67. Scarlett
Scarlett
W e were on a flat stretch of sand tucked between the trees and the water, the shoreline half-shaded by palms and jagged limestone. The kind of place that looked quiet—peaceful even—if you didn’t know what was coming.
I’d thrown on black spandex shorts and a cropped tank, tied my hair up with zero fucks and even less effort. Laced up my old tennis shoes, the soles half-worn and crusted with dried mud from some other chaos. No makeup. No jewelry. Just me, sweat, and a grudge I hadn’t decided where to aim yet.
Sun already high, heat rolling off everything. Cicadas screaming from the trees. Sweat prickled at my neck before I even moved.
Zeke stood at the edge of the sand, arms crossed, still as a statue. The others flanked him, half-watching, half-waiting for me to fold.
Rhett tossed a pair of wrapped gloves at my chest. “You’re not gonna like this.”
I caught them without blinking. “I don’t like anything.”
Kane smirked. “See? She’s got the right attitude.”
Zeke’s stare didn’t waver. “We’re going to teach you how to defend yourself. No showboating. No games. And no getting cute.”
Kane dragged a stick through the sand, carving out a wide circle. “In.”
I stepped inside like it was a throne room.
“Try not to fall in love,” I said, grinning as I squared my stance.
They didn’t know this part of me.
Didn’t know that after my dad died, my mom shoved me into a dingy martial arts gym with cracked mirrors and too-loud fluorescent lights. Said it would teach me control. Discipline. Balance.
It didn’t.
It just taught me how to strike first.
Rhett stepped in.
He didn’t hold back.
Neither did I.
We danced in heat and tension. I caught a hit to the ribs that knocked my breath sideways, but I landed a clean right hook that made his head snap like a whip.
“Fuck,” he muttered, stumbling back with a grin.
Kane whistled low.
Zeke stayed silent. Watching everything. Calculating.
My chest burned, lungs scraping against the inside of my ribs, but I held my ground. Felt the sweat drip down the curve of my spine.
“Switch,” Zeke called.
Kane rolled his shoulders and stepped in. Taller than Rhett, broader too. Less finesse. More power.
He went for my left side—I dropped, pivoted, used his momentum against him. Came up swinging.
He blocked, laughing. “You’ve been holding out on us?”
I backed off just enough to breathe. “You didn’t ask.”
He feinted. I dodged. He almost took me down with a sweep, but I caught myself at the last second—shoes digging into the thick sand.
“Not bad,” he said, panting a little now.
“Don’t patronize me,” I snapped, chest heaving.
His grin sharpened. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The sun beat down harder. Salt air stuck to my skin.
Kane stepped out of the circle, breath ragged. I spit sand and pushed sweaty hair off my face.
Then I heard them—boots on packed earth, slow and deliberate.
Trace and Alden appeared through the trees, shirtless and sun-drenched, the kind of reckless beauty that shouldn’t be allowed this close to danger. Muscles taut. Eyes unreadable. Shadows where their secrets lived.
They didn’t announce themselves.
Didn’t need to.
I kept my body loose, my fists up—but my pulse kicked hard.
Not because I was intimidated.
Because even sweat-soaked and bruised, I wanted them to see it.
See me.
Trace’s gaze flicked to my legs, then my mouth. Alden scanned the scene through his sunglasses, unreadable. They didn’t speak. Just took their place at the edge of the circle like they’d been summoned.
I didn’t look at them again.
Didn’t give them the satisfaction.
But I felt their presence like gravity.
“Who’s next?” I asked, rolling my shoulders.
The air buzzed with salt and sweat, the sea wind cutting through the heat. Zeke’s eyes narrowed, reading something the others didn’t.
“I’ll go,” Alden said.
Trace didn’t respond. He lit a cigarette and stepped back.
Alden rolled his neck as he entered the ring. Slow. Controlled. Dangerous without needing to prove it.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t flirt. Just waited.
“Not gonna go easy on me?” I asked, circling.
His voice was low. “Should I?”
I smirked, shifting my stance. “Not if you want to keep your ego intact.”
He moved first—sharp, testing. I ducked, spun, landed a jab to his ribs that barely registered.
We moved through instinct.
We knew each other’s rhythms. Even if we’d never moved this way before.
Every glance was a question. Every strike, a thread pulled tighter.
I moved on instinct, not memory—drawn to him in ways I couldn’t explain.
My body had been trained for this. For him.
For the quiet war in his eyes and the rhythm we fell into, as if it had always existed between us.
As if we’d been circling this moment long before we understood what it meant.
I blocked a low kick. Swung high. He dodged and caught my wrist midair, fast and sure.
We were too close.
Too breathless.
Too charged.
I yanked free and shoved him back, eyes burning. “This supposed to be training or foreplay?”
Something flickered in his eyes, but he held steady. “Depends who’s watching.”
Trace exhaled behind him, smoke curling in the heat.
Zeke stepped forward. “Enough.”
But I wasn’t finished.
I turned toward him, chest rising. “What, afraid I’ll beat your favorite?
Zeke stepped into the circle.
His presence was colder. Focused. No fire, no flirtation—just the calculated stillness of someone who knew how to hurt.
He didn’t speak right away. Just studied me as I rolled my shoulders, heart still pounding from Alden.
“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.”
“The hell I am.”
“You’re shaking.”
“So?” I spat blood into the sand. “This was his idea, wasn’t it?”
No one answered.
I looked at all of them. “I didn’t ask to be here. Didn’t ask for any of this. I was fine in my villa, drinking coffee in my goddamn underwear.”
Kane’s mouth twitched, but Zeke’s eyes stayed sharp.
“I didn’t start this,” I said. “But I’m sure as hell going to finish it.”
Zeke gave the faintest nod. “She’s trained.”
Rhett exhaled. “You didn’t need to prove anything.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I did.”
And I stayed in that ring.
Blood on my teeth.
Sand on my skin.
The sun high above and nothing soft left in me.
If Trace wanted to turn me into a weapon—
He should’ve known I’d come out swinging.