Page 3 of Savage Rule

“Where’s your pretty little knife?” I tease, somewhat out of breath.

He glances at his palm as if he’s just realized it’s gone. “Don’t need it.”

I grin. “I should kill you just for the fun of it.”

“You can try.”

I arch a brow as if I’m considering it. As if I’d ever do this just for fun, though it can be. I’m about to make some clever remark about not needing to try hard, when in my peripheral I hear, “Get the fuck down!”

It’s the other guy, the bigger one.

I turn slightly to him and our eyes lock. And it’s almost the worst mistake of my life.

For a split second, I feel sucker punched. He’s dark and huge, with a broad chest and hands so big, the Glock he’s pointing directly at me is almost swallowed up whole in his palm.

But what has me swallowing through a suddenly dry mouth are the dimples that form in each cheek as he flexes his jaw.

His gaze darkens and narrows, and those fucking dimples deepen as his lips pull up into a grin that says he’s won.

Fuck.

I’ve been trained to detect danger. It’s what’s kept me alive this long. And it’s what has me slicing my knife through the air and releasing it so that it flies hilt over blade toward that danger.

I have the aim of a high shooter with a gun. Even better with a knife. Yet somehow, I manage to miss this huge target. Or maybe he’s just that fast.

In a move that I can’t help but admire, he rolls quick as lightning and avoids being struck in the neck.

Damn.

Before he can get up, I bolt for the trees. I’m okay with retreat if it means living to fight another day.

Several yards in, I reach the spot where I left my bike. I don’t bother with a helmet, just throw my leg over the seat and turn on the ignition. Then I’m riding as fast as I can out of the uneven terrain full of low lying brush and roots. My poor baby wasn’t made for this, and I feel every bump in the marrow of my bones.

The relief I get when I hit smooth pavement is short lived because almost instantly, Luca is on my ass on his loud hog. But he’s not the problem. Harleys aren’t exactly known for speed, and it’s definitely no match for my Kawasaki Ninja.

Nope. The real threat is much bigger and speeding past his friend on a Ducati thatcankeep up with me.

Ah fuck.

I twist the accelerator, speeding down a residential area, until I manage to lose Luca. The other guy, however, remains tight on my ass.

“Bitch!” I yell when I glance over my shoulder to see his front tire nearly touch my back one.

He pulls out his gun, and I make a sharp turn down another street. His tires screech as he makes to follow.

It’s a little hard to focus on the road ahead while attempting to dodge bullets. Even harder to shoot a target chasing you. Which is why I don’t bother taking out my tiny G43. What I really need is to lose this guy.

Loathe as I am to do it, I circle back toward the forested area that lines the main road we’re on. My bike’s going to get a beating, but I can clean her up tomorrow.

I’m almost to an entry point when the worst thing imaginable happens. There’s a shot and loud pop. I start fishtailing out of control, the handlebars nearly tearing out of my grip.

Then I’m screeching sideways across the road, my leg caught between the pavement and the bike. I come to a grinding halt, hitting the guardrail with a deafening crunch.

Somehow, I manage to yank free just as my pursuer reaches me. I ignore the throbbing pain in my leg as I jump the rail and run into the woods.

I can hear him panting as he chases after me, he’s that close. Then his hand hits my shoulder as he makes his first attempt to grab me.

Giving it everything I have, I push my legs to move faster. The more they burn and protest, the harder I go.

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