Page 83 of Ghost
Sidestep. Redirect momentum. Just as Mitzy taught me.
His hand grasps empty air as I pivot away, sending him slightly off-balance. The surprise on his face is almost comical.
“What the?—”
I don’t let him finish. Strike palm-heel to sternum. Quick. Efficient.
Steffan stumbles back, more shocked than hurt. His expression morphs from surprise to rage in an instant.
“You little bitch.” He lunges forward, abandoning pretense, reaching for my throat with both hands.
I duck under his grasp, using his forward momentum to push him further off balance. But Steffan recovers faster than I anticipated, years of racquetball and martial arts training evident in his reflexes. He pivots, catching my arm in a painful grip.
“Did you really think a few days of training could match years of experience?” he snarls, twisting my arm behind my back.
Pain lances through my shoulder. From Mason’s hiding place comes the faintest sound—the whisper of movement, quickly stilled. He’s fighting the instinct to intervene. Trusting me to handle this.
I slam my heel down on Steffan’s instep, simultaneously throwing my head back toward his face. He dodges the headbutt but loosens his grip enough for me to twist free.
We circle each other, both breathing hard. A thin trickle of blood runs from his split lip where my earlier strike connected better than I realized.
“You’ve changed,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Someone’s been teaching you badhabits.”
“You have no idea.”
He attacks again, faster this time—a boxer’s combination targeting my face and solar plexus. I block the first blow, absorb the second against the body armor beneath my sweater. His knuckles connect with the ballistic plate, and he hisses in pain.
“What the hell?”
I use his confusion to counter, driving my knee toward his groin. He blocks, catching my leg and shoving me backward. I stumble, my back hitting the wall hard enough to rattle picture frames.
Steffan advances, fury transforming his handsome face into something monstrous. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you all over again.”
He grabs my throat, pinning me against the wall, his other hand drawn back to strike. From the corner of my eye, I see movement—Mason, unable to remain hidden, starting to emerge.
But I don’t need rescue.
As Steffan’s hand tightens around my throat, I drive my palm up under his chin, snapping his head back. Simultaneously, I bring my knee up into his diaphragm.
Air whooshes from his lungs. His grip loosens. I twist away, creating distance.
“That’s new,” he wheezes, genuine surprise in his eyes.
“I’ve learned a lot since I left you.”
He straightens, reassessing. This time, when he attacks, it’s with cold calculation rather than rage. A precise strike to my kidney, followed by an attempt to sweep my legs.
I dodge the kidney punch, but the sweep connects, sending me sprawling onto the hardwood floor. Pain radiates through my hip where I land. Mason shifts forward again—I see his shadow move—but I shake my head minutely. No.
This is my fight.
Steffan stands over me, that familiar smirk returning. “Back where you belong. On the floor at my feet.”
I roll as his foot lashes out, barely avoiding the kick aimed at my ribs. The body armor absorbs a glancing blow to my side, the impact dulled but still jarring.
“Enough games.” Steffan reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a small pistol. “Get up.”
The sight of the gun changes the equation.
