Free A Brutal Tenderness by Marata Eros Page B

other, fist to jaw. We’re so slicked with our sweat I
can hardly make purchase.
    He’s the only one crazy enough to get into a sparring match
with me anymore. Practicing hand-to-hand just got dangerous
with Agent Blaine “Cas” Steel.
    Dec’s got his longish black hair tied in a ponytail at his
nape, his nearly black eyes rising above cheekbones that
give proof to his Native American heritage—along with the
occasional banshee wail.
    I don’t tease him about his warrior outbursts, and it’s not
because I’m a lover of the political correctness movement that’s
swept our nation, tying everyone’s tongues in fear of saying
something that might offend. No, I don’t say anything because
Clearwater can very nearly kick my ass. I’ve learned not to push
it if I can’t back my shit up with my fists.
    Clearwater closes in. Speed is his weapon, his feet light as
he stabs at the gaps I offer him in my defenses.
Go hard or go home , I think. It’s not just something I think;
it’s something I live.
I’m running on empty. Two hours of sleep sucks my stamina
like a gaping chest wound. My grueling workout with Adams
at 5:00 a.m. underscores the fatigue in a neat little package of
too slow.
Clearwater understands me on some primal level in a way
no one else can. He’s as instinctive as I am. Sometimes that
works out; other times, like now, it just pisses my shit right off.
“I’m closing in on Jewell, Steel.” His innocent comment is
delivered with a sexual undertone that makes my jabs falter.
Clearwater snakes a knuckle-sloughing punch at my ribs,
and I feel it like a discordant note that’s held next to my
eardrum. I whip around, taking him in the thigh with my
instep, that tender place where the muscles connect just above
the knee.
“Fucker,” he hisses in pain, ducking my punch. My fingers
graze his head, picking up a few ebony strands.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I huff, controlling my breathing, which is
crawling toward tortured.
“She’s confided in me,” he singsongs. Thwack, punch. We
grapple, then disengage, circling each other.
His gaze locks with mine. “I planted the date-rape seed
about Brock, I came to her rescue. She trusts me.”
I swing and land one in his gut, a steel plank. We’re all
in top shape, a requirement of our profession. You never
know when you’ll be called on to sprint a quarter mile until
your hands shake with fatigue, when all you have are fists to
defend yourself because you’ve been disarmed. It’s a helluva a
motivator.
“Don’t make her like you too much, Clearwater,” I warn,
going for his throat. He blocks my strike with a laugh, shaking
his forearm, which will manifest a deep grape bruise tomorrow.
“I won’t lie,” he adds, a manic spark in those eyes, his skin
holding only a little flush from exertion, the dusky skin tone
hiding how wrung out he is. “I do want to have a taste—”
He doesn’t get the last words out before I launch, Superman
style, at him, and he pinwheels backward, laughing so hard he
stumbles. I land on him, neatly straddling him, my hand buried
and gripping his ponytail.
“Don’t fuck with me on this, Dec,” I say in low voice. The
thought of another man touching Jewell makes adrenaline
surge and roll from my middle to rush to my extremities in a
numbing tide.
He smiles like I’m not ripping his hair out. “Luke told me,
Cas.” He makes smacking kissing sounds, and I dump his head
on the mat and stand.
I’m not taking another lecture. No. Fucking. Way.
Clearwater lies there, propping himself up on his elbows,
crossing his ankles.
I walk off. I hate, just fucking loathe, anyone seeing a flicker
of emotion or investment in my carefully crafted nonchalance.
I plant my hands on my hips, pacing the four corners of our
training ring, the soft pad of the mat giving under my angry
footsteps.
“I’ve got your back, Cas,” Agent Clearwater soothes.
I breathe in and out. Hating that I don’t have