But I’m not a professional.
And this man is. And the longer we parry, the brighter his grin.
We step back, both of us panting, both of us failing to gain an advantage over the other. “Damn, kid. This is fun. Wish we had real steel, you know? Do you think that last strike was strong enough to draw blood? I know that one on my hip would have.”
He steps forward, the sword spinning in his grip in a way that verifies he’s a bow staff guy, and while I’ve done some mixed training in the past, it’s never been this serious. It’s never been my girl on the line.
Hell, I haven’t even had a girl for that long. I’m not giving her up.
I dodge and weave, hoping that he’ll tire himself out, but sweat drips down my spine, my feet are damp on the mats, and I’m not sure how much longer I’ll last. Meanwhile, the man grins, freaking me right out.
The click of the office door distracts me just enough for him to slide in, smashing the flat side of the blade against my ribs, knocking me back, pain rioting through my chest. I get my guard up, but he’s ready, swiping out with his leg, snagging one of my ankles.
I bounce out of the swipe, but I’m off balance, and without hesitation, he chucks the whole damn sword at me, the handle slamming into my gut as I knock the blade away from my face, then he’s on me, pinning my sword arm to the mat, digging his fingers into the tendons of my wrist, forcing the smooth wood from my grip. And he laughs, his knees pinning my thighs to the ground, keeping me from rolling free.
“Caught you, you silent asshole! Hold still and I’ll get you trussed up. Then I can take the girl and go. Although, you’d be fun to play with. Think the boss hates you enough for you to be a toy for me?”
I’m not a toy. And I won’t let Clara end up caught in whatever this man is talking about. But I’m stuck. Any move I have is countered by a man with more years of experience than me.
I’ve got nothing besides the need to keep Clara out of this guy’s hands. And no way to make it happen.
Chapter 32
Clara
Ifound beef jerky in the office, but coaxing Prince Fluffington into the bag while there’s a legit sword fight happening across the room isn’t going well.
I can’t fight. God, I wish I could, but all I can do is to be ready to run when RJ gets the upper hand. Which he’s going to do. There’s no other choice.
So, I’ve pulled on my clothes, leaving my coat open. I’m sweating from a myriad of activities, stress included. I line up RJ’s stuff so he can just step into his clothes, remembering how the firefighters set up their gear when I toured the firehouse as a kid. Does it work for normal people? No idea. But it’s all I can think to do.
There’s a grunt and a clatter, and I twist to the fight, fear driving my body as RJ’s pinned to the ground, the man laughing, his senseless chatter fuzzy in my ears. Dashing to the pile ofswords on the floor, I snag one, and not knowing what else to do, sprint toward the fight.
A streak of gray beats me to it, though.
Prince Fluffington bounds onto the man’s back, a yowl sounding as he digs his claws into the man’s skin, his sweatshirt not enough of a barrier for the twenty-pound feline. The man yells, but doesn’t let go of RJ, his training keeping him from panicking. His focus stays on RJ, his mouth moving but none of his words making it to my brain as I sneak up behind him.
The crack of the sword against the back of his head sounds so much like a bat snapping against a baseball that I yelp, flinging the sword to the side.
The man collapses, Prince Fluffington hopping off the guy without coaxing, trotting across the mats and slinking to where I dropped the jerky. And suddenly, I’m wondering why I didn’t use the cheese in RJ’s coat pocket to coax the cat into the bag.
My brain fuzzy with failed logic, I can’t control my body, and it rebels. I vomit, the wood of the sword beside me wet and shiny, the blood leaking out of the back of the guy’s head turning into a pool of red on the surrounding ground. “Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, not able to turn away from what I just did, my mouth sour and my stomach clenching. “Is he dead?”
RJ tugs me back from the growing pool of blood, but doesn’t answer, collecting the swords from the floor. He brings them to the side of the mat, wiping them down with his t-shirt before pulling it on, and I vomit again, unable to comprehend wearing a bloody shirt. Wearing the blood of our enemy. I choke on a hysterical laugh as he quickly adds the rest of his clothes, my stomach turning as my mind swirls.
Zipping the cat into the bag, he picks something off the ground and locks it somehow, then disappears. And still, the blood on the ground expands. Head wounds bleed a lot, right? He can’t be dead, can he?
I vaguely hear RJ cleaning up, and I want to help, but I’m frozen, saliva pooling in my mouth, my hearing still fuzzy. Then RJ’s in front of me, his warm hands cradling my icy cheeks. “Sugar, I need your eyes on me. Can I have them?”
Shifting my gaze to his is the hardest thing I’ve done so far today, but I manage it.
“There you are. We need to go. Are you good to walk?”
I nod, but I can’t move until he has all three bags slung over his shoulders, and he tugs me behind him, our bare hands warm where they touch, but painfully cold when the wind coats them.
The pain keeps me moving, trusting RJ will get us to the house in time.
Only one thought is cycling through my mind, though, repeating, screaming, whispering, unending, brutal.
