Page 79 of Fated In Blood

After Riordan’s order, my head remained thankfully blank as I navigated the myriad hallways, pushed the front doors open, and found the path, overgrown to the point there was barely a path at all. Finally, I skidded to a stop in a clearing of sorts, a shallow bowl bordered by tall trees whose branches formed an interwoven ceiling thirty feet above my head.

Holyfuck.

Stripped to the waist, the two males traded blows, fists flying with magnificent precision, their footwork smooth and sure. Blake was in his usual leathers and boots, Riordan in dress slacks and bare feet, his toes digging into the dirt with every graceful parry.

Blake’s skin was unmarked, except for those scars, too many to count, but Riordan…those fucking tattoos. They ran from his strong chest down his flexing abdomen, wrapping around his arms, almost to his wrists.

Not tribal…not exactly, but something more primitive.

They accentuated his powerful form, his muscular back, every perfect, flexing inch of him.

I couldn’t take my eyes off them, all that smooth, powerful muscle, peppered with scars and sweat and ink, two formidable males—both of whom I’d taken inside my body—colliding with a raw, explosive violence that rippled straight through me, as if I were crushed between them.

Heat cleaved down my spine, straight to my core at the sweaty, slippery image I painted in my head, stealing my breathe at the same moment. Imagining. Wanting.Hungering.

I doubted they even noticed I was there, hanging on for dear life to the rough bark of an oak tree, the air stilling in my lungs, my insides turning loose and liquidy watching sinewy muscles flex beneath glistening skin, the ends of their hair soaked in sweat.

Shadow spun around Blake like sharpened knives, stabbing, only to be repelled by blue-white fire. Stab, deflect. Stab, dodge. The dance went on and on, magic and might, muscle and brawn. I was riveted, turned on, repelled.

I’d been raised in a compound; I’d seen men fight. Men who had trained their entire lives to kill and maim, but this was different. Brutal.Primal. I was watching two evenly matched, lethal predators circling, searching for an opening, striking impossibly fast, every blow of a fist unerringly striking flesh, every whip of delay, devouring magic, all part of the game.

My tongue darted out, sliding along my bottom lip.

God, they were…

“It’s about fucking time.” Blake didn’t so much as turn, but Riordan’s gaze locked with mine, my face flushing with heat. “Don’t just stand there, get that coat off and get in here.”

Weapons were piled beside them. Knives, swords, long poles for sparring, and a closed wooden box. I detected the strong odor of gunpowder, so…a box of handguns was my guess.

The trodden-down grass was cut with divots and muddy furrows that would offer poor footing, but the trees were far enough apart to use as cover, if needed. I slipped my jacket off and slung it over a dead branch, then followed Riordan’s lead and took off my shoes and my socks, curling my toes into the cool grass.

The moon was just rising, but I could see perfectly, picking out tiny details my human eyes would have missed. And the smells—tender spring leaves and the bite of ozone drifted on the breeze. A thunderstorm was coming later tonight, shortly after midnight.

Riordan was sliding his shirt back on, explaining something when I pulled myself out of my reverie. “We need to get a baseline for your fighting skills so we know your capabilities. First we’ll go through basic hand-to-hand, then you’ll face Blake with a variety of weapons, and?—”

I pointed to my head. “I need you to do that mind thing to me, so he can’t read my thoughts.”

“Excuse me?” Blake turned, staring me down with the predatory intent of a lion. “You want him to dowhat?”

“To do that vampire voodoo mind thing so you can’t cheat and anticipate my moves. Because I know you will, and if this is really supposed to be a fair assessment of my skills” —I turned back to Riordan—“then this prick shouldn’t have any more of an advantage than he already has.”

A smile tugged at Riordan’s mouth. “She has a point, Blake.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, do it, then, and let’s get on with this.”

Riordan stepped closer, pressing his hand to my forehead, and that wash of suffocating coldness washed through me as he whispered, “I told you, call me Rohr. I hate Riordan. My father gave me that name.”

“We aren’t friends, Riordan, as you were so quick to remind me earlier. Let’s not get too chummy.” Something that might have been disappointment flashed across his face, but he nodded then stepped back.

I hadn’t formally sparred in years, and never with someone as big and as deadly as Blake. I had no illusions the bastard wouldn’t knock me on my ass as hard and as often as he could, and he’d make every blow hurt.

But there was a new, powerful energy flooding my veins, something deadly and slightly wicked, and after Collum, I was anxious to see how much faster I was, especially now that my head was clear and this asshole couldn’t anticipate my every move.

I stepped into the ring, noting every gouge in the earth and every slippery clump of grass. I’d barely squared off when Blake came for me like a raging bull, honed layers of powerful muscle and a really bad attitude.

He shot straight past me as I spun out of the way, my ponytail whipping across his face as he flew by, which had to sting, just a little.

God. He was so fucking fast.

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