The walk to the training hall was silent, the muted scuff of boots on concrete marking each step. Harper kept half a stride behind Brock, leggings second-skin tight, fitted black tank clinging to her shoulders and ribs. She'd learned fast that on combat days, loose fabric was just another handle to get dragged down by. Her hair was knotted high in a messy bun, stray strands sticking to the back of her neck.
A week had slipped past since Brock hauled her fully back into training, seven days of bruises, drills, and waking to the sting of fresh muscle ache. Enough time for her body to understand what "combat days" meant, even if her mind still locked tight against the thought of what came next. When the sessions ended, the rhythm never changed: the walk straight from mats to mess, Brock pacing her through the cafeteria lines as if routine itself could keep her from unraveling.
The heavy double doors swung open under Brock's hand. Harper stepped inside and slowed, pulse skipping as the room came into focus.
Nolan was the first shape that resolved, arms folded, shoulders broad as the wall he leaned against. His glance cut across her, quick but assessing, no grin this time, just the flat weight of a man measuring what she'd bring to the floor.
The other figure made her pause. Taller than Brock by an inch or two, built lean with ropey muscle and arms that promised reach. Sun-browned skin, dark hair clipped close at the sides, left just long enough on top to fall forward when he tilted his head. A jagged scar carved from the corner of his mouth to his jaw, pulling one side of his smirk higher. His gaze swept over her, slow and deliberate, and something in it landed with weight she couldn't name. A flicker moved through his expression—recognition, then something harder settling in behind his eyes. The look he gave her wasn't curious, wasn't cautious. It held the solid, steady dislike of a man who'd already decided what she was and didn't see any reason to revise it.
She looked to Brock, brows lifting in a silent question. Her fingers flexed once at her sides, tendons pulling tight as the math shifted in her head. Two bodies on the floor instead of one. Fewer angles she could trust, more ways to end up down if she misjudged a step.
"You need to learn how to fight against different opponents," Brock told her, voice even. "Not just me." He nodded toward the man. "Harper, this is Gunner."
Gunner's gaze slid down her frame, unhurried, lingering at her chest before drifting lower. The look wasn't curiosity. It ran over her like a hand he hadn't earned, interest threaded through with something colder that pinned her in place.
"Guess I pulled the good shift," he said, voice low, a rasp at the edges. "Didn't figure they'd send me the one who causes problems."
Nolan's eyes narrowed, his attention cutting to Gunner instead of her. The look carried warning, a reminder of who stood in the room and whose rules were in play. Brock's head turned next, steady and deliberate, his stare locking on Gunner until the curve of that smirk thinned out and went flat.
Then he turned back to her. "Rules are simple," he told her, tone unreadable. "Keep it clean. No weapons. I call it, it's over. Got it?"
She nodded, the knot in her gut cinching tighter, breath catching against it. Sparring with Brock had carved out a set of expectations—his tells, the points where he'd ease off, the line he didn't cross. With Gunner, she didn't have that, just a stranger who already looked at her like trouble.
"Stay on your feet as long as you can," Brock went on. "Adapt fast. If I step in, it's because it's over." The weight in his tone laid a line across the floor.
He jerked his chin toward the center mat. She moved to it, the rubber soft under her boots, unsteady, every step landing loud in her head. Both men's eyes tracked her—Gunner's with that slow, hungry drag edged in dislike, Brock's like a gauge needle edging higher.
Nolan stayed against the wall, arms folded, gaze steady. His presence made the air press down harder. It wasn't just Brock judging her anymore; every motion would be taken in, every weakness counted.
Gunner followed her onto the mat, rolling his shoulders until the joints cracked loud in the quiet. His hands flexed once, knuckles popping, before he settled into an easy, loose stance, like the whole thing had already been decided.
Brock stepped back from the edge. "Whenever you're ready," he told her, voice carrying enough weight to cut through the room. He moved to stand beside Nolan, both men shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the space. Nolan stayed loose, arms folded again, but his gaze didn't shift.
Harper began to circle, feet light on the mat, the rubber giving just enough to keep her balance uncertain. Gunner matched her step for step, smirk curling higher as his gaze tracked the line of her shoulders, the curve of her chest, the taper of her waist.
"Cute footwork," he drawled. "Boss been working you over in here a lot, yeah? Looks like he's got you moving just how he wants."
She kept her mouth shut. Brock's jaw flexed once, muscle ticking.
Gunner's eyes dragged over her again as he closed the distance. "Bet you've got a good scream, too," he added, voice dropping, each word drawn out. "Heard you made plenty of noise downstairs. Wonder how far it carries if someone really puts their hands on you."
