Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires 12)

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.”

o;Out!” Ethan bellowed.

The temps jumped. Ever cool, Luc’s gaze flicked to me, and I nodded infinitesimally. It was safe for him to leave; I’d handle this. I’d handle Ethan.

“You heard your Sire and Master,” Luc said, walking over to pick up a clipboard and his shoes. “Everybody out.”

They filed out in silence but didn’t bother to hide the curious looks they threw at me, at Ethan. They knew something was wrong; they just didn’t know what that was. Let the speculation begin.

When they were gone, Ethan closed the door firmly, locked it, then walked to a nearby bench. He pulled off his suit coat, tossed it aside. Unbuttoned the first button on his shirt, pulled it over his head. His belt, shoes followed. Without a word, wearing only his suit pants, he stepped into the middle of the mat, stretched his arms over his head.

Normally, I’d have admired the long, strong lines of his body, the stretch of smooth skin over muscle as he warmed up. But this time I was thinking about strategy, about how I could keep him from doing something he’d regret later, at least politically. About how best to channel his mountain of energy. And possibly, when all was said and done, about having my way with him.

I pulled off my shoes, dropped my jacket onto the floor, and strode forward in bare feet. I glanced around at the weapons that hung from the room’s paneled walls. Pikes, swords, maces, axes. “Do you prefer weapon or hand-to-hand?”

Ethan’s eyes were still silver with emotion. “Either is fine by me.”

“Excellent,” I said, mirroring the cockiness in his stance.

Music filled the room, a Muse song about fighting, combat, and victory. That would have been Luc’s or Lindsey’s doing. And since the scene had been set, I didn’t waste any time. I feinted left, and when Ethan began to pivot, I executed a side kick that he only just managed to block with a forearm.

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.