Page 5 of Dance of Defiance
There’s ink on his arms, peeking out from underneath his sleeves. More ink swirling over the backs of his hands, hands with long, veined fingers wrapped tight around my wrists, immobilizing me.
Not Vaughn.
“Val—?!”
“What thefuckare you doing here?” he hisses, glaring right into my eyes.
I try to swallow past the roaring, twisting, clenching sensation that has momentarily arrested my ability to breathe normally or think straight. To think at all, for that matter.
“How—?”
“Your hand tats,” he growls under his breath, his gaze sliding from my face to where he’s got my wrists pinned against the stone floor.
Shit.
“The flask, too.”
Double shit.
“And that suit…Jesus, man, think you could have found a tighter fit?”
I’m thinking of the right words to throw back in his face when I see the glint—or is it atwinkle—in his eyes as he grins under his mask.
“Not,” he murmurs, tipping his head to the side, “that I’mcomplaining, of course.”
Confusion swirls through me as I feel his gaze slide back over my face, then down to my chest, before it drags up over my immobilized arms.
What the—what, are you BLUSHING?
“Get OFF me,” I snap in a harsh whisper.
Val doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink as those icy blue eyes stab into me.
“Isaid?—”
“Oh, I heard you the first time.”
My eyes narrow. “So why thefuckaren’t you?—”
“Because I’m still waiting for your answer tomyquestion.”
I say nothing.
Val exhales slowly. “The masks fucking suck, right?”
“What?”
“These masks,” he grunts, shifting his weight slightly, causing his thighs to squeeze around my ribs. “They’re fucking hot, sweaty,slightlyoverdramatic…”
His grip on my wrists loosens just a bit, and I take my shot. With a grunt, I flex my arms and shove at his hands, wrenching my right wrist free. I swing hard, snarling. Val jerks his head back, but my fist still connects with the edge of his jaw, knocking his mask askew and making him swear under his breath.
Then, just as quickly as I made my move, he counters. Faster than I’d ever believe him capable of, the guy has my fucking wrists slammed back to the floor again, keeping me pinned hard as his weight settles on me once more. His muscled thighs squeeze around my ribs, as if to remind me how little power I have right now.
How thefuckis he so fucking strong? I mean I’m—not to mince words—jacked. I lift heavy weights, daily. I’m with a training bag at least four times a week. I’m also in underground fights twice a month, minimum. Val is…aballet dancer.
I grimace as every single joke I’ve made over the years to Evie, however good-naturedly, about ballerinas “not being real athletes” comes back to haunt me. I suddenly consider that Val’s one of the guys on stage lifting the female dancers—sometimes one-handedly—as if they weighed nothing at all.
Okay, shit. The guy is a lot stronger than I’d have guessed. And heneedsto get the fuck off me. Now.
