“It wasn’t in your file,” Zeke said evenly. “The training.”
I paused, gloves half-raised. “Didn’t know I had a file.”
“You all do.”
A beat.
Then I smiled—slow and sharp. “Guess mine’s missing a few pages.”
He didn’t respond. Just moved.
The first strike came fast. No warning. I dodged just barely, stumbled, caught myself, reset.
Zeke didn’t pull punches.
And I didn’t want him to.
His footwork was sharp, military-precise. I kept up, barely. Took a hit to the ribs, got one into his side. The impact stung. The look in his eyes didn’t change.
“You waste movement,” he said.
“You waste words,” I snapped back.
Another hit. I dropped low, spun, and clipped his knee. He grunted—just barely—but didn’t stop.
He grabbed my arm, twisted, threw me.
The sand caught me. My breath didn’t.
Trace stepped forward.
“No,” I snapped, hand up. “Don’t.”
The boys stilled.
Even Zeke hesitated—barely, but I caught it.
I stood. Spit blood into the sand. Smiled.
“I can handle it.”
Zeke stepped back once, eyes unreadable. “Again.”
I cracked my neck. Rolled out my shoulders. “Who’s next?”
Rhett stepped in again. No jokes this time.
We moved slower now. Measured. I was drenched in sweat, blood in my mouth, arms trembling—but I didn’t stop.
He hit hard.
I hit harder.
When I stumbled back from a body shot that knocked the air clean out of me, Rhett reached for my arm—reflex, not weakness.
I slapped his hand away. “Don’t.”
He held still, breathing hard. “You’re done.”
