Page 81 of The Hunter
“Have you ever hurt anyone, Millie?” he murmured.
It took her a moment for the question to register, so distracted was she by the electric tingle in her hand. “I—I’m certain I’ve said things I’m ashamed of, that I’ve done underhanded—”
“No,” he interrupted. “I mean, have you ever physically hurt anyone? Cut them, struck them. Broken them.”
Millie took an involuntary step back. “Never,” she whispered. “Why would you ask me such a thing?”
His eyes turned a liquid blue in the lantern light before he turned from her. “It is the reason I brought you here,” he explained as he moved to the wall and selected a knife with a deeply grooved handle. “I want to teach you how.”
***
She couldn’t marry the duke, Christopher Argent decided as he, yet again, fended off a surprisingly strong attack to his throat. A man would need both hands to be able to handle a woman like this. It had taken her some time to overcome her fear of hurting him, but once she had, Millie seemed to find a previously unexplored enthusiasm for violence.
He knew he should feel ashamed again, for listening to the lady’s conversation back at her apartments, but the feminine murmurs had drawn him down the hall, and on the list of his sins, eavesdropping was relatively low.
He’d caught Chief Inspector Carlton Morley’s name, but missed most of what they’d said about the man. He’d most definitely heard about Lord Trenwyth, however. And the crux of that conversation was like a knife to the belly every time he remembered what they’d said.
Millie wanted a hero.
And Argent was anything but that. He was, in effect, the very definition of a villain. A hero-maker, as so-called good men would brag about his demise.
Chief Inspector Morley certainly would.
Argent had encountered Trenwyth only once, at a session in the House of Lords he’d attended with Dorian Blackwell years ago. The duke was one of the only men tall enough to look Argent straight in the eye, and in doing so, they’d recognized each other. Not from a previous introduction, but as one killer distinguishes another. For a moment, Trenwyth, Blackwell, and Argent stood in the midst of maybe the most civilized building in the known world and circled each other like wild predators. It was as though a wolf, a jaguar, and a viper converged upon the edges of their respective territories and had to decide whether to fight or to parlay.
It was Dorian’s wife, Farah, who’d saved them from such a decision by stepping into the circle and dazzling them all with her smile, thus creating neutral ground.
Christopher had forgotten that day until this one. Had thrust the unnaturally handsome duke from his mind, as the man had gone off to India to amass a higher body count, and Christopher had remained in London.
To do the very same.
But Millie couldn’t be a duchess. The impediments of that court would become shackles after so long. She would despise marriage to a military man, barking orders and regimenting her day. Crawling on top of her night after night, pressing her into the bed as he used her perfect body to forget the atrocities he’d committed in the name of the crown.
At that image, a low rumble clawed its way out of his burning chest and escaped between his clenched teeth. Millie’s eyes widened upon his face, and she took a step away from him.
“Don’t get frustrated with me,” she reproved with fire sparking in her dark eyes. “I don’t do this for a living, and I’m trying very hard to learn.” Planting her balled fists on her hips, she studied him for a moment longer, and then blinked as a softer, more apprehensive expression overtook her lovely features. “Did I—hurt you?”
“No,” he said, rubbing again at that sharp ache in the cavern of his chest, not missing the way her gaze followed the movement with an arrested expression. Christopher looked down, and then dropped his hand. Was he… lying to her? Had she caused this pang in his chest? Was she the reason he lately felt like one large open wound?
“Swipe at my feet again,” he ordered, needing to divert himself from these destructive thoughts. “Then throw enough force behind your body to bring me down. Should you ever need to use this maneuver, yourunbefore your assailant hits the ground. You get to safety.”
“Right.” With a look of determination, her foot shot from beneath her skirts and swept at his legs.
“Other foot,” he corrected her.
“Why? This one’s closest and it’s the one my brain seems to want to use.” She attempted again, truly throwing him off balance. Argent could have merely recovered if he’d wanted to, but instead decided to teach her a lesson.
He went down backward, but not before he seized her and pulled her down with him.
They landed in a heap of her skirts, Christopher on his back, his knees and elbow bent to control his own fall, one arm shackled around her. Her hands were trapped against his chest, her body sprawled on top of his, legs skewed to either side of him.
“That’s why,” he muttered.
She writhed and struggled against him, yanking and pulling with all her strength to escape his grip, but Christopher barely had to exert any pressure to keep her his captive. Her struggles created the most delicious friction against his prone body, and the rasp of silk against his cock, pressed closer by her proximity, exacerbated an ever-present problem. He’d been half hard ever since he’d thought he’d caught a flash of appreciation in her gaze as she’d scrutinized his bare chest. Now, with her body writhing, lithe and wild above his, lust screamed through him with excruciating ferocity.
He knew the moment she realized, as she immediately stilled, her body going slack against his, the only movement between them created by their quickening breath.
Christopher closed his eyes, employing every technique he could conjure to help him ignore the inviting warmth centered where her legs parted over him.