Nolan's arms unfolded, his stance shifting off the wall, a slow lean that said he'd heard every word and was ready to step in if he had to. The air in the room tightened.
Her patience slipped another notch. Heat coiled low in her gut and climbed, throat prickling, pulse thudding hard against the red line under her jaw.
She lunged, aiming to catch him off guard, muscles firing with the kind of reckless momentum that had once saved her in alley fights. He was ready. He pivoted on the balls of his feet, movement smooth and certain, like he'd been waiting for that tell the whole time. His forearm smashed into hers, knocking her strike off line before she even registered the miss.
His other hand snapped down and caught her wrist. The grip clamped hard, twisting until pain streaked up through tendon and bone. He yanked her forward in the same motion, dragging her off balance, boots skidding against the mat until she hit his chest.
His body was hot and solid, breath flooding against her cheek with a stale edge that made her throat tighten before the words even landed.
"Feisty," he murmured, close enough that his lips brushed the edge of her ear. "You move like a stray that never learned what a collar feels like."
She turned into the twist, dragging her arm in toward her center and dropping her weight. His fingers loosened just enough—whether from surprise or choice—to let her tear free. She ducked low and swung for his ribs, but he slid back quick and drove his knee up hard. The impact crashed into her hip, pain jolting down her leg until her stance lurched under it.
"You fight like you fuck, I bet," he murmured. "Everything in the first rush, nothing left once someone pins you where they want you."
The words slid under her guard, cutting straight through the roar in her ears. Her pulse hammered against the thin scar at her throat, rage and adrenaline snarled so tight together she couldn't pull them apart.
She snapped a kick at his thigh, fast and high, putting everything she had behind it. His hand shot out and caught her ankle mid-swing. His grip locked down, fingers biting into the joint as he cranked her leg off line, just enough to make her knee scream warning, before he shoved. The force sent her staggering back across the mat, rubber dragging under her boots as she fought to keep from going down.
"You're light," he purred, pacing after her. His gaze dragged over her again, slow and deliberate, as if he were weighing what he could lift and where he'd put his hands when he did. "Easy to throw around." Each word slid under her skin, needling worse than the bruises forming. She rolled her shoulders back, fists knotting tight, her weight settling low. Every muscle held ready, waiting to spring the moment he came close again.
From the edge of the mat, Nolan's gaze tracked the exchange, his jaw working once as if he were grinding down on words. "He's mouthier than I remember," he muttered, voice pitched low.
Brock didn't snap back. He kept his eyes on the mat, on the way Harper's stance had shifted, shoulders drawn tight. The tendons in his forearms stood out where his hands hung loose at his sides, fingers flexing once before he stilled them. Gunner's running mouth was part of the work. The way his attention kept sliding over her like she was something he'd already claimed… that was the part Brock had to swallow down.
Harper let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "You always run your mouth this much when you can't land anything?" She shot back. "Starting to sound like you're hoping I'll get bored and lie down for you."
Gunner feinted left, then surged in close, catching Harper's arm and yanking her back into his chest. The mat jolted under her boots as her spine slammed against him, ribs crushed against the cage of his torso. His forearm locked across her collarbone, tight and immovable, pinning her in place.
His other hand dragged down her side and over her hip, rough and greedy. Then it shoved between her thighs, palm grinding up hard against the crotch of her leggings. Fingers flexed there, not just touching but claiming—pressing in deep enough to force fabric tight against her sex, to make her feel the heat of his skin through the thin stretch of it.
Her breath tore in, rage flooding fast through her chest. The stink of his skin, the pressure of his body, the hand forcing where it didn't belong—it wasn't training anymore. It was every near-miss, every memory of hands that tried to pin her down and strip her apart.
"You'd come apart so easy," he breathed against her jaw, his hand grinding harder. "Don't even need a night. Could have you shaking before they count to ten."
Nolan's brow drew low, his arms tightening until his biceps corded against his chest. Brock's spine went rigid, shoulders set like stone.
Before either man moved, Harper snapped. Her head whipped back hard, bone meeting bone in a crack that rang through the hall. Gunner cursed, grip faltering. She drove her elbow into his ribs with everything she had, the impact jolting up through her arm, and tore herself free.
She spun on him, wild and fast, fists already flying. Each swing cut the air before slamming into flesh. Knuckles crashed into cheek, jaw, chest—wet, heavy smacks that knocked his head to the side and jolted his balance. For a few breaths, surprise flared in his eyes, sudden and raw, as he gave ground under the barrage.
