Page 16 of Ruthless Touch

“I’m not afraid to be torn up a little if that’s what the kitten’s asking. Feel free to claw me all you like. But make no mistake—a kitty cat could never beat a dragon. She will always be a snack for him at the end of the day.”

I scoff with open derision, eyebrow arching. “And who’s the dragon? Is he in the room with us?”

“The dragon is the same man who had you gasping and squirming like a helpless little kitten two minutes ago. And he’s the one who will tame you by the end of the night. But you already knew that. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

We lap the room again, circling each other like the suite really has become some cage for a death match.

That’s essentially what this moment has become—only one of us is making it out alive.

I had counted on Gun already being dead. If not by the poison I slipped him in the glass of soju, then while he was distracted playing with my breasts.

But now things have taken a messy turn.

I’ll have toreallyearn this kill. Perfectly fine with me.

I’ve been waiting years for a chance like this.

Rhee Gun-woo thinks he’s dealing with a kitten, but the truth is, he’s really facing off with apanther.

“You knew who I was,” Gun muses aloud. “You sought me out to assassinate me. Which means I know what you are.”

“And what am I?”

We go in another circle, standing opposite each other, bodies coiled like snakes about to strike. We’re both waiting for the other to make the first move.

“You’re a Black Suit,” he answers. “But not just any Black Suit. You… you must betheBlack Silk.”

Another slow, tense lap around the room.

The corner of my lips quirk. I give him one of the long flirtatious blinks he’s grown so fond of, my eyelashes fluttering.

Then… I strike.

I’m known for my speed, and now is no different. I rush at Gun with pure agility, driving low. My heel skims across the floor as I go for a sweep.

He proves to be just as fast and reactive, jumping to escape my takedown attempt.

I’m not one to give up easily. As he lands, I’ve already pivoted to jab at his ribs. My fist arcs in a wide sweep with both speed and strength packed into the punch.

This hit lands.

Gun grunts and stumbles a few steps back, on the defensive. I launch my next assault, demonstrating what I can do in a series of quick strikes and kicks.

He blocks each blow, ducking when necessary.

“Too slow,” he taunts, holding up his forearm to shield his face.

“Or maybe so fast you only think I’m slow.”

My knee connects with his ribs, my attack targeted.

Find a vulnerability. Expose said vulnerability, then weaken it until the target can’t go on.

A few more blows and his rib will fracture.

I drive my knee in again. But this time he catches me, his forearm hooking under my thigh. His other hand shoots out to clamp my wrist and wrench me off balance.

It’s a show of pure brute force.