Rogue - Michele Mannon Page 0,21

and negotiated this screwed-up alternative that’s saved me from the war ring.

I get the feeling our would-be TORC boss is expecting a few hoots and giggles at Jaxson’s expense. Seems they have a sketchy relationship to begin with. No surprise there, being they’re two polar opposites. Hayden’s the chess master, pulling everyone’s invisible strings. Guess that’s why he’s the boss, right? And Jaxson? He’s the smooth-talking operator who could piss off the Pope in one breath then, in the next, be the smug-faced recipient of some special Vatican homily. If anyone is equipped to yank Hayden’s chain, it’s Jaxson.

“I don’t trust the guy. Why chose him?” he asks a second time.

I sigh. I’ve been struggling with this same question myself. Pity? The fact that my choices were limited to Francis and Ball-Busted, which was really no choice at all. “I owed Francis a favor for giving me a heads-up about needing a weapon for the battle ring. He might not be the best fighter out there . . .”

“ You can say that again.”

“ . . . but he did right by me and I returned the favor. Never underestimate the power of loyalty.”

“Ah, loyalty. Is that what this is about?”

“Yes.”

“And you’d call yourself loyal?” he asks softly, his eyes thoughtful as they fix on me.

I feel my eyebrows furrow. I think about why I’m here, why I’m putting myself through this. After all, revenge in a weird twisted way is the utmost form of loyalty, right? “Beyond a doubt.”

He keeps staring, assessing the truth behind my words. Something crosses his face . . . a subtle flash of awareness, like he sees past the bullshit, sees me. I blink, and it’s gone just like that.

“Mutts are loyal. Pat them on the head. Throw them a bone. Show them a little affection.”

I snort. “Are you comparing me to a dog? That’s ironic, being such a horndog yourself.”

He smirks, not denying it. Knowing full well the highly arousing effect he has on womankind.

“Sworn to fun, loyal to none,” I murmur. “Yeah, I’d bet my entire T-shirt collection that’s your motto. More your ammo.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Then, he does just that . . . surprises me, by taking his thumb and running it across his jawline. Marking his otherwise perfectly clean skin with my dirt. Like he’s putting on war paint. Or is it lust paint? I can only stare at him as he winks then walks away.

“Damn you. Do you have a death wish?” I shout after him, but he keeps on walking as if he didn’t hear me. Of all the asinine ideas, this one takes the prize. Move over, Barnum & Bailey, here comes the Kyle and the Smooth-Talking Man-Whore show.

Jesus, why couldn’t Hayden have passed a machete or meat cleaver across his desk instead of that gun? Knives? Is this something military men even train with?

Well, what did I expect given nothing about TORC training has been predictable.

As it stands, I suck with knives. Hayden knows it—hell, they all bore witness to it during Hayden’s twisted version of darts, where we tossed knives into a dummy at various paces and points were given for each major artery hit. Plus bonus points for the kill spots, not that I came even remotely close to hitting the dummy’s heart or kidney. I did manage to nail Señor Dummy in the kneecap, earning a few points for immobilizing a target—not like this one was going to make a run for the woods on the western side of the Ranch.

Declan must have been weaned with a knife in his hand. He’s that talented. The poor dummy lost an eye, an ear, and was finally put out of his misery with a sharp blade to the kidney. So despite my weak skills, our group managed to stay in the lead.

Damn it. Where is Hayden?

I walk over to the clearing where this ridiculous obstacle is to take place and nod at Declan by way of a greeting. He scowls at me and turns away. I sigh. If you can’t lead a bull to water . . .

My nerves catch in my throat as I approach him. “You busy?” I ask.

He grunts. Yep, it’s like talking to a steep-faced mountain.

“Okay, I won’t bullshit you. We’re fucking screwed.”

This earns his attention.

“Unless Hayden changes his mind.”

“Right.” One word, but I’ve got him talking.

“Or if you give me a crash course in knife throwing 101.”

I jump as Declan withdraws a knife, takes my hand, and places it handle-first in