8The man I struck was at least six inches taller than van Hoof. I hit too low, my fist smashing hard into his sternum. He gripped my right arm in his and drove his left into my mid-section. I went down hard on the bed, on my back, unable to breathe. The sequence reminded me exactly of my training. Right down to the acrid scent of French tobacco.
An electric prickle raced over my skin. Along with it came such a wave of elation that if I’d had air in my lungs, I’d have cried out. My wrist burned and my guts ached. The pain was real. This was no dream. Stefan was here.
He shifted his weight to his knees and let go of my wrist.
I inhaled a long, shuddering breath. My arms went around his neck then, my mouth found his and I tasted him, the smoky flavor I knew better than my own. I slid my ha
