The air in the lobby seemed to vibrate as Mark's fist cut through the space between them. It was a clumsy, desperate strike, born of an ego that had never been checked and a temper that had never been mastered. To Sierra, it looked like a blur of impending violence, a final shattering of the safety she had tried to build. She flinched, her eyes snapping shut as she prepared for the sound of bone hitting bone.
But the impact never came.
Theron didn't even need to shift his weight. To a man who had faced down armed mercenaries and supernatural threats, Mark's haymaker was moving in slow motion. With a fluid, almost bored economy of movement, Theron tilted his head just an inch to the left. The fist whistled past his ear, the momentum of the missed swing causing Mark to stumble forward, his balance completely compromised.
