Thud. Thud. Thud.
The woman’s energy was powerful, and her technique so refined. Marcus, a novice in combat, was completely outclassed. In seconds, he’d taken several more hits. The pain and the deep, penetrating cold were maddening. His own lack of skill frustrated him even more.
The Human Rock technique was primarily a method for building internal power; it wasn’t a fighting technique. There were ten ultimate moves described on the final pages, but he couldn’t even attempt them until his power reached the third tier or level. Right now, he was practically fighting with one hand tied behind his back. The raw, aggressive energy it fostered felt like a caged animal inside him, useless without an outlet.
’What a waste.’ The cold assassin watched the man clumsily dodge and take hit after hit, feeling a pang of something almost like regret.
This man’s raw energy reserves dwarfed her own. He was shaking off attacks that should have ended the fight. It was just that his technique was pathetic, and he had no combat instincts. He was a human punching bag, letting her wail on him. It was... satisfying, in a petty way.
Incredible potential, completely squandered. With the right teacher, guidance from her own mentor, he could become formidable. The thought surprised her; that she’d feel any admiration for him. A flicker of panic rose in her chest. She’d been pursued by handsome, highly-skilled men, all far more polished than this one, and had never been moved. Why did she care?
A heartless player. A womanizer. She quickly reran his file in her mind, recalling his listed flaws and transgressions. Her anger instantly reignited, hotter than before. Her attacks became a furious storm. She was going to teach this unfaithful bastard a lesson he wouldn’t forget.
"Goddamn it, that’s cold!"
As her assault intensified, the pain multiplied. ’This is not working. This woman is going to beat me into a coma. I can’t match her skill. I have to end this now, or I’m finished.’
Time to change the game. It was a stupid plan, but it was the only one he had.
Marcus saw her form shift, those countless phantom palms materializing again, aiming for his chest. This time, he didn’t dodge. At the last possible second, he surged forward, putting all his momentum into a desperate, bull-rush straight at her.
He was going to take the hit to get inside her guard and grapple her. It was the only advantage his raw strength and durability might give him. He couldn’t outfight her, so he had to out-brawl her.
"Ah!"
The assassin saw him commit to a reckless, mutually-destructive move. She knew his raw power was immense; she couldn’t let him touch her. And the thought of any man laying a hand on her was unacceptable. Panic flashed in her eyes. She aborted her attack, pulling back to evade his charge.
"It’s now or never!"
Seeing her pull back, Marcus panicked. If this plan failed, he was done for. He put everything he had into the lunge, his palms blazing with golden energy, aimed directly at her center of mass to shove her off balance.
Thrown off by his sheer aggression and her own aborted move, the assassin faltered. Her technique was perfect, her experience vast, but it was all from structured sparring. She’d never faced someone so recklessly committed to a suicidal tackle. She didn’t know how to handle it, and in her fluster, she could only watch as his hands flew toward her.
At the very last moment, seeing the genuine fear on her usually impassive face, Marcus hesitated. He wasn’t a killer. The fierce, aggressive energy that had been boiling under his skin; the same energy the Human Rock technique seemed to amplify, suddenly felt wrong. The powerful, focused strike he’d intended flickered and died in his palms.
His attack, robbed of its intent, went wildly off target. His momentum carried him forward, and his outstretched hands, now devoid of their killing force, landed not with a shove, but with an awkward, clumsy impact on the soft swell of her breasts.
A jolt, entirely different from the cold pain of her strikes, shot up his arms. It was warm, startlingly so. His brain, lagging a crucial second behind, was still screaming "FIGHT!" and on pure, stupid instinct, his fingers tightened, not to cause pain, but to find a grip, to stabilize his lunge.
"You bastard!"
The cold assassin cried out, scrambling backward as if burned. Tears welled in her icy eyes, a confusing mix of humiliation, fury, and a shock so profound that Marcus couldn’t begin to decipher it. He just stood there, his hands still tingling, realizing with a sinking heart that he had just made everything a thousand times worse.
"What the hell is wrong with me?"
The thought cut through the heat fogging Marcus’s mind, a sharp spike of clarity that made his heart hammer not just with lust, but with a shot of pure alarm.
’Don’t let her get away!’
As the assassin tried to twist out of his grasp, survival instinct kicked in. He knew if she broke free, he was a dead man. He lunged forward, his body moving before he could second-guess it.
"You bastard!"
She cursed him again, her palm snapping out in a slap.
It was the same gamble as before: trade a blow for control. He didn’t flinch, taking the hit as he crashed into her.
Smack! The slap stung his cheek, but there was no real force behind it; just panic. He, however, had thrown his full weight into the tackle. His arms wrapped around her, and the momentum carried them both forward until they slammed against the wall, him pinning her there.
Now he had her trapped. Her wrists were locked in his hands, his body pressed flush against hers. The soft swell of her breasts was crushed against his chest, and he could feel her frantic heartbeat; or was that his own? A dangerous, electric thrill shot through him, and he fought to steady his breathing.
Her face was inches from his, stunning and furious. The subtle scent of her skin filled his head, and a primal, stupid part of him wanted to close that final distance. He gritted his teeth, forcing his head back a fraction of an inch.
’Get a grip, Marcus. This isn’t you.’ But the thought felt weak, drowned out by a raw, physical urge that seemed to hum in his very blood. The Human Rock technique; he’d noticed the edge it had put on him lately, a simmering aggression and hunger he usually kept locked down. Was this a side effect? Had it stripped away his usual control?
"Marcus Storm, you son of a bitch! Let me go!"
She twisted against him, her body sliding against his in a way that sent another jolt of pure sensation straight through him. It was a fight for her, but for him, it was torture. He could feel the heat of her through their clothes, the softness of her, and it was all he could do to keep his mind in the game.
’This is a fight. She will kill you if you slip up. Focus!’