guest. But I’ve got questions, Scar, and you’re going to give me some answers…before I kill you.”

Her face contorts, a rictus snarl of pure rage, and she lashes out at me. I block her arm, hard. “Easy, honey,” I murmur, holding her fiery stare while surreptitiously tensing the tendons in my forearms. “If you wanted my attention, you could’ve just asked.”

She rips away from me and repositions, coming at me in a whirlwind of deadly steel and even deadlier intent. I pull taught the steel cord I keep in a handy bracelet around my wrist for just these occasions, and parry her strikes.

Yeah. She’s improved since our last tussle, her technique tighter, more controlled. But that fury still blinds her, telegraphs her intentions. She fights like a woman possessed, a berserker without care for defense. It makes her dangerous…

But predictable.

And playing on that rage is an easy way to win.

“Nice try,” I pant, as we break away from each other again. Our vicious ballet has carried us across the quiet street, into the deserted construction site on the other side of the road. “But you have a lot to learn, kid.”

Scarlett’s lips peel back in a defiant snarl as her free hand whips a slender stiletto dagger into view.

Ah. This must be the blade that ended up in so many Syndicate hearts. With weapons in both hands now, she moves with savage grace, the wicked stiletto stabbing toward my face in a blur. I sidestep the strike, my blood thrumming with a wild, electric thrill.

“A little too frantic,” I chide, in the same voice I use for the Syndicate trainees. I know it drives them crazy. And from the look on Scarlett’s face, it works on her, too. But the deep coursing of adrenaline through my veins makes this encounter almost...pleasurable.

Scarlett comes hard at me again, her eyes blazing as she rains down a flurry of thrusts and slashes. I duck and parry, pushing back with precisely measured counters, testing her mettle with every exchange.

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