"Jesus Christ," Nolan muttered, rough approval threaded through the words as Harper drove Gunner back another step.
Brock's gaze sharpened, tracking every move. "She's got power," he said. "But when rage takes the lead, she leaves doors wide open."
Nolan's mouth hitched at the corner, interest flickering across his face. "Where you seeing it?"
"Shoulders give her away," Brock answered, tone flat, measuring. "Punch is halfway out before her fist knows it's been thrown."
As if to prove him right, Harper swung wide, her shoulder rolling ahead of the strike like a banner long before her hand cleared her guard. Gunner read it clean, slipping past to catch her arm mid-swing. He wrenched, twisting her momentum against her, and drove his knee straight into her gut.
The hit landed deep, a brutal thud that blasted the air from her lungs in a ragged choke. She folded over his leg, boots skidding against the mat, and his hand clamped on the back of her neck, forcing her down toward the floor.
Brock shifted, one step already angling him toward the mat, but Nolan's arm came across his path, solid and unyielding. "Let her work it out," he said, eyes locked on the tangle of bodies. "She won't learn if you keep pulling her out of the fire."
Gunner shoved her down, trying to flatten her chest-first against the mat. She twisted hard, jamming an arm between them and ripping her nails across his side. The scrape dragged a hiss out of him, his weight shifting just enough.
She drove her knee up, aiming for his thigh and catching higher. The impact smashed into the soft line where leg met groin. His breath punched out in a rough grunt, hips jerking back, grip loosening as the shock rode through him.
She used that slack like a handhold. Her shoulder dropped, rolling under his centerline as she twisted, dragging his arm with her. His own forward momentum carried him past where his feet could catch. He stumbled, one knee hitting the mat, and she shoved hard at his chin, forcing his head back and spine down until his shoulders hit the floor.
This time she didn't pause. She drove a knee into his ribs, grinding down until his breath hitched thin. Her other foot planted wide for balance, hips low, her weight angled across him. One hand trapped his wrist against his chest; her shin slid along his forearm and pinned the limb to the mat.
Her forearm pressed across his jawline, grinding sideways until his head wrenched toward the floor, neck twisted. She sank her chest and hip into him, ribs and lungs pinned. He bucked hard underneath her, hips surging in a violent bridge, but the wall crowded his shoulder blades and killed the follow-through. Her base held. His bridge stuttered out, his free hand clawing at her grip without leverage.
Brock let the silence stretch, gaze fixed on every twitch and shudder. Only when it was clear Gunner wasn't throwing her clear—when his gasps rasped thin and the fight in his limbs drained into the mat—did Brock's voice cut through the room.
"Fight's over."
Harper didn't move at first. She stayed on him, breath sawing in her chest, eyes locked on his. Then she leaned closer, so her words landed for him alone. "Next time you put your hand there, I'll snap every finger one by one."
Gunner crashed into her from behind, the hit driving her forward until her knees cracked against the mat. Pain shot up her shins, white and instant. Before she could plant her palms to push up, his fist tangled in her hair and yanked her head back, the burn ripping across her scalp.
Brock was on him in a breath. One hand clamped down on Gunner's shoulder, the other locked hard around his wrist. The wrench tore Harper's head with it, a brutal jolt before Gunner's grip gave way. Brock twisted him off her and shoved him toward the edge of the mat, the motion carrying the kind of force that ended arguments without words.
"Get out," Brock said, voice low, ground down to concrete. "You pull that shit again after I call a fight, I'll take your arm at the elbow."
Gunner's glare cut between them, chest heaving, but Brock didn't blink. Whatever he found there made something in Gunner falter. He backed off, rubbing his shoulder where Brock's grip had landed, and slipped out through the doors without another word.
Harper stayed on her knees a moment longer, breath ragged in her throat, scalp still tingling where his grip had torn her hair. The mat pressed hot through her leggings, the sting in her knees pulsing up into her thighs. She pushed up slow, rolling her shoulders back, trying to shake loose the leftover tremor of adrenaline. Her fingers gathered the strands ripped from her bun, twisting them out of her face with hands that didn't quite stop shaking.
When she finally lifted her head, her gaze hit Brock before she could pull it away. It was quick, instinct more than intention—a flash long enough for him to take stock, to see that she was upright and still holding together. Something passed through his expression, a tiny easing at the corners of his eyes, there and gone.
"Reset," he said, the word even but edged with command.
Her attention slid toward the doors where Gunner had disappeared, confusion tugging at her brow. Reset to what?
