Page 6 of Retaliation

His gaze flickered momentarily back to the building, his stance guarded. The casual rub of his neck felt more like a calculated move than any real sign of unease.

“Sure,” she replied, clearing her throat as she tried to steady the thoughts that made her heart race against her ribcage.

She caught herself staring at him, warmth creeping into her cheeks—a rare occurrence that took her by surprise.Fuck, he’s beyond sexy.There was no other way to describe him. He looked like he’d been carved from marble by Michelangelo himself.

As she observed him more closely, she realized his guardedness wasn’t from discomfort, but from a cautious assessment of their surroundings—a trait no doubt honed through countless confrontations as a security guard.

“I’ll just text a friend to come get my bike,” she said,

retrieving her phone. “Wouldn’t want to risk any… unexpected incidents. Barbie might set it on fire.”

She quickly sent a message to Skeldon, her loyal second-in-command, knowing he’d be here in minutes.

The man in front of her waited patiently as she slipped her phone back into her bag. When they started walking, each of his steps was measured and vigilant, as though expecting an attack at any moment.

The night around them seemed to hold its breath. Silence wrapped around them, stretching endlessly into the darkness. She lost track of time—minutes, maybe hours—blurring together. An awkward tension crept in, thickening the air between them, yet the dark figure beside her remained unmoving, his vigilance sharpening into something deeper, more pronounced.

The weight of the silence pressed down, heavy like an opponent’s knee on her chest. Finally, she shattered it. Glancing over her shoulder, she nodded toward the now-distant venue.

“Thanks for sticking up for me back there,” she said, her voice slicing through the quiet, acknowledging the chaos they’d left behind.

When she lifted her gaze, she found his already on her, curiosity and wariness swirling in the dark depths. The intensity of his stare—cautious yet undeniably focused—suggested he was weighing her every word, every gesture, as if she were an opponent he couldn’t quite figure out.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, his raspy voice tinged with uncertainty.

He hesitated, hand reaching up to scratch the back neck, as if weighing his next words.

“But I’ve got to know,” he continued, a furrow knitting his brow as if he wrestled with an internal question. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

The question lingered in the air, edged with concern.

“Your moves were seriously impressive,” he added, admiration slipping into his tone, though it seemed as much for himself as for her.

She stopped, raising an eyebrow at him. “Why do you sound so surprised? Didn’t think a woman could fight?” she challenged, crossing her arms.

He raised his palms in surrender. “Not what I meant.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen my share of lethal female fighters, but you…” He trailed off, visibly weighing his next words.

She could see the struggle in his eyes. He started walking again, and just when she thought he wouldn’t finish his thought, the words tumbled out:

“You’re different,” he blurted, his voice rushed but certain.

His gaze met hers, earnest and intense, as if he was trying to convey an ocean of meaning beyond words. “There’s something about the way you fight… It’s not just

skill. It’s like you’re telling a story with every move. Like something’s driving you—something deeper than survival or ambition.”

His observation struck a chord, resonating within her. Poison, arms still crossed, let a small, intrigued smile tug at the corners of her mouth. His observation had cut deeper than she expected, touching on something she rarely acknowledged—even to herself. Her fighting stylewasa narrative, a physical manifestation of her journey, her losses, and her victories. And somehow, in the short time he’d watched her, he saw it. He saw more than anyone else ever had.

She paused, contemplating her response. Taking a deep breath, she spoke, bracing for the consequences of telling him the truth.

“I’m a streetfighter,” she said, her tone flat, matter-of-fact.

He physically stepped back, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Regret instantly filled her lungs. She waited for the inevitable onslaught of questions—but none came.Fuck.What had she done? Normals weren’t supposed to know. The Underground had its own rules, and there were much darker players who wouldn’t be pleased if someone tampered with their operations. Grasping for control, she pushed forward.

“I take it being in security has taught you a thing or two?”

That seemed to snap him out of his stupor. He shook his head, staring off into the distance. No—not staring. He was surveying again.

“I’m a fighter as well,” he murmured, avoiding eye contact.

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