Val! What are you doing?” Rose seized his arm before he could throw another punch. He might not need to. The first one had caught Hardt by surprise and sent him stumbling backwards. He’d hit his desk and had to twist around, bracing his arms on the surface to keep from losing his balance and falling to the floor. Red drops spattered the papers cluttering the surface. Disorganized, as well as being an adulterous bastard. Val couldn’t shake off his wife to go after the rogue. She clung to him, babbling. Whatever she said couldn’t penetrate the thick, hot cloud enveloping him. He’d heard men speak of a red haze or bloodlust, but he hadn’t understood it until now. He wanted to tear Hardt apart with his bare hands. The agent turned to face him, feet braced, his body tense with readiness. Blood smeared his cheek and dripped from his nose. A thought niggled the back of Val’s mind, told him he should be disgusted with himself. Instead, he experienced a kind of euphoria he’d never felt before, a feeling that might’ve concerned him if he weren’t so enraged.
