—and collided with the man full force.
We crashed into concrete, pain shooting up my shoulder.
He struck fast — elbow, palm, fist — trained hits meant to disable and kill.
I countered.
He blocked.
I feinted.
He anticipated.
This man wasn’t just trained.
He was trained likeme.
No—
He was trained like someone who’d hunted Rangers before.
And then — he said it.
He whispered it in my ear as he tried to slam my skull into the wall:
“She was marked long before you.”
A roar tore out of me — primal, protective, enraged.
I drove my knee into his ribs.
He grunted.
I grabbed his arm, twisted.
He reversed, nearly wrenching my shoulder from its socket.
Trigger tried to fire — couldn’t line up a shot.
Sheriff Tate moved to flank — the second man outside slammed something into the bunker door again, and Tate spun back, firing through the gap.
Saint shouted, “They’re pushing in at BOTH ENTRANCES!”
Chaos erupted.
But all I saw was the bastard in front of me.
He lunged again — palm aimed for my throat —
I blocked, countered, and slammed him into the pillar.
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
“You don’t know, do you?” he rasped. “What she is.”
“Shut up,” I snapped, landing a blow across his jaw.
