Page 162 of The Rust in Her Hair

It takes the son of a bitch a while to come back to himself. The first several blows he takes, stunned, arms loose on the concrete. Then something clicks back on behind his eyes, and his hands come up. But he isn’t trying to hit me. He's clawing at my head, grabbing for my mask, hooking his fingers under the edge of it to drag it off my face.

My hands fly up, trying to save it, but the second my weight shifts off center, the fucker gets a foot down and a hand braced, and he throws his weight to one side. Losing my balance, I pitch sideways, sprawling onto the concrete.

We both scramble up. Then we're on our feet, facing each other across a few feet of empty garage.

I'm breathing hard. My fists have gone cold, and I can feel my pulse ticking in my knuckles, one raw beat after another.

Crispin stands across from me with his chest heaving. His nose is running red over his mouth, his hair's wrecked and hanging in his face, and there's a single dark spot of blood soaking into the collar of that perfect white shirt.

I can’t wait to fuck up the rest of him.

"Who the fuck are you?" Crispin spits a mouthful of red onto the concrete between us.

The rage in his voice is a beautiful thing. It's the sound of a man who has never once in his life been on this side of things, and doesn't have the first idea what to do now that the world has finally swung back on him.

I could listen to it all night.

"Answer me!" The asshole’s eyes rake over me, taking in my mask, dark jeans, and long-sleeved shirt. "Tomlinson sent you," he says like he’s figured me out.

I raise my fists again and roll my shoulders loose, easing back into my stance. I only wish he could see the grin I've got on under this mask.

"Of course he did." Crispin drags the back of his hand under his nose, and it comes away smeared. "That spineless motherfucker." He straightens, trying to find his height again, trying to talk to me like he can control me. "Go back and you tell him it doesn't matter. You hear me? This acquisition will happen with him or over him. Everything closes by Friday, whether his pathetic old man signs or not. Breaking my nose doesn't change one line of it."

I let him finish his little speech, then I laugh, easy and loud, and I watch how much he hates the sound of it.

"Tomlinson?" I say. "Nah. Don't know the man. Sounds like you've made yourself a whole lot of friends, though."

Crispin stares hard into the eyeholes of my mask, trying like hell to figure out who I am. "Who sent you?" he finally asks.

"Come on. There can’t be that many people who want you dead." I move slowly, and he turns with me, refusing to let me circle him.

"You're a dead man." He's breathing hard now, and there's a shake starting up under the anger. "Do you have any idea of who I am?"

"Oh, I know exactly who you are." I step forward, throw a punch, and pop him right in the center of his shitty face.

The asshole’s head jerks back and he stumbles, before regaining his footing.

I'm already moving again, up on the balls of my feet, light as anything. I drift side to side with my fists up and chin tucked, just like my boxing coach taught me as a kid.

Crispin curses loudly as he pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. He blinks through the water in his eyes, trying to shake the ring out of his skull. He's flat-footed. Planted.

A big, slow, expensive man who has never had to learn how to fight.

What a fucking joke.

"Come on now," I say, still dancing, still circling. "Is that the best you’ve got? Big man like you?" I feign in and slide back out, making the fucker flinch. "All that money and nobody ever taught you how to throw a proper punch? That's real pathetic."

He swings at me, but I'm already gone. Moving and circling and bobbing and weaving.

I laugh at his clumsy movements, shocked that any alpha would be this useless in a fight.

The asshole is swinging his arms like a windmill in a hurricane. I could read his next punch in the dark. I could read it in my sleep. I could probably read it with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back, whistling Dixie.

This isn't a fight. It's a goddamn public service.

And I’m tired of it already.

I move in.