Accidentally Yours (Merffy Kizzmet) novel Chapter 230

Chapter 230

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Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

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Sing it. Keep the brain from doing the bad thing.

The rings died at once black box. Someone thought they were clever. In the dark, breath is a map. She stepped into the shadow like it had been drawn for her. First silhouette’s inhale betrayed him; wrist, turn, down; ink by feel alone, precise.

Fourteen.

Another crept. Her back elbow found ribs; his grunt gave angle; she used his belt as a handle, posted him on a crate, slashed.

Fifteen.

Plastic whispered left, grit ticked right. She smiled into the black.

Oh baby. Hide–and–seek with knives.

Light bled back in pieces. Under an amber pool, a heavier man waited–teacher’s stance. Not a graduate, Dom himself. Bare forearms, tape on the wrists, the set of a man who never pulled with her and won’t start now.

He lifted his chin a fraction. Invitation accepted.

They met like weather fronts, pressure and pressure.

Dom’s jab was a metronome; his cross a hammer; his feet made small truths. She shaved the cross by air and put knuckles into his tricep to gray the arm. He answered by crowding her space and stealing her step. She fed him a clinch he thought he owned and turned it on a hip pivot he’d taught her six different ways. His back met a crate; he bounced off, smiling beneath the mask in the way his shoulders told

on him.

No words. The respect was the silence.

He changed levels; she sprawled with love and hatred. He snapped an underhook and tried to climb; she stripped it and chased the outside angle. He dumped her to a knee; she rose into him with a shoulder that stole his breath. The room narrowed to two people who refused to insult each other with mercy.

They hit the floor together and rolled through it clean–no scrabble, no panic–just math. He tried to isolate an arm; she crowded him with hips and stole the geometry. He posted a palm to lift; she fed it into a trap and turned his momentum. He hit on his side; she rode the bounce into top and pinned him with forearm across collarbone, thigh heavy across his waist,

He bucked. She let him practice survival for one beat, then shut the door with her weight and the bone knowledge of him. The pen laid a crisp black verdict where his throat would be if she were cruel.

Sixteen.

Her breath hitched, exertion, affection, triumph and a grin cut through it. She didn’t say it out loud, but the thought came anyway.

Sorry, big guy. I’ll bring the ice pack.

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11:36 Mon, Oct 20 M…

Chapter 230

She squeezed his shoulder once, thank you for not insulting me with half–strength, then rose.

The bay breathed they both did. Plastic clacked. Radios murmured. Smoke kept its secret.

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Footsteps gathered behind her, men who had watched their anchor fall. They rushed together because fear makes people think harmony wins fights. She yanked a tarp down like a curtain. In the blind instant, left–hand then right–hand, she wrote both throats ambidextrous and petty. The marker squealed its approval.

Seventeen. Eighteen.

The floor seam changed pitch beneath her boots: ankle trap. She gave them a ballet instead. Step, pivot, step, plant–ballerina turned

-butcher.

Balance, baby. That’s the whole sin.

A deeper tread entered the bay. Her spine knew before her eyes bothered.

He stepped from the shadow: tall, deliberate, full–face skull mask–bone–white composite, matte; lower jaw a hinged plate locked under a chin strap. Tactical blacks. No insignia. No tells.

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