Page 4 of Knot Guilty

Five months later

Sweat drips off my nose, and traces of blood from my lip leave a coppery taste on my tongue. More than a dozen deadly warriors surround me, but the only sound I hear is the wild pounding of my heart. I draw in a ragged breath and stare daggers at the man stalking his way toward me. He’s going to attack again at any second.

My ribs are already aching from his last blow, one I didn’t see coming but should have—a massive failure on my part and one I can’t repeat. Dammit, Sadie, you’re not a damned girl scout. You’re the first and only female Marine Raider ever. You’re the toughest bitch on the planet. Kick this guy’s ass!

Unlike men usually do, the hulking man glaring my way didn’t underestimate me, attacking with his worst the instant I was on his radar. For that reason, I abandoned my usual strategy: letting a man’s pride and bias become his painful downfall.

Still, I’ve spent my whole adult life busting my ass so I could kick the enemy’s. Like a good Marine, I adapted my strategy for this opponent. Now, it’s time to overcome. What’s your move going to be?

Given my sex and men’s bias toward women, he won’t expect me to be able to outlast him. He may be planning to wait me out.

And there we have it, my new strategy. I’ll act as though my stamina is failing to get the guy to lower his guard. Keeping my hands up by my head, I fake a tripped step and swipe my forearm across my brow. Some of those watching read into the weakness, just like I want them to. Their body language relaxes, thinking the fight will be over any moment now.

“I’m not going to fall for that shit,” says the man wearing my blood on his knuckles.

Ripped arms and abs dance and flex as the Natural Born Killer shifts his weight. Rivulets of sweat trail down his chest, meaning he’s expending a considerable amount of his own effort on me. That’s right. This bitch isn’t so easy to take down.

Presently, he’s baiting me to strike, dropping his hands slightly and turning his body to expose his most vulnerable spots. I don’t bite as he wants. One of the first things I learned in the Corps was to be patient when haste might get you killed.

Subtle cues from his body language clue me into what he might be planning. I just have to keep my hands up and my feet moving while I read him. His weight is balanced on both feet, with the right foot slightly forward… Left. He’s going left.

The man grins wickedly as if he’s figured out my next move. I set my feet, expecting him to move left.

In my next breath, I learn that I’m not always right. You can’t anticipate crazy, and this guy must be batshit. He fakes right as expected but doesn’t follow through with a strike from his left. The bastard drops to the ground. Before I can adjust, he grabs my front leg and spins, negating my protective stance.

I lose the fight to gravity and unexpected momentum, toppling down onto my back, only to be covered by a solid body a fraction of a second later. Knowing I can’t beat my opponent’s apparent upper body strength, I switch gears in my brain to ground fighting tactics. Priority one is escape. I thrust up my pelvis, arching my back high off the floor, preparing to shrimp my way out of the man’s hold.

“You that hot for me?” he whispers.

“Over my dead body,” I spit back.

“That would be no fun at all.”

I lunge upward and to the side, rolling us both over and landing me on top of him, straddling his hips. The shock factor of my breakout allows a brief opening in which I make a quick but brutal strike to the man’s kidney.

Ha! Take that, bitch!

In the same fashion I did, the man thrusts his pelvis off the floor, but the result is different. I’m launched over his head and have to throw my hands forward to keep from face-planting.

Time is running out. If I don’t gain the upper hand soon, it’ll be over for me. Even a well-trained woman has to rely on speed and smarts to end a fight with a stronger opponent. A long, drawn-out battle being outmatched physically would see my body fade before any man of his build, and this guy knows it.

It just pisses me off that he can read me well enough to know when I’m faking and when I’m not. Turning my head around, I focus my glare on the man’s dark blue eyes as his real strategy dawns on me. Shit. This whole time, he’s only been playing with me.

And that’s just damn insulting.

There’s a reason my former and current team calls me Fate. You tangle with Sadie Phelps, and you’ll meet your fate.

Now it’s time for this guy to meet his. I shove up from my position on all fours, but not before a hard smack stings my ass. Oh, hell no.

My dwindling energy has just been topped off by my pissed-off reserves. Instead of trying to get up, I pull a move similar to a break dance spin, enjoying the satisfying grunt of pain coming from the man when my foot connects with his chin. Asshole should have gotten up when he had the chance.

Not allowing him a chance to recover, I execute a sideways half-somersault over him, landing on his chest. My knees plant on either side of his head, with his arms pinned beneath my shins.

My breaths come in ragged pants as I consider ending things violently for the smack to my ass, but the guy isn’t fighting back anymore. My muscles remain tense, fist poised over his face in case he gets the idea to try anything.

“That’s enough!” a gruff voice barks from a few feet away.

The man looking up at me from between my thighs grins, his teeth bloody from the kick to his face. He winks, shifts his gaze to my crotch, and licks his lips, giving me the idea that even though it appears I won, he let me do it. The slimy bastard.

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