She wound up again.
“Fuck. Wait—”
“Eff you, asshole!”
“Fer—”
Baring her teeth, Ferguson didn’t listen. She heaved her weapon and, without mercy, hammered him again.
9
The first strike hammered him in the middle of his chest. The second slammed into the side of his head.
Hardwood cracked against his cheek. His chin snapped sideways. Mind-shredding sound detonated between his temples. Vision sheeting white, he felt the tear as his skin split open. A metallic scent splashed into the air. Kruger cursed and, reeling from the attack, stumbled back into the corridor.
His shoulder blades collided with a row of bookcases. One of the solid wooden shelves splintered. Pain ricocheted like automatic gunfire as books jumped over the edge, taking a nosedive toward the rug underfoot. Leather-bound volumes thumped against the floor. Pivoting to his right, he avoided another strike. Something wet dripped into his eye as his mind came back online and realization struck.
Fucking hell.
Blood. His blood.
He tasted it, smelled it, felt it racing through his veins, rolling hot and thick down the side of his face, dripping from the edge of his jaw.
A droplet splattered on the floor.
The fire-venom in his plasma sparked. Woolen threads burned as tendrils of flame flared in the dark, eating through the area rug to scorch the oak planks underneath.
The flash fire died out. Disbelief rolled through him.
He blinked to clear his head, then growled at the cause of his pain. The wee she-devil. She’d hit him. Nailed him hard—twice. With unerring accuracy, when that shite was impossible.
He was cloaked, hidden deep inside an invisibility spell. No way in hell she should’ve been able to hear his approach, never mind see him coming. Certainly not well enough to crack him upside the head with a cricket bat.
A cricket bat.
Off all fucking things.
His night vision sparked, giving him a clearer view of her. Look at her, the wee witch, wielding the weapon like she’d been born with one in her hand.
He bared the sharp points of his canines. Beyond ridiculous. He’d lost his edge—or his mind. Kruger didn’t know which. He didn’t have time to figure it out either, as Ferguson spun out of the doorway. Her outfit distracted him for a second. Dressed in nothing but skimpy short-shorts and a tight tank top, she pivoted on the balls of her bare feet. Muscles flexed under her smooth skin. Energy burned through her aura, lighting up his visual field.
Green, red, touched by a hint of gold. Incredible in its intensity. Devastating. Awe-inspiring. Beauty in motion as she dipped low then came back up, poised to strike again.
Caught in her web, he didn’t react at first. He wanted to watch instead of intervene, catalog every detail. Tuck it away inside his memory to draw from another time, while he lay alone in his bed, mind churning, unable to sleep, locked in the cold, dark place he often went when silence ruled and the lair grew still. Thinking of Ferguson facing him head-on—bold and fierce, protecting her turf—would fuel his imagination and keep him warm during long nights and what seemed like endless days.
Warmth.
Goddess, he longed for it. For the ease and heat, along with the relief both would bring.
Self-preservation refused to allow the indulgence. A practiced hand, instinct came to his rescue, righting his balance, ignoring her allure, forcing him to deal with the problem at hand.
Ferguson unleashed her swing.
Kicking books out of his way, Kruger ducked.
The bat whiffed over his head.
Undeterred by the miss, she brought the weapon back around. Fast. So fucking fast. Untrained, sure, but her lack of fighting skills didn’t change what he faced.
A female on the war path, she’d skipped reasonable, flown past pissed off, and sailed straight into fury. He dodged another strike. She jabbed at him, swinging the bat like a sword. The square end glanced off the top of his thigh. He grunted. She lashed out with a backhand, driving him back toward the end of the hall.
“Lass—”
“Eff you! Eff you, eff you, eff you, you effing jerk!”
Despite the seriousness of her reaction, Kruger’s mouth curved. He shouldn’t find anything funny. Nothing about the situation warranted laughter, but…bloody hell. She was magnificent. Glorious in her fierceness. Expression set, eyes flashing, bioenergy sparking, the gold in her aura flaring so bright she nearly blinded him with her brilliance.
Respect for her shot through him.
Movements smooth and quick, she came after him again.
“Fazleima, stop,” he murmured, hands up, retreating as she advanced.
Deep in her rage, unable to see reason, she took another swipe at him. The thin edge of the square bat whistled through the air. Kruger jumped back. A swing and another miss.
Gaze riveted to her, he shifted sideways, then reversed course and pivoted the other way. A tactic designed for one purpose—to force her to move in the direction he dictated instead of the one she wanted. In full retreat, he watched her take the bait and begin mirroring his movements, knowing she was giving him the upper hand.
He clenched his teeth, not liking what he’d done…or was about to do. “Fergie—”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Sweetheart—”
“Go to hell!”
His fault. Her reaction, the fallout, was his fault.
He’d invaded her space without giving her a heads-up. For the second time in twenty-four hours.
The first time he’d wanted to unsettle her, to drive home a point—he wouldn’t allow her to stand in his way. This visit, however, something far more dangerous drove him. Compulsion, the need to know, had taken hold. So he’d done what he never had before and changed course, shoved ambition aside and made another plan. Unprecedented, given his nature, but Wallaig wasn’t wrong: Kruger needed to know why he reacted to Ferguson the way he did.
Had his reaction been amplified by the heat of the moment?
Was he imagining how he’d felt when he looked at her?
Or was his attraction driven by something else altogether?
Excellent questions that needed to be answered. Which left him with two options: respect the agreement he made with Ferguson and wait the requisite seventy-two hours before approaching her again. Or…execute a fast landing at The White Hare after sundown, infiltrate the innkeeper’s apartment while she slept, take a quick peek, disprove Wallaig’s theory, then rejoin his brothers-in-arms on the hunt.
Short, sweet, simple. He’d needed a couple of minutes. Five tops. Hardly any time at all to untangle the mystery she presented. Just long enough to take his own temperature, examine his response to her without anger fogging the lens to discover if what Wallaig suspected held true.
What he managed to achieve instead was unconscionable.
He’d frightened her.
Her expression conveyed the message. The tears shimmering in her eyes did the rest, prompting him to run through his options. Trying to talk her down wouldn’t work. Avoiding her attempts to maim him wasn’t getting him anywhere either. But he couldn’t allow her to continue. He needed to shut Ferguson down before she hurt herself.
Attuned to her bioenergy, Kruger read her fatigue and saw the crash coming. Exhaustion hung like a noose around her neck, pulling tighter with every swing she took. She stood on the edge, on the verge of going over, and yet continued attacking. He kept dodging and, even knowing it wouldn’t help, talked to her in soothing murmurs. He swung each like a weapon, listening to her breath hitch, watching her muscles strain, looking for an opening as he timed his intervention.