The front door was just to the left of the lobby and it opened, the breeze from outside slipping in to ease the heat rising so fast between them. Or maybe it fanned the flames further. Malichai deepened the kiss, his tongue dueling with hers, a tango of fire—
Amaryllis cried out, the sound pouring down his throat, a scream of fear, of pain, of despair. Her body jerked backward, off of him, onto the floor. A huge man stood over her, his face a mask of pure anger, twisted into something evil as he pulled her backward toward the door by her hair. She had both hands up around her hair to try to ease the terrible pressure on her scalp as she scrambled to try to get her feet under her. Her assailant was dragging her too fast.
“What the fuck, you cheating bitch? You think you can run away from me? I told you I would find you anywhere. I’m not alone this time, and your little fuck buddy is a dead man.”
Malichai knew immediately who he was dealing with. He had known Owen Starks before he ever went to work for Whitney. He sent the appropriate SOS to his teammates, especially in light of Starks’s declaration that he wasn’t alone.
He sprang from the chair, using enhanced strength, uncaring who might see him. Both knees bent to his chest, he flew across the room. At the last possible second, his legs shot out, his boots slamming into Owen’s chest, with the force of what had to feel like a freight train. The blow drove the man back so hard he hit the wall, actually splintering the wood. The thud was loud, the force of the jolt shaking the entire house. Two pictures came crashing down, glass shattering across the floor.
Amaryllis staggered to her feet and rushed to Malichai, trying to drag him away. “We have to go. You can’t fight him. Really, you can’t fight any of them. They have some kind of armor.”
Malichai was well aware that Whitney had been experimenting on his supersoldiers. Owen had a thin steel-like plate either beneath his clothing or beneath his skin, but the armor was much like Cayenne’s silken shield. When he’d kicked Owen, he’d felt the shock of it rush right back up his body. He’d luckily landed on his feet, but his leg was shaky.
He’d run into Whitney’s supersoldiers before. They rarely lasted long, certainly not the five years Amaryllis had said Owen had worked for Whitney. They were tough and they were jacked up. “I want you to go to Trap and Cayenne. Stay there until I come for you.” He made it an order. She’d told him there was some kind of reason she couldn’t kill Owen Starks. She didn’t know why, but he was fairly certain Whitney had made it impossible.
“Honey, if you stay here and fight, I’m staying with you.” Amaryllis didn’t look at him, only at Owen as he lumbered to his feet, shaking his head and rubbing his chest.
He barely glanced at Malichai. His gaze kept straying to Amaryllis as if he couldn’t help himself, or as if he didn’t think Malichai was any threat to him. That puzzled Malichai. They knew each other. They’d met. He would have known Malichai was a huge threat.
“Come with me now.”
She shook her head. “You hurt me. I’m not going anywhere near you.”
“You deserved what you got. Whitney wants you back. You belong to me and you know it. If you care for one single person at this place, you’ll come back; otherwise, there’s going to be a lot of dead people here.”
Malichai knew most of the guests would be returning in another hour if they kept to their usual patterns. He took a few steps to his right to see if that would draw Owen’s full attention. So far, Owen didn’t seem to recognize him. Owen had always been a smart man. Quick on his feet. Huge ego. He would take in everything and everyone. He wouldn’t miss the fact that his opponent was Malichai Fortunes. They had a past. Malichai had a reputation—an even larger one than Owen. Something wasn’t right.
The door banged open hard enough that it rocked on its hinges. A very large man filled the doorway. He looked first at Amaryllis, and then his gaze shifted to Malichai. Amaryllis made a single sound of distress and caught at the back of Malichai’s shirt, tugging, trying to drag him backward away from the two huge men—men who appeared to be twins. Men who looked exactly alike. Owen Starks didn’t have a twin, but this man was an exact replica, right down to the tiny little scar that dissected his eyebrow.
“This isn’t good,” Gino said, as he joined Malichai. “Are there any others?”
“I’ve got that feeling in my gut that says yes,” Malichai said.