Page 101 of Elite Metal: Warriors

She allowed a hint of womanly regret at that, but only a hint.

Damn, he was a gorgeous hunk of man. Big and layered with muscle, his body was sculpted perfection. His face was pretty, but not too pretty. He was just roughed-up enough to make him interesting. The prickles of growth on his cheeks made his bold features a fascinating landscape. She even liked the color of his eyes—a stormy blue-gray that reminded her of winter morning in Siberia.

But he was just a man.

There was no reason for him to cause such flutters in her core. She’d already fucked him. He was no use to her now.

No man was of any use to her beyond that, she’d found.

A ripple of annoyance rose within her at the thought and she swallowed it back down.

Life was what it was. There was no changing it.

She was destined to be a lone soul—no matter what they’d tried to teach her at the academy about teamwork, no matter how much Gregor insisted they were family. Nat had learned early on that it was better to rely on no one, to let no one close. It was better to be utterly alone than to count on someone and be destroyed by it.

She was foolish to even think that there could be a man out there for her.

There was no man out there for her.

There wasn’t even a man out there like her.

Certainly not one who would tolerate her.

Hell, she could barely tolerate herself—

Cooper’s long dark lashes flickered. Nat checked her watch and then took the precaution of binding his wrists to the bedpost. When he awoke, he’d be disoriented and weak, but there was no point in taking any chances. Besides, he was larger than most men. It was difficult to say how the serum would affect him.

One thing was for certain.

He was going to be sick as a dog tomorrow.

* * *

Coop groaned as a wave of pain and nausea rose with him from the darkness.

A part of his brain—the part that would never let go of his training—knew he’d been drugged, but he couldn’t remember who had done it or why. Or where he was. Or when it was.

But he was lucid enough to be angry.

Even more so when he realized his hands were bound.

Cautiously, he opened one lid and scanned the room. It came back to him at once that this was his room in the Mandarin Palace. He was on his bed—tied to his bed, in fact.

The lights were dim, which was a mercy, because his eyes were supersensitive to the light, and he was alone.

Confusion swamped him and he struggled to remember what he’d been—

The toilet flushed and he whipped his head around as the bathroom door opened, framing an exquisite female form in the back light.

Shit.

It was her.

And the evening came flooding back. That hot, mind-blowing fuck. Her moans and howls and pleas.

That prick at his neck.

He tried to glower at her, but somehow he couldn’t maintain it and ended up grinning.