When Heroes Fall (Anti-Heroes in Love 1)

“I’ve decided I like you,” Dante told me as if I’d asked or cared about his opinion.

“You don’t know me,” I countered, starting to stretch for my workout, eager to exert myself physically to rid my body of this…excess energy fizzing through my blood like soda pop.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m beginning to, and it’s a journey I’ve found I am enjoying,” Dante said as he moved toward the wall and flicked on the overhead lights.

I was glad when he moved out of my view so I could duck my head and take a few steadying breaths.

Why was that somehow the nicest thing anyone had said to me in years?

“Now, for my second rule,” Dante began as he crossed back over the mats on that rolling, athletic gait that made my mouth go dry.

He stopped a few paces from me and crossed his arms as he assessed me. I tried not to squirm under the intense perusal. I worked out five times a week, so my long, lean body was tight with muscle, my curves slight and distinctly lacking unlike my mother and two sisters.

“I heard from Marco––when he finally stopped laughing––that you disabled Adriano and held a knife to his throat. Is this true?”

I studied my nail beds. “Maybe.”

He chuckled, a dark note that pulsed between us like a plucked bass. “Molto bene. I like to hear this, Elena. A woman should know how to defend herself. I’d like to see what you can do.”

“Why?” I asked suspiciously, suddenly seeing his thickly formed limbs in a new light. I did not want to fight him. Even my instructor at the dojo wasn’t as big as Dante.

His lips flickered with the urge to suppress his humor. “Humor me. I need to see the moves of the woman who caught the most able man I know off-guard.”

I wanted to protest because I definitely did not want to fight him. Not because I was truly afraid—despite everything, I didn’t think he would hurt me—but more because I didn’t want him to touch me.

It was an irrational fear, something like a superstition that each time Dante put his hands on me, something elemental changed in my physiology. I didn’t like his hand on my throat or my hand in his, so why had I let him do that to me? Why had I leaned into that strong collar just to feel my heart beat faster?

It hinted of darker, deviant things I wasn’t ready to think about, let alone confess any kind of liking for.

But I couldn’t voice any of that because suddenly, two hundred and thirty pounds of hard-muscled British-Italian man was barreling down on me.

Instinct kicked in, thrumming through me like music, prompting my body to step into fighting the way most people did into dancing, the moves programmed into my muscles by memory.

He grabbed for me, meaty hands going for my shoulders. I ducked slightly to the right, leaning down into his body as if going for his groin. Instinctively, he lowered one of his hands to protect his family jewels. I took advantage of his distraction to pop up on that right side and jab a short, strong punch to his low belly.

He laughed.

A warm, rich chuckle that increased in volume as we continued to tussle.

He grabbed me from behind when I spun away from his questing hands, his arms banding around my torso nearly twice over. I kicked back with my left foot, connecting with his shin, then quickly dug my right heel into the tender arch of his other foot. His hold loosened just enough for me to pull my arms from the bear hug. I reached up to slap them over his ears, hoping to disorient him. I must have gauged the angle wrong because he only chuckled menacingly, his entire body hot and hard with exertion pressed front to back against mine. Thinking quickly, I wrapped my leg around his and tipped my weight, trying to take him off balance. The big lug was just too heavy, and instead of falling to the mat on his back, he tossed me to the ground on mine before kneeling over my prone body.

I was panting hard, the metallic burn of adrenaline on the back of my tongue as I glared up at his smug mug. He wasn’t breathing hard at all, nor was there a single bead of sweat on his smooth skin.

“Non male,” he praised.

Not bad.

I huffed, blowing an errant curl out of my face as I struggled to break free of his hands pinning mine to the mat by my head. “I haven’t had to fight someone so fat before. It’s a lot of weight to offset.”

His laughter scored through me like a shot of grappa. He leaned back, releasing my hands to pat his tight, boxed stomach. “I like your mama’s pasta.”