Chapter 35 #2
He closed himself up tighter than a fist. She wouldn’t be able to read him—not until the anger went away. Rage was the best fuel, and the only thing that let him close her out.
She’s not ready; she’s not ready. She’ll hate me for this.
Rowan tore her arm away, and punched him.
Reflex took care of blocking, deflecting the strike.
It was a good one, all her weight behind it; she stepped aside like he’d taught her, changing the arc of her movement so he couldn’t catch and throw her off-guard.
Delgado moved in, pressing, granting no time to respond, her arm rising as he gave a half-strike punch.
She kicked for his knee but he moved, knowing each move before she made it.
Every move but the one she used—electricity crackling, and his arm going momentarily numb.
He backed up a step, two. “Where’d you learn that?”
“Boomer showed me.” Panting, ribs flaring, dried blood crusting on her face, sweat damping her hair. “It’s easy. He calls it a crackle.”
He started circling, not watching the tank top clinging to her chest, not hearing Ellis’s low tuneless whistle as he watched Delgado move in. They were starting to draw a little crowd, a most good sparring matches did.
This one’s Del versus his girlfriend, and Del looks pissed, he thought sardonically, hearing the words as if they were someone else gossiping. More grist for the rumor mill.
Rowan tracked just like he’d taught her—good girl. He twitched and she countered, playing through the sequence.
“Nice.”
“Thanks.” Her eyes were shuttered, dark. “You look mad.”
She’s trying to get into your head. He moved, a flurry of strikes she managed to block, but he pressed mercilessly, all the way across the mat. She threw one or two halfhearted punches, not enough to hurt him.
He was pushing her too hard.
One small miscalculation and he was on her, locking her arm and spinning, his forearm across her throat.
She kicked, but he was ready for that. He twisted her other arm, not hard enough to really hurt, just enough to make her feel it, clinically noting that she went limp in his arms, her ribs heaving.
“I don’t think you’re ready,” he said in her ear, feeling her shiver as his breath caressed her skin. “Not yet.”
“Not for you, maybe,” she shot back, free hand hooked over his arm, as if she would try to pull the limb away. “But for Sigma? Yeah.”
“Nah.” His tone dropped, intimately. He couldn’t help it. The heat of her against him reminded him of other things. What was it about this woman that could deprive him of all good sense and caution?
“Kate told me there’s nothing else she can teach me.” Instead of going limp, she leaned back into him ever so subtly, as if they were playing a game. A deeper kind, one that would end with his hands on her in a different way.
Oh, no you don’t, angel. Delgado didn’t have to take a deep breath, but he did, searching for control. He wanted to let go of her, apologize, suggest a trip into town for dinner—but no.
Here in the practice room, there was no room for friend.
It was one of the first things Sigma had taught him, and the lesson ran deep.
“Can you let go?” she asked, finally. “I’m getting a little tired of this.”
He released—but not right away, just to drive home the fact that he could keep her. “You’re still sloppy.”
“I’m ready,” she parried, rubbing at her arm. “Even if you don’t want to think so.”
“We’ll see. Yoshi has a kit packed for you. We’ll pick it up tomorrow. For right now, we’ll start with the heavy bag.”
A flash of surprise, crossing her face.
Oh, no, I’m not going to let you off easy, angel. I’m going to have to be twice as harsh as anything you’re likely to find out there—and they won’t stop because you’re tired and bloody and hungry.
“Heavy bag,” she echoed, and her face expression like a door. She couldn’t keep him out of her head—not completely, not with them sharing a bed every night. But both of them avoided contact, and it was almost as good.
“What are you standing around for?” he barked. “Move, girl!”
Her eyes flared. “Make me,” she flung back at him, her hands on her hips. “What is wrong with you?”
He took two steps and had her in an armlock, ignoring the sudden gasps from their audience, marched across the dojo to the line of heavy bags, then gave a shake before letting her loose.
“Let’s see you do the standard, operative,” he said crisply. “And the longer you fight me, the longer you’ll be here.”
Her nostrils flared; her chin lifted. She wiped at the blood on her face, smearing it across one cheek. Delgado’s heart began to ache.
Without another word, she spun on her heel and attacked the heavy bag. Delgado glanced up, seeing shocked faces and slack jaws. He narrowed his eyes.
People scurried back to what they had been doing—except for Ellis, who watched Rowan as she worked the heavy bag. The man looked shocked, eyeing as if she was a new species, one he wasn’t quite sure was poisonous or not.
Her face was set and flushed. Her training held, though—she wasn’t emitting waves of anger or distress.
“Is that the best you can do?” he snarled, hating himself.
The skin over her knuckles left bloody prints on the bag. Her hands blurred; she cursed at him with an inventiveness he found grimly amusing right before he decided to stop this.
It had gone far enough. He’d made his point.
“Rowan—” he began.
She whirled away from the bag, her ponytail whipping.
“I hate you!” Her voice bounced off the mats and the ceiling, drilled through the whispers. “I wish I’d never seen you!”
He stood rooted to the spot while she gave the heavy bag one last kick—good solid contact, her boot thudding onto heavy vinyl, the entire bag shuddering like a side of beef on a conveyer belt—and stalked past him, her hands and face bloody, and her head held high.
Well, the little voice in his head said clinically, looks like it’s no warm bed for you tonight, Del. Straight to the doghouse.
What the hell’s gotten into you?