ever felt—in some ways more profound than
mù ch’i.
Not knowing what to do, Willow listened to her intuition and got out of there as quickly as she could. She tried to come up with different reasons for her flight, but she knew there was only one excuse: she was too blown away by his kiss to attempt to draw on
mù ch’i.
She’d never been kissed like that before. It’d felt like a tornado had suddenly swooped down, uprooting her, and shaking her branches to the point of snapping. The thought of it was encompassing and overwhelming.
His hands were warm and rough and forceful. How did a pencil pusher get hands like that? They took unapologetically.
And she’d wanted to give.
She tripped, almost falling to the ground. “Damn it,” she said, peeking over her shoulder as she caught her balance.
He was still behind her, keeping up with her fast pacewith ease. Frowning, she added a burst of speed. She rounded a corner and then made a sharp turn down an alley. She looked behind her and saw that he was gone.
She slowed to a walk and took a deep breath in, holding it before releasing it through her mouth. She needed to calm down and think. She took the street to her left, hoping to loop around, unseen, to make it back to the motel.
Down the block, a man stood on the corner. She scanned him quickly as she headed in his direction. Contrary to popular belief, most people minded their own business. In Willow’s experience, only drug addicts were unpredictable and prone to sudden violence, and by the way this man was dressed, he didn’t seem like a street-corner addict. Dismissing him as a threat, she bowed her head and walked past him.
There was a change in the air—a sudden increase in intensity. Willow turned around, just in time to block the first punch thrown. Without thought, she followed up with a strike to his throat and a high knee to his sternum.
He grunted, losing his breath as she connected with his neck, but he blocked her knee—and the left hook she followed up with.
They stood, facing each other.
If only she’d brought her wooden dirks with her. That taught her to be unprepared. At least he was as surprised as she was. She grinned without humor, stepping out of his punching range. “Not as easy as I look, am I?”
As he reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade, he scanned her up and down in that smarmy way some men had. “That remains to be seen, love.”
Willow kept her face impassive, but she cringed on theinside. Metal chopped wood. It was her kryptonite. Her powers wouldn’t prevent her from being cut, and she still had scars from previous run-ins involving sharp metals to prove it.
“What?” Hunched into a fighter’s stance, the man tossed his knife from hand to hand. “Not so tough in the face of a little blade?”
She angled her body to give him less of a target and concentrated on the matter at hand—finding out who he was.
Based on his accent, he was obviously British. Was he a bouncer from the club? His black clothing would suggest so, but a bouncer would have no reason to come after her. Plus, he felt more exclusive than a regular bouncer, more like a private bodyguard. The question was, who was he guarding?
“You can’t be so hard up you need to take a woman at knifepoint,” Willow taunted.
“Careful, love,” he said, swiping at her. “I was told to bring you in alive, but I doubt anyone would care if you were roughed up a little.”
She edged backward. “Who’s paying you? I could offer you more.”
He chuckled, a sinister sound. “I’m sure you could, love.”
“At least tell me what this is about.”
“You must have crossed the wrong people.” He lunged, knife straight out.
She arced a crescent kick, catching his wrist.
Crying out, he shook his hand, but he still held on to the knife in his fist. Murder darkened his gaze.
“So much for taking me in alive, huh?” she taunted.
“You only have to be breathing.” He glared, transferring
mù ch’i.
Not knowing what to do, Willow listened to her intuition and got out of there as quickly as she could. She tried to come up with different reasons for her flight, but she knew there was only one excuse: she was too blown away by his kiss to attempt to draw on
mù ch’i.
She’d never been kissed like that before. It’d felt like a tornado had suddenly swooped down, uprooting her, and shaking her branches to the point of snapping. The thought of it was encompassing and overwhelming.
His hands were warm and rough and forceful. How did a pencil pusher get hands like that? They took unapologetically.
And she’d wanted to give.
She tripped, almost falling to the ground. “Damn it,” she said, peeking over her shoulder as she caught her balance.
He was still behind her, keeping up with her fast pacewith ease. Frowning, she added a burst of speed. She rounded a corner and then made a sharp turn down an alley. She looked behind her and saw that he was gone.
She slowed to a walk and took a deep breath in, holding it before releasing it through her mouth. She needed to calm down and think. She took the street to her left, hoping to loop around, unseen, to make it back to the motel.
Down the block, a man stood on the corner. She scanned him quickly as she headed in his direction. Contrary to popular belief, most people minded their own business. In Willow’s experience, only drug addicts were unpredictable and prone to sudden violence, and by the way this man was dressed, he didn’t seem like a street-corner addict. Dismissing him as a threat, she bowed her head and walked past him.
There was a change in the air—a sudden increase in intensity. Willow turned around, just in time to block the first punch thrown. Without thought, she followed up with a strike to his throat and a high knee to his sternum.
He grunted, losing his breath as she connected with his neck, but he blocked her knee—and the left hook she followed up with.
They stood, facing each other.
If only she’d brought her wooden dirks with her. That taught her to be unprepared. At least he was as surprised as she was. She grinned without humor, stepping out of his punching range. “Not as easy as I look, am I?”
As he reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade, he scanned her up and down in that smarmy way some men had. “That remains to be seen, love.”
Willow kept her face impassive, but she cringed on theinside. Metal chopped wood. It was her kryptonite. Her powers wouldn’t prevent her from being cut, and she still had scars from previous run-ins involving sharp metals to prove it.
“What?” Hunched into a fighter’s stance, the man tossed his knife from hand to hand. “Not so tough in the face of a little blade?”
She angled her body to give him less of a target and concentrated on the matter at hand—finding out who he was.
Based on his accent, he was obviously British. Was he a bouncer from the club? His black clothing would suggest so, but a bouncer would have no reason to come after her. Plus, he felt more exclusive than a regular bouncer, more like a private bodyguard. The question was, who was he guarding?
“You can’t be so hard up you need to take a woman at knifepoint,” Willow taunted.
“Careful, love,” he said, swiping at her. “I was told to bring you in alive, but I doubt anyone would care if you were roughed up a little.”
She edged backward. “Who’s paying you? I could offer you more.”
He chuckled, a sinister sound. “I’m sure you could, love.”
“At least tell me what this is about.”
“You must have crossed the wrong people.” He lunged, knife straight out.
She arced a crescent kick, catching his wrist.
Crying out, he shook his hand, but he still held on to the knife in his fist. Murder darkened his gaze.
“So much for taking me in alive, huh?” she taunted.
“You only have to be breathing.” He glared, transferring
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