He grunted—more approving than hurt.
“Not terrible,” he offered.
“Wow, I might faint from such lavish praise,” I panted, pinned against that hard-as-iron body before I yanked my wrist free and dropped my weight, sweeping at his legs.
Dante hopped over my foot, but I’d already anticipated that move, my fist already aimed at his jaw as I lunged upward.
He jerked away back—not far enough—and my knuckles caught his chin, sending him reeling back a step. Two.
He rubbed his cheek, something dark and dangerous flashing in those blue eyes.
I didn’t hesitate, though the stupid dress slowed me down by a few seconds. I surged forward, striking fast—the heel of my palm to his sternum, a knuckle punch to a shoulder, a knee sinking deep into his midsection, every bit as toned as it looked. Each move was from hours of training and the endless surge of power rushing through me.
Gods, his blood was amazing.
Why had I been drinking out of bags my whole life when I could have felt like this all along?
Powerful. Invincible. Fuck yes, I would have chosen this.
I enjoyed the briefest moment—barely a breath—of triumph.
Then Dante stopped holding back.
He turned into a blur, closing the distance between us in a blink, hand around my forearm, the other bracing at my waist, and suddenly I was pressed to the floor in the simplest, most infuriating hold—tight enough that I couldn’t strike back, close enough his body heat bled into mine.
I snarled and thrashed, trying to wrench free.
Dante’s mouth brushed my ear, every word taunting. “You fight like you don’t want to win, Emberline. If I were a betting male, I’d say this is what you wanted, to find out how it felt, to be pinned underneath me.”
“Dial back that precious ego of yours for a minute, asshole,” I hissed, struggling in his unforgiving grip. “You’re heavier than a fucking bus, and you smell like a sewer.”
He chuckled. “Sticks and stones, love, sticks and stones. Looks like you’ve lost this round.”
I went still for half a second—pretending to concede, my body going limp, his eyes going all dark and hooded, fixed on my lips. I darted my tongue out and deliberately ran the tip along my bottom lip. He looked like he was going to have a fucking aneurysm.
Then I headbutted him.
A full-on head butt that left me seeing stars, but the look of shock on his face was so worth it, I would have done it again if I wouldn’t give myself a concussion.
I shoved him away and was up on my feet, leaning over him. “Old.” I leaned closer and hissed, “Slow.”
Dante’s laugh came out as a rasp, hands braced on his stomach, a red lump growing on his forehead, blood trickling from his nose.
Satisfaction warming my belly.
“I can do this all day, all I need is…”
One second, I was gloating over my fallen enemy, the next… my stomach dropped as I flipped through the air, landing flat on my back on the mats, the air driven from my lungs. Dante straddled me, my wrists in his hand, pinned up over my head.
Dante didn’t crush me, but I couldn’t move, back arched up off the floor, his hips—his erection—pressed into me so there was no mistake what was between us, close enough his heart hammered furiously against my chest.
His lips hovered inches from mine.
I glared up at him, chest heaving. “That was a dirty move.”
“Pit fighting isn’t exactly rule-driven,” he said, as if that explained everything. “And,”—his eyes landed on my mouth—“you’re the one gloating before your enemy was fully neutralized.”
“Oh, I’ll neutralize you,” I shot back, squirming to get my knee free. “You won’t walk right for a godsdamned week.”