Nolan pushed off the wall and rolled his shoulders as he crossed the mat. His grin was back, stretched wide with a kind of certainty that didn't need words. It wasn't play, not exactly. He moved with an easy, unhurried confidence, like the outcome had already been decided and he was just here to enjoy the steps it took to get there. His tread stayed steady, deliberate, each step a reminder that he didn't need to measure her to know he could put her down.
Her stomach went cold. Memory surged—the thud of his fist in her ribs, the burn in her joints as the restraints wrenched her arms high, the hollow ache in her gut where he'd driven the air clean out of her. Even here, free on her feet, the echo of that helplessness climbed her spine and set her pulse racing.
She caught the strands that had slipped loose again, twisting them back into the tie Gunner had torn apart. Fingers moved fast, smoothing each loop until the motion felt precise. When she lifted her head, her feet stayed planted. She wasn't giving ground. Not with both of them watching.
Nolan stopped a few paces from her, stance loose, head tipped just enough to catch her eyes. For a breath, neither of them moved. The moment didn't feel like show; it felt like a scale being set. Her, holding the stare and refusing to blink first. Him, grin fixed, content to wait her out as if he had all day.
She broke the stillness, lunging with a jab toward his ribs. Her fist thudded against muscle, the hit drawing the faintest hitch of breath—barely there, but enough to send her chasing the opening. She followed with a hook to his shoulder, stepping inside his reach before he even bothered to square up.
Her momentum carried, a knee snapping up toward his midsection. He shifted just enough to bleed off the force, but she felt the contact land and drove in closer, circling to cut his space. A quick jab to his jaw turned his head a fraction, her pulse spiking as something hard and focused locked into place behind her eyes.
From the sideline, Brock's voice cut through the slap of feet and fists. "Nolan. Enough playing around. Stop giving her room."
The words cracked through her concentration, splintering her focus for half a breath—and that was all it took. Nolan's forearm shot across her chest, slamming her back a step before his hand clamped her shoulder and yanked her into the path of his rising knee. Pain jolted through her side, air tearing out in a ragged gasp, and before she could recover he was on her, every movement the brutal efficiency she remembered too well.
A driving kick to the back of her calf folded her down to one knee, his elbow crashing across her shoulder, forcing her to roll or be crushed flat. She scrambled back, but his reach stretched longer, faster—two quick jabs snapped her head sideways before his leg swept through hers, sending her crashing onto the mat.
The impact rattled through her ribs, the floor hard under her spine. For a second she stayed down, palms braced, lungs dragging shallow, each breath cutting at her chest. Then she forced herself upright again, knees screaming, every muscle dragging her back to her feet.
Every strike after that landed with intention—measured, surgical—but there was nothing merciful in the weight of them. A fist buried into her gut, another clipped her jaw, each one a reminder of just how wide the gap stretched between them. He wasn't chasing spectacle; there was no flourish in it. Each blow carried a quiet certainty, the kind that said he could end things whenever he chose.
A cross slammed into her mouth, rocking her jaw. Copper burst across her tongue, the metallic tang spilling hot down her lip. She staggered, palm dragging across her mouth, crimson streaking her knuckles as she straightened again. The sting lit her nerves, burned away hesitation, and something steadier settled in its place.
Her chest heaved, breath ragged, sweat clinging at her temples. She shook her head once, hard, rolling her shoulders back into place, grounding her stance. Then she began to circle again—slower, lighter, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet. Her eyes tracked him now, narrowed, reading the way his hips shifted, the way his shoulders lined before a strike.
Nolan mirrored her, calm still etched across his face, grin flickering faint at the edge. He didn't press in right away. He let her adjust, let her decide how to come at him.
This time she didn't rush. She watched.
His stance kept everything tucked in, but his weight shifts didn't—small tells in the turn of his hips before he stepped in, the faint roll of a shoulder before he struck. She held back long enough to test it, feinting left to see him adjust, marking the fraction of a second it took him to reset.
When he advanced again, she didn't meet him head-on. She slipped under the arc of his arm, driving a jab into his flank before pivoting out of reach. He turned faster this time, but she was already moving, making him track her instead of the other way around.
Her breathing steadied, the burn in her muscles narrowing into focus. She began stringing her strikes—short, deliberate hits, nothing wasted—and every time he countered, she gave ground without panic, resetting before sliding back in.
The pace shifted. He still held the edge, but she wasn't drowning in it anymore. They moved in close quarters, timing tightening—strike, counter, retreat, advance. Every time his fist grazed her shoulder or brushed her side, she let the recoil carry her into a new angle, refusing to let him lock her down.
