Page 52 of Elite Metal: Warriors

Their gazes clashed and his eyes narrowed. A muscle bunched in his cheek. Something that might have been cold fury rippled over his features.

And then he moved.

To her shock, it was her assailant he attacked. He knocked the knife away and grabbed her assailant around the neck with a muscled arm and levered him to his feet. The first man howled and flailed, kicking and scratching in a frenzy to be free. He dropped down, throwing the second man over his shoulders and onto the ground—but the beautiful warrior bounded to his feet and faced his foe with a snarl.

They circled each other, there in the foyer of her apartment, each taking the others’ measure. Michelle would have run, but they were blocking the door, damn it all anyway.

She grabbed the knife though, as it was in range, and scuttled back. She needed to be ready to face the victor when this was over. She had no idea why they were fighting over her, no idea who the second man was, but it hardly mattered. She wasn’t leaving with either of them. She didn’t trust anyone.

It was probably completely idiotic that deep down, in the well of her soul, she hoped the handsome man won. Being handsome didn’t make him a good man. In fact, in her experience, it often meant the opposite.

The two men came together in a bone-crunching rush. The fight was furious. Fists and grunts and pummeling. The dull thuds of flesh on flesh. The crack of bones. The wet retort of splattering flesh.

It quickly became clear, the pig-eyed man didn’t stand a chance.

The warrior, the beautiful beast, demolished him with clout after ruthless, savage clout. With one crushing punch, he sent the smaller man teetering back onto the carpet. After he landed, with a hearty thud, he didn’t move.

Michelle paid him little mind. She kept her eyes on the victor, the large and looming man with a sinfully stunning face. Though she held her knife before her, between them, it trembled.

He stared down at the broken man and his lips quirked in what might have been a smile. Or not. He cracked his knuckles and turned his attention to her. His eyes were cold, emotionless. His expression harsh.

“Strip,” he said.

Just that one word.

Strip.

Chapter Two

Michelle gaped at him. Her heart thrummed. A very inappropriate arousal licked through her belly. She’d heard that some men experienced raging passion after a fight, blood lust they called it, but she’d be damned if she’d be a vessel for his unruly passion. Besides which, this man was dangerous. One villain was down, but she still needed to escape him. Being naked would not help.

She tipped up her nose. “I most certainly will not.”

He leaned closer, so close she could feel his hot breath on her cheek. The scent of it assailed her nostrils, made her head spin. “Strip.”

In response, she held the knife higher. He grunted and stole it from her in a lightning-fast move. She hid her dismay, crossed her arms and stared him down. His eyes, she realized, were black. As dark as pitch. His skin was a creamy brown, revealing an indeterminate mixed ancestry. His cheekbones were high and his forehead broad. There were scars on one side of his face, but they only underscored his handsome ferocity. It wasn’t fair for an evil man to be so beautiful. To smell so…alluring.

She frowned at him. “If you intend to rape me, I refuse to help.”

“Rape you?” He reared back. His brow beetled. The first inkling of hesitation flickered across his features. He looked her up and down. His mouth twisted in a curl of revulsion—which she found unaccountably lowering—then he grabbed her purse and dumped it out on the sofa. She howled in protest but he ignored her. He found her wallet and opened it, studying her license. “You are Michelle Parsons?”

She humphed. “I am.”

The muscle in his cheek flexed again. “Did you ask a friend for help, or not?”

Her eyes widened. “Ask a friend for—” Could it be? Had James sent him? “Are you…? Is this…?”

“Strip.”

She had no intention of doing so. Not in front of a man like him. No matter what. He’d given her no evidence he could be trusted. “You first.”

With no warning—other than an infuriated flare of his nostrils—he ripped her blouse from her body. Ripped it off. Buttons went flying and skittering on the hardwood floor. The cool air hit her heated skin. She gasped in shock and covered her breasts, though it was a pointless move.

He lifted the knife and she flinched, but he only used it to slice open the collar of her—already tattered—shirt. He handed it to her, revealing a small chip tucked inside. “I’m not the one wearing trackers,” he said in something of a growl.

Speechless, she stared at the tiny black speck. “Trackers.” Oh God, of course. She nearly slapped herself on the forehead. No wonder Ralley had been able to follow her every move.

“Hurry up. We don’t have a lot of time.”