13. Sloane
THIRTEEN
SLOANE
Sloane's eyes opened to golden morning sunlight flooding through the large windows of her suite, painting warm rectangles across her bed.
For the first time since arriving at Hale Lodge, she felt completely rested—not just physically, but emotionally.
The crushing weight of confusion and fear that had pressed against her chest for the past day and a half had lifted, replaced by something that felt dangerously close to hope.
Last night changed everything.
She stretched beneath the luxurious sheets, her muscles pleasantly loose from hours of genuine laughter and conversation around the bonfire.
The memory of sitting between Ronan and Kozue, trading childhood stories and learning the intricate art of s'more construction, brought a smile to her lips that she couldn't suppress.
But it was the other memory that made her pulse race and her skin flush with remembered heat.
The moment when both men had touched her simultaneously—Ronan's thumb catching chocolate from her chin while Kozue wiped marshmallow from her lips—her entire world had shifted on its axis.
The sensation had been unlike anything she'd ever experienced, as if every nerve ending in her body had suddenly awakened and recognized something fundamental and undeniable.
That's what the triad mate bond feels like.
The realization should have terrified her.
Instead, it filled her with a fierce certainty that made her wolf-shifter revelation seem almost mundane by comparison.
Her body had known what her mind was still struggling to accept: these two powerful, protective men belonged to her just as surely as she belonged to them.
No wonder I've been attracted to both of them since the moment I arrived. It wasn't confusion or desperation—it was recognition.
Sloane threw back the covers and padded across the cool hardwood floor to her duffel bag, energy thrumming through her system like electricity.
For the first time in days, she had something productive to contribute.
Ronan had asked her last night to assist with his workout class and specifically requested that she teach some self-defense techniques.
Finally, something I'm actually good at in this impossible new world.
She pulled out her black leggings and a sports bra, grateful that her limited wardrobe included at least one outfit appropriate for physical activity.
The familiar weight of athletic wear felt like putting on armor—not the emotional kind she usually wore, but the practical protection of someone who understood her own capabilities.
After securing her long hair in a high ponytail, she caught her reflection in the dresser mirror. The woman staring back looked different somehow—less guarded, more alive. There was color in her cheeks and a brightness in her hazel eyes that had been missing for longer than she cared to admit.
When was the last time I looked forward to anything this much?
She glanced down at her bare feet and considered her limited footwear options.
Her combat boots were hardly appropriate for a fitness class, and she didn't own sneakers.
The memory of the attack at the general store flickered through her mind, along with the sobering reminder that someone was still hunting her.
Going back to town for proper athletic shoes wasn't just inconvenient—it was potentially dangerous.
Maybe Ronan stopped the threat when he and Bob took down those three wolves. Maybe I'm finally safe.
The thought felt too good to be true, but she pushed aside her instinctive skepticism. She'd spent enough time expecting the worst. Today, she was choosing to believe that the danger had passed and that Hale Lodge truly could be the sanctuary it appeared to be.
Sloane made her way through the lodge's corridors, navigating the path she'd memorized during her brief tenure as Ronan and Kozue's personal assistant.
The building hummed with quiet morning activity—the distant sound of Emerson's voice greeting early-rising guests, the gentle clatter of breakfast preparation in the kitchen, and the soft murmur of conversation from the dining area.
This place feels like a living thing, she realized as she walked.
She finally found the gym tucked into the lodge's eastern wing, and the moment she stepped inside, her breath caught in genuine appreciation.
The space was nothing short of spectacular.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered breathtaking views of the mountain landscape, while state-of-the-art equipment was arranged with both functionality and aesthetics in mind.
Free weights, resistance machines, cardio equipment, and an open area with mats for floor exercises created distinct zones without feeling cramped or cluttered.
Everything gleamed with the kind of maintenance that spoke to serious investment and genuine care.
I could spend hours in here, she thought, already cataloging the possibilities for training routines.
But all thoughts of equipment and training schedules evaporated when her gaze landed on Ronan.
He stood at the front of the class with his back partially turned toward the door, leading ten guests through what appeared to be pre-workout stretches.
His choice of athletic wear—a fitted black t-shirt and black workout shorts—showcased every line of his powerful physique with devastating effectiveness.
The shirt clung to his broad shoulders and defined chest, while the shorts revealed muscular thighs that spoke of years dedicated to physical conditioning.
When he raised his arms to demonstrate a shoulder stretch, the fabric pulled tight across his back, highlighting the V-shaped taper from his shoulders to his narrow waist.
Mine.
Heat flooded her system with embarrassing swiftness, pooling low in her belly and making her mouth go dry.
She'd seen attractive men before—the underground fighting circuit wasn't exactly lacking in physical specimens—but something about Ronan's combination of raw masculine power and controlled grace made her feel like a teenager discovering desire for the first time.
Ronan spotted her in the doorway and his face lit up with a smile that made her knees weak. He gestured for her to join him at the front of the class, and she forced her legs to carry her across the polished floor with something resembling normal coordination.
"Everyone, I'd like you to meet Sloane," Ronan announced as she took her place beside him, close enough to catch his cedar and spice scent. "She's our newest team member and has graciously agreed to share some self-defense techniques with us later."
Standing next to him feels ridiculously right, she realized as she smiled and waved at the assembled guests.
Several faces looked familiar from the previous evening's bonfire—Margaret and Tom Martin, the young anniversary couple, two of the college friends on their reunion trip.
"Good morning, everyone," she said, pleased when her voice came out steady despite the chaos Ronan's proximity was wreaking on her nervous system. "Looking forward to working with you all."
Ronan began leading the class through a series of dynamic stretches, his movements fluid and precise.
Sloane followed along but found herself stealing glances at him with increasing frequency.
The way his muscles shifted beneath his shirt as he demonstrated each movement was mesmerizing, and she caught herself studying the strong line of his jaw and the focused expression in his clear blue eyes.
Focus, Sloane. These people are counting on you to be professional.
But professional felt nearly impossible when Ronan's gaze kept meeting hers during transitions between exercises, his eyes darkening with a burning intensity that matched her own growing desire.
The mate bond hummed between them like a live wire, making even the most innocent contact—his hand briefly steadying her during a balance exercise, their shoulders brushing as they moved through the routine—feel charged with possibility.
Thirty minutes into the workout session, Sloane's body hummed with the familiar satisfaction of physical exertion.
Sweat beaded along her hairline and dampened the fabric of her sports bra, but instead of exhaustion, she felt energized in a way she hadn't experienced since arriving at Hale Lodge.
Every muscle burned with the good kind of fatigue that came from purposeful movement, and for the first time in four days, the storm of emotions churning inside her had channeled into something constructive.
This feels incredible, she realized as she moved through the final set of burpees alongside the class participants. Like I'm finally using my body for something other than survival.
The ten guests were breathing hard but smiling, their faces flushed with exertion and accomplishment.
Margaret Martin wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, grinning at her husband Tom who was pretending to collapse dramatically against the wall.
The college friends were good-naturedly ribbing each other about their respective fitness levels, while an older gentleman named Frank was nodding approvingly at his own performance.
Ronan called for the final cool-down stretch, his voice carrying easily across the spacious gym.
Even after thirty minutes of intense exercise, he moved with the same fluid grace that had captivated Sloane from the moment she'd entered the room.
His black t-shirt clung to his muscled torso, dark with perspiration, and when he demonstrated the shoulder stretch, she caught herself staring at the way his biceps flexed beneath the damp fabric.