Page 22 of An Assassin's Death
His brow arches as his lips part with an astounded smirk. It’s the first time I’ve seen him fully smile and it gives me an odd feeling of happiness to see the sexy tilt of his lips.
“And that’s all you’ll get from me, Huntress. You want affection, ask Mouse what he has left to spare.” He jerks his hands free from my light hold and shoves past me. His shoulder knocks against mine as he stands, pushing me to my ass in an instant.
I sit there on the floor, out of breath and still feeling slightly defeated. I stare up at the four ex-assassins who refuse to cut me a break.
This is what a team feels like, huh?
How welcoming.
Twelve
Trust No One
“Again.”
The coldness in Rory’s voice only fuels the anger that’s churning inside of me. My chest heaves with each breath I draw and I narrow my eyes, refusing to give up.
Getting to my feet, I throw a glare in Rory’s direction, angry at myself for the way my eyes drink in the sight of the arrogant bastard leaning against the wall. We’ve been at this for over an hour and not once has he left his comfortable perch to come and spar with me himself. Oh no. Jameson is the one currently knocking me on my ass. Of course, I’ve had my fair share of knocking him on his as well. My muscles shake, the ache only intensifying my need to hit something. Preferably the smug look off of Rory’s too-handsome face.
Jameson gives me a cocky smirk, bringing his hands up, ready for another round.
I dodge left just as he throws a punch, throwing my own jab at his jawline. He’s fast though, and easily blocks my hit. We circle each other, throwing punches, jabs, and kicks, both staying on our feet.
My power tingles in my fingers. How easy it would be to use it and deflate Jameson's ego a little. God knows the world could use the break. If it gets any bigger, it’ll have his own goddamn gravitational pull.
That’s the rule though. No powers. Which is great, because I’m not keen on getting a front row seat to his little electrical show. Not that I’d let him near me when he goes all electric.
Even though my opponent has more muscle mass than I do, my lean, shorter stature makes me quick. I flit around him, letting him throw as many hits as he wants, until I see him starting to wear out. If this was our first round, he wouldn’t be even the slightest bit tired. But again… we’ve been at this a while.
I let my eyes take in every move he makes, storing the information as I calculate exactly when to strike. I pick up my pace, making him follow me around the floor, and then there it is. He makes a high kick, aiming for my stomach, but I skirt around him, lining myself up. The second his foot reconnections with the floor, I drop to the ground, bracing my weight on my hands as I pivot and swing my leg into his calf, sweeping him to the floor. His ass hits the ground hard and I stand, finishing my fluid movement and brushing my hands off with a grin.
“I think we’re done here.” I walk over to the wall and take a swig from the water bottle Mouse brought down earlier. Him and Tylin disappeared ages ago, doing whatever it is they call “work”.
“Again.”
I grit my teeth, ready to throw down with Rory. Seriously, what the hell is this guy’s problem?
Spinning on my heel, I re-cap the bottle, dropping it to the floor—not caring where it rolls off to—and walk over to him, getting up in his face.
“Really? You’ve already seen that I can hold my own with Jameson and Tylin. You really think you’re so much better than me? Why don’t you get over there and show me if you want to train me so badly. Prove yourself!”
His green eyes flash, growing dark as he narrows them at me. From this close, I can see the way they crinkle in the corners, serious lines etch into the sides of his eyes. He’s a man who doesn’t smile much. Maybe ever. Light scars mar his perfect features. A tame, scruffy shadow tints his square jawline, and I itch to reach up and run my palm over it to feel the way it abrades my skin, but I don’t dare.
This man hates me, and despite his good looks, I try to remind myself how much of an asshole he is. Good looks do not make a good man.
Then again, am I really looking for good? No. No I’m not.
I reign in my libido nonetheless, never breaking eye contact with the beast of a man in front of me. I don’t let the way his t-shirt pulls across his chest distract me. Or the tattoos peeking from the sleeves that I long to study. I don’t let myself notice the alluring slant of his lips, currently pulling up on one side as he crosses his stupid, strong arms over his obviously chiseled chest. No. He’s not distracting at all.
Head in the fucking game, Alexa.I scold myself mentally, keeping my expression schooled so he can’t see the traitorous thoughts running through my mind.
His green eyes darken as he stares back at me, challenging, and I keep my eyes trained on his. The only movement I allow is letting them flick back and forth between his until finally he motions for me to head back to the center of the makeshift “ring” we have going on in the basement.
Narrowing my eyes to slits, I cross my own arms and stay put. There’s no way he’s going to get me to cave first. I’m exhausted, but this is my moment to force him to accept me.
With a growl, he shakes his head like I’m being an petulant child. Maybe I am, but it doesn’t stop the smirk from curving my lips as he bumps his shoulder into mine on the way past.
I won. Now for round two.
