Page 18 of Marked By the Mob

She’s fast. I’ll give her that. But she’s not faster than me.

I move to intercept, blocking her path before she can reach the hallway. She doesn’t slow down. Instead, she shifts her weight and aims a kick at my knee that would drop most men. Isidestep, catching her leg and using her momentum to throw her off balance.

She recovers quickly, her hands coming up in a defensive stance that tells me she’s had real training. Not just basic self-defense courses. This is combat training, the kind that takes years to develop.

“Artur,” Eduard says from behind me, his voice carrying a warning I ignore.

Emma lunges forward, her fist driving toward my face. I block it, but she’s already moving, following up with a combination of strikes that force me back a step. She’s good. Better than I expected. And the fire in her eyes, the absolute refusal to back down, does something to my pulse that has nothing to do with the fight.

I catch her wrist on the next strike and twist, forcing her to turn. She goes with the movement instead of fighting it, using the rotation to drive her heel down onto my instep. Pain shoots up my leg, and I release her automatically.

She breaks free and makes it three steps toward the door before I grab her from behind, wrapping my arms around her waist and lifting her off the ground. She thrashes immediately, her elbow catching me in the ribs hard enough to make me grunt.

“Fuck,” I mutter, tightening my grip. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“Let me go!” She twists in my arms, all fury and desperation.

An idea forms, reckless and probably stupid, but I can’t shake it. If she wants to fight so badly, if she’s determined to prove she’snot some helpless captive, then fine. Let’s see exactly what she can do.

I adjust my grip and start dragging her down the hallway in the opposite direction from her room. She fights me every step, her boots scraping against the marble floor as she tries to break free.

“Where are you taking her?” Eduard calls after us.

“Training room,” I say over my shoulder.

Rurik appears in the doorway, his expression unreadable. “Artur.”

“She wants to fight,” I say, still wrestling with Emma as she drives her elbow into my side again. “Let’s give her the chance.”

For a moment, I think Rurik will try to order me to stop. Then he nods once, a slight movement that might be approval or resignation. I don’t wait to find out which.

The training room is on the lower level, a large space with padded mats covering most of the floor and equipment lining the walls. We use it for sparring, weapons practice, and keeping our men sharp. Right now, it’s empty except for the two of us.

I release Emma in the center of the room and step back, putting distance between us. She spins to face me immediately, her chest heaving and her hair falling loose from its braid. There’s a wild beauty to her like this, all fury and fire, and I have to force myself to focus.

“You want to keep fighting?” I gesture to the mats. “Then let’s do this properly.”

Her eyes narrow. “What?”

I move to the equipment rack and grab two pairs of training gloves, tossing one set to her. She catches them automatically, her gaze never leaving mine.

“Prove you’re as capable as you think you are,” I say, pulling on my own gloves. “Show me what an FBI agent can do.”

For a moment, she just stares at me. Then her jaw sets, and she yanks the gloves on with sharp, angry movements. “You’re going to regret this.”

“Maybe.” I grin despite myself. “But it’ll be fun finding out.”

She doesn’t wait for me to finish speaking. She comes at me fast, her movements controlled and precise. I block her first strike, then her second, testing her rhythm. She’s not just throwing punches. She’s using proper technique, targeting vulnerable points.

I counter with a jab that she slips easily, then I follow up with a combination that forces her back. She absorbs the pressure without panicking, her footwork solid as she circles to my left.

We move across the mat in a blur of motion, trading strikes and blocks. She’s faster than I expected, using her smaller size to her advantage. When I press forward with power, she gives ground and counters with speed. When I try to corner her, she slips away before I can close the distance.

She lands a clean hit to my ribs that makes me grunt, and satisfaction flashes across her face. It’s the opening I need. I surge forward, catching her off guard, and drive her backward until her shoulders hit the padded wall.

She doesn’t give up. Even pinned, she fights, her knee driving toward my groin. I block it with my thigh and grab her wrists,pinning them above her head. She struggles, twisting against my grip, but I use my weight to hold her in place.

“Done yet?” I ask, breathing hard.