Page 14 of The Captive
"Then you should know to count your losses," I advised. "I'll let you live, I suppose, out of respect for… the past. Everything stays here though. It's mine now."
Her laugh was low, musical, entirely without humour. She shook her head, auburn hair catching the dim light. "Of course."
Pursing her lips, she moved with surprising speed, diving for the exit. The devil on my shoulder told me not to let her though. I intercepted her easily, spinning her against the wall. The flash of a blade caught me off guard, aimed at my throat.
I deflected, the knife slicing across my palm instead. Blood welled hot against my skin.
"First blood to you," I acknowledged, feeling a spark of appreciation.
"And the last," she hissed, slashing again.
I sidestepped, but I wasn't fooled. Every strike of hers was deliberate, economical, yet strangely performative—as if she were showcasing her skills rather than fighting to kill.
Perhaps she wanted me alive…
"You're holding back," I observed, parrying another strike. "If you wanted me dead, you'd have gone for the femoral artery, not these theatrical swipes."
Anger flashed across her face, making her eyes burn brighter. "Don't mistake strategy for hesitation, Moore."
She launched forward with renewed intensity. I blocked, caught her wrist, and applied precise pressure to the nerve cluster. The knife clattered to the floor, but she countered immediately, hooking her foot behind my ankle and nearly toppling me.
We grappled, her body surprisingly strong for its delicate appearance. Each time I gained advantage, she countered with unexpected ingenuity. Each time she created an opening, I closed it with practiced efficiency.
Finally, I pinned her against the wall, one hand securing her knife arm above her head, my forearm across her throat—not pressing, merely containing. I leaned in, bringing our faces mere inches apart. She was just as breathless as me.
"Quite the hellcat," I murmured, tasting copper where my lip had split. "Tell me: why this, why now?"
Her pulse raced visibly at her throat, chest rising and falling rapidly against mine. The scent of her—botanical with hints of amber—registered unexpectedly.
"Fuck you," she spat, eyes flashing with emerald fire.
"Articulate as well as dangerous," I commented dryly. "Not very polite. But then, you've always had your own way of doing things."
She bucked against my hold, bringing our bodies into fuller contact. The movement sent unexpected heat through me—a visceral reminder that this was no ordinary adversary. Her body was all lean muscle and subtle curves pressing against mine, her breath warm on my face.
"Your surveillance operation ends today," I said evenly, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Whatever intelligence you've gathered, whatever plans you've made—it doesn't matter. Quit it now."
"Or what?" she challenged, voice husky from the pressure on her throat. "You'll kill me like you killed my father?"
"If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be talking right now." I leaned closer, my lips near her ear. "Consider this professional courtesy. Walk away."
Something shifted in her expression—a flicker of respect, perhaps even reluctant appreciation. For a moment, I thought she might consider the offer.
Then, her knee shot upward.
I twisted my body, taking the blow on my thigh. The shift in balance was enough for her to wrench her knife arm free so she could make her attempt at slashing my face.
I caught her wrist, the blade coming dangerously close, reflecting my own dark eyes back at me. This was no longer testing. She meant to do damage.
"Enough," I growled, applying true pressure for the first time.
I spun her around, using her momentum, and slammed her back against the wall with enough force to rattle nearby shelving. Her knife clattered away. Before she could recover, I captured both wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head, while I braced my other forearm across her collarbones.
Our faces were so close, her breath warm on my skin. Something even more treacherous sparked between us, aided by the fact we were alone, in a dark place, locked in some kind of invisible bubble.
"You're making a mistake," she said, voice transformed into something more complex than anger. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."
"I'm beginning to get an inkling," I admitted, unable to keep appreciation from my voice. "But this ends now."
