Stryker had never really considered himself an overly violent person; snark and sharp, calculated words often proved more hurtful than any fist. Yet, the satisfaction that came as pain split through his fist, ricocheting along his wrist, was second only to the way the blond figure dropped to the floor, hand clutching the side of his face and eyes stolen by shock.

The satisfaction didn't last. It was quickly swallowed by anger and he had to hold himself back from drawing back and throwing a punch at the smug little fucker.

"You—" He could have prepared a speech, but it wouldn't have done him any good. His fury frothed at...