for!”
Isaac took off his sweatshirt and his combats, leaving them on the floor, and then he prowled the ring, his chin down, his eyes glaring out from under his brows. His shirt stretched tightly across his pecs, and his arms were carved with power even as they hung loosely at his sides.
Heading into the fight, he was all muscle and bone and vein, his shoulders so wide he looked like he could bench-press the damn building.
As he clawed up the cage and landed on bare feet inside, the roar of the crowd rang her head like a bell and turned her spine into an adrenaline conductor. In the glow of the eight camping lanterns that hung off the support poles, her client was part gladiator, part animal, a deadly package ready to do what he‟d clearly been trained for.
Unfortunately, the opponent who swung over the top and landed across from him was nearly a mirror image of him: same brutal build, same height, same deadly look—even dressed the same way, his muscle shirt showing plenty of the snake tattoo that wound its way around his shoulders and neck. And while the audience hollered and closed in, the two circled each other, looking for an opportunity, arms and chests and thighs tensed.
Isaac went in first, his body swinging around, his foot snapping out and catching the other man in the side with a blow so vicious, she was willing to bet his target‟s ancestors felt it in their graves.
It all happened so fast. The two fell into a rhythm of strikes and dodges, their muscle shirts quickly dampening around the neck and down the back, the buttery yellow lamplight making it seem as if they were fighting in a ring of fire. The contacts, when made, were the kind that sounded like gunshots, the hard, resonant impacts carrying over the churning, restless crowd.
Blood flew—from the cut on Isaac‟s head that was quickly reopened and then from a split in the opponent‟s lip. Neither fighter seemed to care, but the kibitzers loved it sure as if they were vampires—
A hand on her ass whipped her head around.
Moving back sharply, she glared at the guy with the wandering palm. “I beg your pardon.”
He seemed momentarily surprised, and then his bouncing stare narrowed. “Hey…what you doing here?”
The question was posed as if he‟d recognized her.
Then again, he could have been talking to Santa Claus and taking it seriously—his face was slick with sweat and half of it twitched like he had an electrical short in his cheek. He was 61
J.R. Ward
obviously tweaking—and God knew she was an expert in making that diagnosis.
“Excuse me,” she said, walking away.
He followed. Just her luck, the one idiot in the place who was more interested in hitting on her than in the fight he‟d come to see.
He grabbed her arm, pulling at her. “I know you—”
“Get your hand off me—”
“What‟s your name—”
Grier snapped herself free. “None of your business.”
He jumped at her in the space between one heartbeat and the next: The three feet between them abruptly became three inches. “You‟re wicked touchy. You think you‟re better than me, bitch?”
Grier didn‟t budge her body, but took the stun gun out and slipped the safety pin into the grip. Putting the weapon within striking distance of the front of his jeans, she bit out, “If you don‟t get the hell away from me, I‟m going to shoot six hundred and twenty-five thousand volts through your jewels. On three. One…two…”
Before she got to trigger time, he shuffled back and held quaky hands up. “I didn‟t mean…I just thought I knew you…”
As he wandered away, she kept the stun gun out and took a deep breath. Maybe she had met him during her searches for Daniel—but he was clearly out of his mind and she was in enough hot water already.
Refocusing on the ring, she looked up—
Just in time to see Isaac go down like a stone.
Fighting Matthias‟s second in command was a pleasure. Isaac had never trusted or liked the guy, and having a
Isaac took off his sweatshirt and his combats, leaving them on the floor, and then he prowled the ring, his chin down, his eyes glaring out from under his brows. His shirt stretched tightly across his pecs, and his arms were carved with power even as they hung loosely at his sides.
Heading into the fight, he was all muscle and bone and vein, his shoulders so wide he looked like he could bench-press the damn building.
As he clawed up the cage and landed on bare feet inside, the roar of the crowd rang her head like a bell and turned her spine into an adrenaline conductor. In the glow of the eight camping lanterns that hung off the support poles, her client was part gladiator, part animal, a deadly package ready to do what he‟d clearly been trained for.
Unfortunately, the opponent who swung over the top and landed across from him was nearly a mirror image of him: same brutal build, same height, same deadly look—even dressed the same way, his muscle shirt showing plenty of the snake tattoo that wound its way around his shoulders and neck. And while the audience hollered and closed in, the two circled each other, looking for an opportunity, arms and chests and thighs tensed.
Isaac went in first, his body swinging around, his foot snapping out and catching the other man in the side with a blow so vicious, she was willing to bet his target‟s ancestors felt it in their graves.
It all happened so fast. The two fell into a rhythm of strikes and dodges, their muscle shirts quickly dampening around the neck and down the back, the buttery yellow lamplight making it seem as if they were fighting in a ring of fire. The contacts, when made, were the kind that sounded like gunshots, the hard, resonant impacts carrying over the churning, restless crowd.
Blood flew—from the cut on Isaac‟s head that was quickly reopened and then from a split in the opponent‟s lip. Neither fighter seemed to care, but the kibitzers loved it sure as if they were vampires—
A hand on her ass whipped her head around.
Moving back sharply, she glared at the guy with the wandering palm. “I beg your pardon.”
He seemed momentarily surprised, and then his bouncing stare narrowed. “Hey…what you doing here?”
The question was posed as if he‟d recognized her.
Then again, he could have been talking to Santa Claus and taking it seriously—his face was slick with sweat and half of it twitched like he had an electrical short in his cheek. He was 61
J.R. Ward
obviously tweaking—and God knew she was an expert in making that diagnosis.
“Excuse me,” she said, walking away.
He followed. Just her luck, the one idiot in the place who was more interested in hitting on her than in the fight he‟d come to see.
He grabbed her arm, pulling at her. “I know you—”
“Get your hand off me—”
“What‟s your name—”
Grier snapped herself free. “None of your business.”
He jumped at her in the space between one heartbeat and the next: The three feet between them abruptly became three inches. “You‟re wicked touchy. You think you‟re better than me, bitch?”
Grier didn‟t budge her body, but took the stun gun out and slipped the safety pin into the grip. Putting the weapon within striking distance of the front of his jeans, she bit out, “If you don‟t get the hell away from me, I‟m going to shoot six hundred and twenty-five thousand volts through your jewels. On three. One…two…”
Before she got to trigger time, he shuffled back and held quaky hands up. “I didn‟t mean…I just thought I knew you…”
As he wandered away, she kept the stun gun out and took a deep breath. Maybe she had met him during her searches for Daniel—but he was clearly out of his mind and she was in enough hot water already.
Refocusing on the ring, she looked up—
Just in time to see Isaac go down like a stone.
Fighting Matthias‟s second in command was a pleasure. Isaac had never trusted or liked the guy, and having a
Similar Books
