20. Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
HARLOW
Staring in shock at the ruby ring on the side of the tub, I count backward from four and work to calm my racing heart.
But it doesn’t work.
My world is imploding around me and there’s nothing I can do about it other than sit back and watch it all unfold.
Anxious and reeling, I sit there until the bath water turns cold, thinking things through and talking myself out of doing something irrational.
Finally, I come to terms with the fact that I’m not going to accomplish diddly-squat by turning myself into a raisin, so I drain the tub and wrap myself in a towel.
Determined to take what’s mine, I head to Lynx’s closet and rummage around in my duffel bag for a change of clothes, settling on a pair of black leggings and a pink sports bra.
Then I stomp down the hall to the kitchen, take a seat at the island, and glare daggers at the back of Lynx’s head while he casually makes himself a coffee.
He glances over his shoulder at me. “Feel better?”
I straighten my posture, fold my hands demurely on the marble slab in front of me, and respond, “Yes.” He nods once, then turns back to stirring his coffee.
“You said if I needed something, to just ask,” I start.
“You’re a trained killer. I think it’s safe to assume you’re skilled at hand-to-hand combat. I’d like to learn.”
The spoon in his hand clanks against the countertop.
“Why?”
“Because a woman should know how to defend herself if she doesn’t have a weapon.”
He turns to face me, his gaze dipping to my sports bra briefly before narrowing in suspicion.
“So will you teach me or not?”
Pressing his palms to the counter, he leans in and says hotly, “What’s in it for me?”
“What do you want?”
His gaze darkens as he studies my face. When it lands on my mouth, he licks his lips and says, “I’m not entirely sure yet. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
“Great. So you’ll teach me to fight.”
“Yeah. I’ll teach you to fight, little killer. But first, you’ll eat.”
The way he says eat ….
Lynx turns to the fridge and pulls out a carton of eggs and a stick of butter, setting them on the counter beside the stove. Then he fires a burner up, grabs a frying pan from the drawer, and asks, “How do you like your eggs?”
Deciding now’s not the time to tell him I’m not hungry, I say, “I’m not picky.”
He gets to work, whipping up scrambled eggs and tossing in various chopped vegetables and seasoning.
I watch in awe the entire time, saliva pooling in my mouth from the way his black T-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders.
The way his forearms flex. The way he keeps glancing over at me and flicking his gaze from my eyes to my lips, then back up again.
By the time he slides a fork and plate heaped with eggs and homemade hash browns in front of me, I’m sweating in places I’ve never thought possible.
Picking up the fork, I stab at a piece of egg and pop it into my mouth, moaning when I realize not only is Lynx a skilled killer but also a phenomenal cook.
I try not to think about other things he might be good at and murmur around a mouthful of delicious egg, “Where’d you learn to cook?”
He slings the kitchen towel over his shoulder and cocks a brow at me, watching my mouth with fascination as I chew, swallow, stab, and repeat.
“I taught myself when I was in my early twenties.”
“What else have you taught yourself that doesn’t have to do with”—I wave a hand in the air—“you know, murdering people?”
His smirk sends my pulse into overdrive. “Many things.”
“Like what?”
He flashes me a playful wink. “Use your imagination, pretty girl.”
My fork clatters to the plate. I swallow the food in my mouth and stare at him.
Phew.
If that’s not a sexual innuendo, then I don’t know what is.
After cleaning up the kitchen, Lynx leads me out to his backyard.
It’s the first time I’ve been out here and wowza.
It’s beautiful, with a large swimming pool and manicured flower beds filled with shrubs lining the perimeter.
There’s also a covered patio where a hot tub sits rumbling quietly and a modern furniture set with cream-colored cushions around an unlit fire table.
Strolling over to the outdoor fireplace, I run a finger along the heavy stone mantel and peek over at Lynx, who’s standing on the other side of the stamped concrete patio, watching me with a hungry look in his eyes and his hands stuffed in his pockets.
“Do you get to use this much?”
“I don’t have a lot of spare time.”
“Hmm. Busy boy, assassinating people and all.”
He grunts. “That’s not all I do, Harlow. I have hobbies.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Carpentry, for one. That shed over there …” He angles his head at a large two-story shed constructed of solid wood. “That’s my workshop.”
Curious, I ask, “Can I see inside?”
His jaw ticks as he stands there staring at me for a little while before answering, “After.”
