From Chapter 6, The Murder Museum

Hanavari saw him. Her smile was all teeth. She finished her move with an athletic flourish, then jumped, landing on the floor directly in front of him, silent as a cat.

"Looking for me, boys?" she purred. The second goon had just entered behind the first. "I know a place that's much more... private."

She turned and, without looking back, walked toward a red-lit "VIP" hallway. The goons, their professional training warring with their absolute confusion, glanced at each other and followed.

The hallway was empty, a red-lit corridor leading to a fire exit. Hanavari stopped at the end and turned. "Here we are."

The first goon raised his Concord-issue dampener. "I don't know what you are, but—"

Hanavari moved. She was fast. She didn't use a "spell." She used a move. She ducked under his arm, grabbed his wrist, and used his own momentum to slam him face-first into the wall.

As he recoiled, she wrapped her legs around his neck in a perfect hurricanrana takedown, driving him to the carpet.

The second goon lunged, but he was a brawler, not a wrestler. Hanavari, still on the floor, snaked a leg out, tripping him. He stumbled, and she was on him in an instant, applying a perfect, suffocating chokehold from behind.

He thrashed, his ex-Concord training screaming, but she was locked on, her body a vice. He was trying to fight.

He was resisting.

And as he resisted, as his will to dominate struggled against her superior, physical control, he was submitting.

Hanavari closed her eyes, her lips parted in a sigh of pure, ecstatic relief. She drew on him.