RISE OF THE UNCHOSEN (the Deadly Weapon Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER ONE

Olivia Thornwood had exactly three passions in life: pepperoni pizza, vintage action movies, and becoming the most dangerous woman on the planet.

Two out of three were currently achievable while standing in the fluorescent-lit lobby of Ironhaven Gym, clutching a water bottle and trying not to make eye contact with the front desk attendant who looked like he bench-pressed small cars for fun.

"First time?" he asked, eyes drifting to her curves with the kind of judgment she'd been dodging since middle school.

"Nope," Olivia said, popping the P with deliberate cheerfulness. "Just first time here. I've been training at home for years."

The attendant—his nametag read brICK, which couldn't possibly be real—smirked. "Home training, huh? YouTube videos?"

"Something like that."

What she didn't say: that she'd memorized every fighting manual, every behind-the-scenes documentary, every frame of combat footage featuring Valeria Vance, the legendary heroine of the *Chronos Gate* saga.

Valeria was everything Olivia aspired to be—powerful, flexible, fearless, and unapologetically round.

In a world of stick-thin action stars, Valeria Vance had thrown enemies through walls while wearing a size sixteen and a smile that could stop hearts or start wars.

Olivia had been nine years old when she first watched *Chronos Gate: Dawnblade*. She'd sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, mouth open, as Valeria had backflipped off a crumbling balcony, wrapped her thighs around a mercenary's neck, and flipped him into a ravine.

"I want to be her," little Olivia had whispered.

Twelve years later, that hadn't changed.

Brick handed her a waiver. "Personal training session?"

"No. Just want to use the equipment."

"You sure? We got great weight-loss programs—"

"I'm sure."

The sharpness in her tone surprised them both. Olivia softened it with a grin. "Trust me, buddy. I'm not here to shrink. I'm here to become a weapon."

Brick blinked. Olivia signed the waiver with a flourish and walked into the gym before he could respond.

Ironhaven was everything she'd hoped for—massive, industrial, filled with heavy bags, free weights, and a combat training area that made her heart stutter. Mirrors lined one wall. The other featured a massive mural of a phoenix rising from ashes. The air smelled like iron, sweat, and determination.

Olivia found an empty corner near the heavy bags and set down her gym bag.

It was a Tuesday at 6 PM, which meant the gym was packed with after-work warriors.

She spotted bodybuilders near the free weights, a yoga class in the glass-walled studio, and a group of martial artists sparring in the combat zone.

She was pulling out her hand wraps—purple, with tiny stars—when someone cleared their throat behind her.

"Those are for kids."

Olivia turned.

The man standing there looked like he'd been sculpted by an artist who really enjoyed their job.

He was tall—at least six-foot-two—with messy black curls that fell across his forehead, light-brown skin that glowed under the gym lights, and green eyes so bright they were almost unfair.

His tank top showed arms that suggested he could, in fact, bench-press a small car.

A light sheen of sweat covered his shoulders.

"Excuse me?" Olivia said.

"The wraps." He nodded at her hands. "They're youth size. Adult hands need longer wraps for proper wrist support."

Olivia looked down at her hands, then back up at him. "These are mine. I have small hands."

"You also have improper wrist coverage." He wasn't smiling, but there was something playful in his eyes. "I'm Lucas. I work here."

"Well, Lucas-who-works-here, I've been using these wraps for three years without issue."

"Yet."

"Yet?"

"Without issue yet." He finally smiled, and it was annoying how charming it was. "One bad punch and you'll learn why adults shouldn't use kid-sized equipment."

Olivia crossed her arms. "Let me guess. You think I should start with the elliptical? Maybe some light cardio? A nice beginner class?"

Lucas's smile faded into something more serious. He studied her with those unfair green eyes, and Olivia felt the sudden urge to stand taller—which, at five-foot-two, was physically impossible.

"I think," he said slowly, "you should tell me what you're actually training for."

The question caught her off guard. Usually, people assumed. They looked at her soft stomach and round cheeks and decided she must be there to burn calories and cry into a salad.

"I'm training to fight," Olivia said.

"What kind of fight?"

"Every kind."

Lucas stepped closer, examining her the way a jeweller might examine a gem—carefully, thoroughly, without the judgment she'd expected. "Stance."

"What?"

"Show me your fighting stance."

This was a test. Olivia had spent years practicing in front of mirrors, replaying Valeria Vance's choreography until her muscles knew the movements better than her mind.

She dropped her bag, rolled her shoulders, and settled into a modified cat stance—knees bent, weight balanced, hands up and loose.

Lucas's eyebrows rose. "You've studied eastern disciplines."

"I've studied everything."

"Show me a jab-cross-hook combination."

Olivia unleashed it. Her fist snapped forward, rotated at the last second, hip driving the power. The cross followed, then the hook—tight, controlled, with her weight shifting exactly as she'd practiced.

She wasn't fast. Not yet. But she was precise.

Lucas was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Your hook drops your guard. And you're telegraphing the cross with your shoulder."

"I know. I'm working on it."

"How long?"

"Since I was nine."

Something shifted in his expression. Not pity—she'd have walked away if it was pity. It was recognition, sudden and sharp.

"You've never had a real coach," he said. It wasn't a question.

"I've had books. Videos. Dedication."

"Books don't correct your form. Videos don't push you past your limits." Lucas glanced toward the combat training area, where two men were trading blows in a boxing ring. "Meet me there tomorrow at five AM."

Olivia blinked. "What?"

"If you're serious about fighting, I'll train you. Personally. No charge for the first month. But we start at five, we finish when you're shaking, and we don't skip days." He turned to leave, then paused. "And get proper hand wraps."

He walked away before she could answer, leaving Olivia standing there with her too-small hand wraps and her racing heart.

She looked down at her hands.

"Valeria Vance didn't need proper hand wraps to throw a man off a cliff," she muttered.

But she was smiling.

Tomorrow at five AM. For the first time in her life, someone had looked past her body and seen the fighter underneath.

Olivia Thornwood was going to make sure he never regretted it.