Page 24 of Deserted

The impact jarred my arms, but I managed to deflect his strike.

“Good,” he rumbled, already circling for another approach. “Your reflexes are acceptable.”

“Gee, thanks.”

What he didn’t know was that I hadn’t spent my twenties just chasing stories. When you’re a five-foot-six woman who regularly puts herself in dangerous situations for the truth, youlearn how to handle yourself. Ten years of judo, krav maga, and whatever other self-defense classes I could fit between assignments had left me with decent skills and a healthy respect for bigger opponents.

Which Rhaekar definitely was.

He came at me again, faster this time. I sidestepped, using his momentum against him, and managed to tap his side lightly with my staff.

He froze, golden eyes widening in surprise.

“You did not mention you were trained.”

I couldn’t help the smirk that spread across my face. “You didn’t ask.”

Something shifted in his expression—a new assessment, a recalculation. The next attack was more serious, more focused. He moved like liquid, each strike flowing into the next with precision that spoke of years of disciplined training.

But I wasn’t a complete novice. I blocked, dodged, and occasionally landed glancing blows that seemed to both irritate and impress him. Sweat poured down my face, my breath coming in harsh pants as we circled each other under the merciless suns.

“Your form is unusual,” he noted during a brief pause. “Not Legion-trained.”

“Earth martial arts,” I gasped, trying to catch my breath. “With some street fighting thrown in.”

“Effective. Unpredictable.”

“Was that a compliment? From the stoic Legion Reaper himself?”

His eyes narrowed. “Observation. Not compliment.”

“Right.” I twirled my staff, feeling more confident. “Ready for round two?”

The slight incline of his head was the only warning I got before he launched into a new series of attacks, each morechallenging than the last. I held my own, barely, relying more on speed and unpredictability than strength.

And then I made a critical error.

After successfully ducking under a sweeping strike and landing a clean hit to his ribs, I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction. A small, self-congratulatory smirk.

The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back in the sand, the wind knocked out of me, with six-plus feet of muscular alien predator straddling my hips. His hands planted on either side of my head, not quite pinning me down—yet. But I wasn’t exactly struggling to get away.

Our faces were too close. His scent engulfed me—sun-warmed spice and something darkly male that made my insides clench with want. His pupils dilated, those predatory slits expanding until his eyes were more black than gold.

My breath hitched. My heart hammered against my ribs, and not just from exertion.

And then his tail—that expressive, traitorous appendage—curled loosely around my thigh in what felt suspiciously like a possessive gesture.

“I win,” he rumbled, his voice deeper than usual, almost a purr.

“On a technicality,” I whispered back, hyper-aware of every point where our bodies connected.

His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingering there with an intensity that made heat pool low in my belly. I could feel his breath on my face, taste the spice of him on the air between us.

I could have kissed him. Could have fisted my hands in that strange, mane-like hair and pulled him down until his mouth met mine. Could have rolled my hips up into his until he made that growling sound I’d heard in our shared dream.

The thought of the dream—of his hands on my body, his teeth at my neck, his voice calling me kassari—sent a jolt of both desire and uncertainty through me.

No. Too much. Too fast. Too confusing.

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