Then he moves toward me, stealthy and predator-like. When he stops mere inches away, I ball my fists at my sides and stare up at him, waiting obediently for direction on what he’ll be teaching me first.
“Turn around,” he instructs.
Smirking, I do as I’m told and give him my back. He takes a quiet step forward, sealing his big, hard body against mine. His fingers dust over my knuckles, sending a crackle of electricity through me.
“Relax your hands.” I do. “And your shoulders.” I do that too. “Good girl.”
Oh god.
What those two little words do to my ovaries.
“I need to know how you’d react if you were attacked from behind. Where your instincts stand. So I’m going to grab you. It’ll be sudden and I won’t be gentle. But I won’t hurt you. Do you understand?”
I nod. “Yes. Can I have a safe word?”
“There are no safe words in combat, little killer. But if you tap me twice anywhere on my body, I’ll back off.”
Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
“Okay.”
Lynx wasn’t joking when he said he wouldn’t be gentle. Because when he swiftly pins my arms down at my sides by wrapping an ironclad arm around my waist and the other firmly around my throat, all the air in my lungs leaves in a whoosh, and I’m stuck wriggling like a worm on a hook.
I thrash and kick, but he’s far too strong. And I feel approximately three inches tall.
Frustrated, I tap his thigh twice the way he told me to. He loosens his grip enough for me to relax but doesn’t release me.
Warm, minty breath coasts over my neck, his lips grazing my ear as he holds me close. So close I can feel the slow, steady beat of his heart against my back.
“Your first mistake was panicking. Once panic sets in, all focus goes out the window.”
“Don’t panic. Got it.”
“Next, there are a few weak points that you can target to get your attacker to release you. You won’t fully disable him with these, but it might be enough to give you a chance to break free and run. Groin, knees, nose, and toes. Let’s try again, and see if you can find a way to hit any of those.”
I angle my head and peek up at him. “You’re giving me permission to hit you in the groin?”
His lip twitches in amusement. “I’m giving you permission to try.”
“Hmm. Challenge accepted.”
He releases me, gives me a moment to regroup and shake the tension from my limbs, then pulls the same move, swiftly coiling his arms around me and squeezing.
Since I figure he’d be expecting me to go for his groin, I aim for the element of surprise and switch it up, throwing my head back in hopes of connecting with his nose. But he’s too quick, and once again, I’m left struggling against his restraint.
We go through the motions several more times, Lynx showing me a few tricks and demonstrating far more patience than I expected from a man in his profession.
On the tenth or eleventh try, I manage to get in a good shot by raising my foot and jamming it back into his knee. He grunts. Then laughs.
The sound does something to my insides.
“That was better. But you’d need to hit me harder than that to get me to release you. Remember, your attacker will be high off adrenaline. Pain won’t register the way it normally would. One more time,” he says from behind me. “Then we’ll move on to something else.”
Flexing my hands, I exhale a steady breath and brace myself for impact.
Just as all the other times, his big arm wraps around my waist while the other coils around my neck.
Except this time, I turn my head and sink my teeth into his forearm.
He hisses sharply and releases me with a small shove. I spin around and beam at him, expecting to find him angry or inspecting his arm for a bite mark.
Instead, what I find makes my breath hitch and my stomach clench.
Lynx stands less than a foot away, staring down at me with dark, hooded eyes and a slight grin pulling at his lips. His expression is all sorts of terrifying and totally fucking hot.
I go to take a step back, but his arm shoots out and he grabs my elbow, tugging me into him. My hands fly to his chest.
Jesus. The guy is hard. Everywhere.
Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
“Bite me like that again, and I’ll put you over my knee and sink my teeth into your gorgeous ass just to prove a point. Got it?”
I don’t know what possesses me to do it, whether it’s the faulty wire in my brain that sparks bad decisions, or if it’s the thought of Lynx’s mouth on my skin … But I flash him a daring smile and bare my teeth.
One second passes—two—where I can see the gears turning over in his killer mind.
Just as I’m beginning to regret my decision to play this game with him, he strikes, grabbing me and tossing me over his shoulder the way he did when he carried me out of The Devil’s Den.
“Lynx,” I screech, pummeling his rock-hard backside and kicking my feet. “Put me down this instant!”
His laugh is dark and cynical and sends a jolt of excitement through me.
We come to a stop and I lift my head to look around. We’re outside his workshop. The distinct sound of him entering a code into the alarm system cuts through the whoosh of blood in my ears. A door creaks open, then closes, and my nose fills with the pleasant scent of freshly cut wood.