digging into the small of her back, his sheer size pinning her so it was impossible to move. He spat something at her in a language that sounded like Russian. She couldn’t understand the words, but the razor-sharp edge of the knife against her neck said it all for him. She froze, her breath hissing out in a long exhale of sheer anger.
He must have known she was more angry than scared. In spite of his injuries, the knife never wavered. He spoke in a foreign language, obviously asking her something. His voice was intimidating, commanding, authoritative.
That only added fuel to her rage. She forgot the knife for a moment and kicked back at him. “Speak English or kill me, but do something soon or I’m going to shove that knife down your throat.” Because in spite of everything, she was getting a little claustrophobic with him on top of her and her face pressed into the deck of her boat. She had a bad habit of losing control when 35
she was pushed this far and she didn’t trust herself, not with a knife against her throat.
There was a short silence. “Who are you? What did you do to me?”
Her heart jumped. He spoke English with an accent. Certain tones appealed to her, and his voice had something rich that settled inside of her—
that sent her temperature up another notch. “I’m the person who saved your sorry ass, and believe me, I’m sorry I bothered. I dropped two full nets of spines to save your sorry dead ass. I’m the captain, so you can just get the hell off my boat. And while you’re at it, get the hell off of me.”
She didn’t dare move again because the knife didn’t, but sooner or later, he was bound to pass out again. She couldn’t imagine that he wouldn’t, and then she’d throw his ungrateful ass back to the sharks.
Lev Prakenskii kept his weight solidly on the little hellcat spitting and snarling beneath him. He was sick, disoriented and his head hurt like a son of a bitch. He had no idea where he was or what was happening, but he had to assess and make sense of the situation fast. He was on a fishing boat.
Only one person appeared to be aboard—a woman with a major attitude problem.
She wasn’t cool and calm like an operative. She wasn’t afraid like a target would be. She was furious. He couldn’t see that she had any weapons, only the tools of her craft. He’d never seen an immaculate fishing boat, but if there was such a thing, this was it. Everything looked to be in pristine condition, although worn with age and weather. He could kill her instantly, either with the knife or simply by snapping her neck, and throw her body overboard, seize her vessel and escape, or ...
She made a sound of sheer anger, rage running through her like the tide. He could actually feel her resistance coming at him in waves, when she should have been scared out of her mind. There was something valiant about her. And she really had pulled him from the sea and revived him, that much was true, so maybe he owed her more than a quick death. She spoke English with an American accent.
“Who are you?” he hissed in a menacing voice. He “pushed” fear at her, wanting to subdue her quickly because his strength was running out.
“I’m your worst nightmare,” she hissed back, in no way intimidated.
Her black eyes never left his face, never blinked. She had a fierce stare that intrigued him when little did anymore. She didn’t appear intimidated. In fact, she was so furious, it occurred to him she might be thinking of trying to attack him.
Laughter rippled through his mind. He hadn’t laughed in years. He couldn’t remember feeling amused, yet there it was. He was exhausted, his 36
head seemed to be splitting open, he had no idea where he was or who was trying to kill him and he wanted to laugh. This little slip of a woman thought she was his worst nightmare. She had no idea what she’d just pulled out of the sea. She used an interesting choice of words to describe herself. He was fairly
He must have known she was more angry than scared. In spite of his injuries, the knife never wavered. He spoke in a foreign language, obviously asking her something. His voice was intimidating, commanding, authoritative.
That only added fuel to her rage. She forgot the knife for a moment and kicked back at him. “Speak English or kill me, but do something soon or I’m going to shove that knife down your throat.” Because in spite of everything, she was getting a little claustrophobic with him on top of her and her face pressed into the deck of her boat. She had a bad habit of losing control when 35
she was pushed this far and she didn’t trust herself, not with a knife against her throat.
There was a short silence. “Who are you? What did you do to me?”
Her heart jumped. He spoke English with an accent. Certain tones appealed to her, and his voice had something rich that settled inside of her—
that sent her temperature up another notch. “I’m the person who saved your sorry ass, and believe me, I’m sorry I bothered. I dropped two full nets of spines to save your sorry dead ass. I’m the captain, so you can just get the hell off my boat. And while you’re at it, get the hell off of me.”
She didn’t dare move again because the knife didn’t, but sooner or later, he was bound to pass out again. She couldn’t imagine that he wouldn’t, and then she’d throw his ungrateful ass back to the sharks.
Lev Prakenskii kept his weight solidly on the little hellcat spitting and snarling beneath him. He was sick, disoriented and his head hurt like a son of a bitch. He had no idea where he was or what was happening, but he had to assess and make sense of the situation fast. He was on a fishing boat.
Only one person appeared to be aboard—a woman with a major attitude problem.
She wasn’t cool and calm like an operative. She wasn’t afraid like a target would be. She was furious. He couldn’t see that she had any weapons, only the tools of her craft. He’d never seen an immaculate fishing boat, but if there was such a thing, this was it. Everything looked to be in pristine condition, although worn with age and weather. He could kill her instantly, either with the knife or simply by snapping her neck, and throw her body overboard, seize her vessel and escape, or ...
She made a sound of sheer anger, rage running through her like the tide. He could actually feel her resistance coming at him in waves, when she should have been scared out of her mind. There was something valiant about her. And she really had pulled him from the sea and revived him, that much was true, so maybe he owed her more than a quick death. She spoke English with an American accent.
“Who are you?” he hissed in a menacing voice. He “pushed” fear at her, wanting to subdue her quickly because his strength was running out.
“I’m your worst nightmare,” she hissed back, in no way intimidated.
Her black eyes never left his face, never blinked. She had a fierce stare that intrigued him when little did anymore. She didn’t appear intimidated. In fact, she was so furious, it occurred to him she might be thinking of trying to attack him.
Laughter rippled through his mind. He hadn’t laughed in years. He couldn’t remember feeling amused, yet there it was. He was exhausted, his 36
head seemed to be splitting open, he had no idea where he was or who was trying to kill him and he wanted to laugh. This little slip of a woman thought she was his worst nightmare. She had no idea what she’d just pulled out of the sea. She used an interesting choice of words to describe herself. He was fairly
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