I’d hate to be alone in a room with this man.
“Remember your training,” Fallon says to me. “Your enemy knows your weakness. Rune will use it against you.”
Like you do, I think, but keep my focus on 57 as he shifts from one foot to the other, waiting for him to pounce. Because I know he will. He’s the type of man who would attack relentlessly. Keep me on the defensive until he can make the killing blow.
Exactly what Reaper’s trying to teach me.
I keep my sole focus on him, letting him circle me, my gaze moving from his feet to his shoulders.
Behind me, I hear the creak of the door opening, and my head snaps in that direction. Striker appears, and before he has completely entered the room, a hand grips my neck and my feet sweep out from under me. My back hits the hardwood floor, my head hitting it with a sharp smack. I blink at the sudden impact, meeting 57’s eyes as he straddles my chest, one hand still at my throat. I swing, aiming the knife for his neck, but he grips my wrist and slams my arm down to the floor. Pain shoots through my elbow, and I hiss in response.
Reaper’s angry growl grates through the room.
“Let her be!” Fallon shouts. “It’s her fault she took her eyes off him.”
“Gotcha, pretty thing,” 57 says. “Now what should I do with you?”
“Fuck you,” I snarl.
“Gladly, pretty girl,” he says. “Spread those legs and I’ll fuck you too.”
Fire sears through my veins. With my free hand, I aim for his eyes, but he releases my neck and catches it before I can reach him, smacking my hand to the floor by my head.
Now that my head isn’t pinned, I twist and sink my teeth into his forearm. The fabric slips under my bite, so I latch on harder.
“Fucking bitch!” 57 rears his hand back, and I wince, bracing for the hit to my face, as I try to roll. A feral grating sound roars through the room, and 57 is ripped off me.
Clutching my knife, I bolt up from the floor as Striker slams him down, fist making impact with his nose seconds later. I stumble backward, the sick crunching sound of his nose breaking, cutting through Striker’s guttural snarl.
“Enough!” Fallon barks.
Striker freezes, fist mid-air, then stands and flexes his bare hand.
A hand braces the back of my neck, and I jump, adrenaline coursing through me, and swing my arm as I turn. My training knife hits hard ribs.
“Ah, fuck,” Reaper grates, grabbing my forearm.
I drop the knife, my heart hammering, and place my hand where I stabbed him. “I’m sorry,” I whisper in horror.
He covers his hand with mine. “I’m taking her to her room,” Reaper says. “She’s done for today.”
“She needs more practice,” Fallon says. “The girl is going to get herself killed and, in turn, my sons.”
“I’m okay,” I say, stepping back and picking up my knife. I turn to face 57. He staggers as he stands, cupping his face, blood seeping out from under his mask into his palm.
“Take his place,” Fallon tells Striker. “And you”—he points to 57—“set your nose and meet me in the study.”
Fallon leaves, leaving the door open, and the room grows quiet. 57 glares at Striker, and then marches from the room, the door slamming behind him.
“Are you okay?” Striker asks, stalking toward me. When he reaches for me, I slap his hand away.
“Your father is right,” I snap. “You coddle me. That asshole just proved I need more practice.”
“She’s right,” Reaper says to Striker. “She needs to be prepared for…” His voice trails off. “If she’s not ready for Rune, he won’t hesitate to kill her, or worse, capture her.”
Striker curses and runs a hand over his mask, looking down at his feet.
“Capture?” I ask, my stomach dropping to my toes.
