Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires, #12)(41)

Ethan used the arm to push me off. I spun down, then around, and faced him from a low position. I tried a strike at his shin, but he jumped, managed a back flip that put him a few feet away.

His anger was still hot. Time to let him burn some of it off.

“Are you afraid I’m going to kick your ass? Because you seem to be holding back,” I said.

Ethan’s lip curled.

“That’s not an answer,” I said, “but it is a pretty good Elvis impersonation.” I gestured him forward with a crooked finger.

We moved toward each other, meeting in the middle of the mats. He struck out with his right elbow, but he was angry and telegraphed his move. I saw it coming, spun, and came up behind him, kicked him gently in the ass. “A point for me. Quit holding back.”

He turned around, hands raised to block my next strike. “I’m not holding back. I’m trying not to take my seething rage out on you.”

“Why? You think I can’t handle you?”

He offered a crescent kick, which I avoided by leaning back just in time. He struck again, and I kept the momentum, putting out my hands into a back bend, then flipping over.

“Better,” I said when I was upright. “But you’re still only barely trying.”

I meant to piss him off. Meant to make him face that betrayal, the fact that shifters weren’t really all that different from vampires when it came to playing politics.

Ethan growled deep in his throat, a predator preparing to take his prey.

I shivered, but there was no fear in it. My body reacted to his power and his confidence, even if his emotions were masked by frustration. Since he still needed to work through that frustration, I tried another side kick.

This time, Ethan managed to catch my leg. He twisted, sending me off balance. I hit the floor on my back, stared up at him . . . and felt my eyes go silver.

I saw the flare of panic in his eyes—that he’d hurt me—but I kept my gaze steady on his as I rose to my feet. “Do that again.”

My voice sounded rough, breathy. A woman on the edge of arousal. Not because he’d gotten me on the floor, but because of his strength and power. Beneath the expensive suits, the imperious nature, Ethan was a soldier. He’d lived as one, nearly died as one. And in becoming a vampire, had been reborn as one.

Didn’t that make us one and the same—two people who’d been clothed in something other than what they were? Me, before. Ethan, now. But nevertheless, at heart, warriors always ready for battle.

“Again,” I repeated, and assumed the fighting position, beckoning him forward.

He watched me, evaluated, took in the flush in my cheeks, the silver of my eyes, the intensity of my expression. I watched his recognition bloom—that he hadn’t hurt me. That he’d thrilled me and was fully capable of doing it again. As his understanding bloomed, his frustration eased.

“Very well, Sentinel,” he said, and this time his voice was silky. He reset, arms bent, fingers loosely fisted.

I went in high with an uppercut. He dodged to the side, tried a low punch that nearly landed. But this time, I flipped backward into a handspring, popping up a few feet away, my ponytail bouncing with the motion.

Ethan didn’t waste any time.

He vaulted forward with a spinning kick that I’d have sworn whistled through the air. The kick was shallow, glancing off my arm as I blocked. I aimed a low kick at his balancing foot when he settled to knock him off-kilter. Like a practiced gymnast, he jumped over my kick, then spun backward over me.

I turned to face him again, and we stared at each other like raging animals, chests heaving, hearts racing. Ethan moved first, nipping at my bottom lip, tugging nearly hard enough to draw blood.

I dug fingers into his shoulders, pulled him toward me.

“Ethan,” was all I managed to say before the door opened, before we were thwarted for the second time tonight.

“This is becoming a really bad joke,” I muttered.

A white flag slipped through the door, waved for detente. No, not a flag—a paper towel taped to a plastic-wrapped stick of beef jerky. I didn’t appreciate the interruption, but I could appreciation the symbolism: peace via dried meats.

Luc’s head popped inside, a hand slapped over his eyes. “I don’t want to see what’s happening in here, although if the magic is any indication, it’s illegal in at least a couple of states. Liege, Nicole’s on the phone for you. She wants to talk about Caleb Franklin’s death, and Malik thought you’d want to take it.”

Ethan ran a hand through his hair, settling himself. “And why didn’t Malik deliver the message?”

“Because I lost the bet.”

Ethan held back a snicker, but something relaxed in his expression. If nothing else, he was home among friends. “I’ll be right up. Shut the door, please.”

“Nothing would please me more,” Luc assured him, and slipped out again, pulling the door closed behind him.

“Well,” Ethan said, glancing down at me, “I guess that brings this experiment to an end.”

“Temporarily,” I said. “Temporarily.”

His eyes gleamed with appreciation. Without a word, he pressed his mouth to mine, a promise of things to come. “I need to take the call.”

“Take it,” I said. “I believe my work here is done.”