Nolan's eyes narrowed, his pace ticking up. A quick hook grazed her jaw; she rolled with it, sting biting down her cheek but refusing to give ground. He drove low for her midsection, and she shifted back like she'd retreat—then surged forward instead.
Her left hand shot out, catching his wrist and yanking it just off-line as her right elbow snapped up in a brutal arc. Bone met bone with a jarring crack, the shock jolting through her arm and down into her shoulder.
He rocked back half a step, thumb brushing the spot. His mouth curved, almost a smile. "Not bad," he said, voice low. Then he came at her like a hammer falling.
A feint high dragged her guard up, and his fist drove into her ribs from the side. She gasped, knees trembling, but his other hand was already in her collar, shoving her backward. She tried to plant her stance, but a punishing hook to the thigh collapsed her balance, and he didn't give her the breath to recover.
The barrage hit next—short, brutal strikes delivered with mechanical rhythm. A hook slammed into her forearm, battering her guard down an inch; the next blow drove into her shoulder, rattling the joint until her arm sagged. A shot to her ribs followed, pain flaring with every breath she tried to draw. He refused to let her reset—every strike landed before the last ache faded, forcing her back step by step until she was blocking on reflex alone.
Then he closed the distance fully, one arm locking around her waist while the other hooked behind her knee. With a surge of raw force, he lifted her off her feet and turned, slamming her down hard enough that the floor itself seemed to quake. Air tore out of her lungs in a choked gasp, her body jolting as the impact rattled through bone and muscle.
Her head bounced once against the mat, the ceiling blurring overhead in a wash of light and shadow. Her chest heaved, every breath scraping against the ache in her ribs. The ringing in her ears swallowed everything, leaving only the rush of blood and the drag of air in and out of her lungs.
A shadow cut the light, and Nolan crouched beside her, forearms braced on his knees. His voice came steady, no heat in it. "You're fast, Firefly. But you're small. That speed doesn't mean shit if you get caught. Nobody fights fair out there. You slip once, you're on the ground and it's done." His gaze held hers, level. "So… don't get caught."
He pushed to his feet and offered a hand, wrist steady, waiting. She gripped it, and he hauled her up in one smooth pull. Her knees buckled, but his other hand caught her elbow, keeping her upright until her balance returned.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You did good. Better than I figured. That elbow—you earned it."
Harper managed a single nod, breath still ragged in her chest, the taste of copper thick on her tongue.
Brock stepped in from the sideline, his gaze cutting once to Nolan. "Appreciate it," he said, the words carrying real weight this time. As Nolan came off the mat, Brock lifted his forearm; Nolan's fist knocked against it in a practiced tap, a brief press of knuckles before they let go. "That's enough for today. I'll take it from here."
Nolan's grin lingered a second on Harper before he turned and headed for the door. She tracked him until the hinges shut, then dragged the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing the thin line of blood. Another drop rolled from her nostril, hot against her skin.
Brock's eyes tracked the thin line of blood as it slid past her lip. He closed the distance in a few strides, snagging a towel from the stack at the mat's edge as he came.
"Hold still."
His fingertips caught her chin, tilting her face up into the light. A small twitch jumped along her jaw, muscles bracing under his touch before she forced them still. The touch stayed careful, precise. One thumb skimmed the bridge of her nose, tracing along the line he'd reset two weeks earlier. He pressed along bone and cartilage, his gaze on her eyes, watching for the flinch she couldn't quite bury. Her breath hitched when he found the tender spot near the old break; her free hand lifted halfway before she caught herself and shoved it back to her side. The structure held under his hand.
"Didn't shift," he muttered, more to himself than to her.
He folded the towel once and lifted it, pressing the cloth gently under her nose to catch the blood. His hand stayed there a moment, holding it in place, before he eased his fingers away and closed hers around the edge instead, guiding her grip with a firmness that didn't invite argument.
"You good?"
"I'm fine," she muttered, voice low, like the blood wasn't there at all.
His stare stayed on her, unreadable. "Nolan is right. You're scrappy. You've got form. But you're small—and that doesn't change. You're lethal with a gun. Fast. Precise. You don't hesitate. Use that. Don't let anyone get close enough to make fists worth a damn."
The towel stayed pressed under her nose until she shifted it, dabbing once more at the smear of red. She angled it just enough to catch his eyes over the edge of the cloth.
"Lethal with a gun?" she murmured. "Sounds almost like a compliment. Didn't think you had those in you."
One corner of his mouth twitched, a movement that never became a smile. "Call it what you want. Just don't get used to it."