Page 94 of Steel

As soon as I walked into the house, the quiet inside prickled my senses. With the leash off, Zorro made a beeline for Damon,who’d fallen asleep on the couch. When the pup curled up next to him, it solidified that they stay with me.

At least his sleepiness would allow me a reason to insist the little family stayed the night. I’d feel better having her under the same roof. What shit had I’d mentioned to her about not being a hero? With no sounds anywhere, I headed into the kitchen.

Violet wasn’t in the room, but she’d taken me up on my offer. The bottle of wine was on the counter, the cork positioned beside it. At least she’d been relaxed enough to pour a glass of wine. I dragged a bowl from the cabinet, filing it with water for Zorro.

She hadn’t left and no one had entered my home. I knew that instinctively not only by Damon’s continued presence, but also because I felt her. She was here. In my home.

In my life.

I sensed her being deep within the core of my bones and blood, an electric popping sensation that kept me on edge for an entirely different reason. My balls were also tight as the desire for her increased with every experience and every conversation.

There was no cause for celebration as the line in the sand was clear, but I took comfort in believing I could protect her against all evils. Whether that was true or not I honestly hope wouldn’t be challenged.

Again.

I took the time to pour a whiskey, pulling the rim of the glass to my lips as my thoughts centered on Damon’s father. Without knowing who he was, I couldn’t be but so helpful.

But the first call would be to the chief of police in the morning.

For a man who didn’t care about keeping the television or any music on for company, the silence was suddenly overwhelming. As quietly as possible, I checked every room as well as outside, finally realizing the door to the den was cracked, a light coming from inside.

With a single finger, I pushed it open. An immediate smile replaced my frown from seeing her playfully punching the boxing bag. Her actions were surprisingly effective, her small fists and powerful swings creating momentum leaving the bag swinging. With a determined look on her face, she shifted around the bag taking practice air jabs.

The sight was enjoyable, releasing some of the tension. I leaned against the doorway, enjoying the view while sipping my drink. Like any good voyeur would do. If she knew I’d returned, she didn’t show it, taking swing after swing until the bag almost bashed her in the face.

I bit back a chuckle while she continued to dance around. When the bag managed to smack her cheek, pummeling her backwards, I couldn’t keep the sound of amusement to myself.

Her reaction was everything I’d come to expect from her. Defiance swirled with annoyance. With her, a highly toxic combination. She stood where she was, inertia the only thing keeping the still swinging bag from pitching her to the floor.

And slowly turned her head toward me.

She motioned me with both her hands as if challenging me to a sparring match.

“Oh, really?” I asked, stepping further into the room.

“Oh, really. I want to see you do it.” Her challenge was irresistible.

I studied her for a few seconds before placing my drink on the table near her wine and gently pushing her away. Her glare was just another adorable reaction. “I wouldn’t want your pretty face hurt.”

“Uh-huh.” She backed away but kept her hands on her hips with her determined rebelliousness.

That only fueled the flames that had almost been smoldering all through the night. I moved in front of the bag, taking several deep breaths as I placed my feet where I preferred. Since I wasn’t professional, there was no magic or training to fall back on. The exercise was all about calming rage.

I smashed my fist against the bag with enough force she huffed.

“You’re going to break your fingers,” she commented.

“Not if I do it right.” After taking a deep breath, I swung two solid punches, moving away from the bag then issuing four jabs in rapid succession. By that point, I was lost in the moment, taking swing after swing until sweat pooled on my forehead and on the back of my neck.

As soon as I stepped away, I noticed her reflection in the glass. “Who are you hoping to crush with your fists? The man you thought was your friend?”

“That easy to tell, huh?” I grinned even though the usual anger lingered like a soft but debilitating haze.

“Yeah, but something I understand. I was pretending the bag was Kenny’s face.”

“Kenny?”

“Kenneth Coleman the third, although I didn’t know until the day I stopped by his office which Coleman he was.”