Katana bends, palms braced on her knees, breathing hard. A bead of sweat rolls from her temple down along the curve of her jaw, disappearing into the hollow of her throat. I shouldn’t be watching it but I am.
She straightens, walks over to the wall, and yanks a towel from the rack. Without looking at me, she tosses it underhand. I catch it one-handed. I drag the towel across my face, soak up the sweat, then dab at the blood on my lip. My mouth still tastes like copper. My skin still remembers the places she touched. Quick jabs, a sweep that nearly took me off my feet, her palm braced against my chest just long enough to shove me back. Every move from her carried that electric undercurrent, like she was daring me to admit I felt it.
She closes the distance between us in two slow steps. Her hand lifts like she’s going to touch me, then curls into a fist before she pulls back. She snatches the towel from my other hand and tosses it into the bin. The near-contact leaves my skin prickling.
“Talk,” she says. “And make it worth my time.”
She wipes her arms with her own towel, slow, deliberate, like she doesn’t care that I’m watching but she knows I am. She tosses it into the bin, leans a hip against the heavy bag stand, and folds her arms. Her stance is loose, but her eyes are sharp. She’s listening for the truth.
I take a breath, not because I’m winded but because I need to decide how much to give her without showing my throat. “Turns out one of my runners was working for a guy named Serrano. I think he’s behind the threats and missing girls.”
Her brow arches, eyes narrowing. “Was?”
“He’s in the wind.” My voice is flat, but there’s a hard edge I don’t bother hiding. “But I’ll find him. And when I do he’ll regret betraying me.”
She studies me for a beat, then says, “Amber was beaten and dumped at our clubhouse. So I want to know everything you know about this Serrano guy.”
I meet her stare. “He’s a criminal. Low-life with deep pockets. Cartel money.”
“Not good enough.” Her jaw works like she’s grinding her teeth. “You used to work for him. Disappeared then ended up here.”
I don’t answer right away. Her eyes are steady, and I can feel her reading every beat of silence.
“Did you turn on him?” she presses. “Is this personal?”
I let the quiet stretch just long enough to make my point. “If Amber got dropped at your door, the Royal Harlots are already on his radar. You don’t need my history to know that’s bad news.”
She tilts her head a fraction, weighing me, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m hiding something. Which I am.
“One of my guys, Briggs, is missing,” I add. “I believe Serrano has him. I’m not here to play games, Katana. You want to protect your people and so do I. We can either circle each other waiting for Serrano to make another move or we can go at him together.”
Her lips part for a breath, but she shuts them again, crossing her arms tighter. We stand there in that thin stretch of space, heat from sparring still in the air, sweat cooling on our skin. Her gaze drops once, quick, before she catches herself and looks up again staring me dead in the eye. “What exactly are you asking from me?”
“That we keep each other informed. You hear something about Serrano, you tell me. I hear something, I'll tell you.” Her jaw tightens. “We don’t have to trust each other. This doesn’t make us friends. Just… allies.”
Her mouth curves just a flicker, not quite a smile. “Allies,” she repeats, like she’s tasting the word to see if it fits.
“Better than enemies.”
She studies me one last time before pushing off the bag stand. “Fine. But you better not hold back on me.”
I give her a slow grin that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The tension between us doesn’t snap, it coils tighter, humming under my skin like a live wire. She finally steps back, but it’s not retreat. No, it’s calculated, deliberate, like she knows I’ll feel the absence more than the closeness. Neither of us says anything. There’s too much in what’s already been said, and maybe even more in what hasn’t. I slip into my boots, retrieve my jacket and move toward the door without another word. Her eyes track me the whole way, sharp and unreadable, stripping me down to whatever truth she thinks she sees.
My hand finds the cold steel handle. For half a second, I think about looking back. I don’t.
The lock clicks behind me when I step out into the morning, the cool air cutting across the heat still clinging to my skin. The taste of blood hasn’t faded, and neither has the memory of her standing too close, the warmth of her breath, the low rasp of her voice still caught in my ear.
I tell myself I came here for information. For an ally. Nothing more. And, like before, most of what I tell myself is a lie.
7
KATANA
The bag sways in front of me like it’s got something to prove. I hit it again, my knuckles rattling underneath the wraps around my hands, the smack echoing through the gym until it’s all I can hear. My shoulders burn, my arms feel like lead, but I keep going. The rhythm keeps my head straight. Keeps Dante’s voice from replaying in my skull in a loop I don’t want. I’m not thinking about the way he said my name, or the rage in his eyes when he mentioned Serrano. I’m cataloging facts, nothing more.
Riot’s holding down the front desk today. She’s half-watching a pair of regulars spot each other at the squat rack, both of them moving like we’ve taught them, half-scrolling her phone. The gym’s got that early-morning lull but is already bustling with girls dedicated to learning how to fight back. The steady clank of iron, the squeak of sneakers on mats, and the muted whoosh of voices fills the space.
