Damon Hale circled like a sentinel, gaze slicing through the motion.
Sharp. Observant. No nonsense.
“Rivers,” he called. “You’re with Drake. Try not to kill him.”
Evan Drake stepped forward, already smirking. He rolled his shoulders like he had something to prove.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said, light and cocky. “I can hold my own.”
Arden gave him a once-over, lifting a brow. The corner of her mouth twitched.
“Famous last words.”
Damon snorted. “Good luck, Drake. You’re gonna need it.”
The first drill was straightforward, measured strikes and counter blocks.
No ego. No improvisation. Just fundamentals.
Evan blew it in the first ten seconds.
He overreached. Telegraphing the hit.
Arden’s counter came fast, clean and direct, strike to the ribs that landed with a dull thud. Not enough to hurt. Just a reminder.
He exhaled with a grunt, grin slipping for half a breath.
“Okay. Message received.”
She reset without a word. Rolled her shoulders. Reset her stance.
“Guard’s still wide,” she said, calm and clipped. “Don’t give away space you’ll have to earn back.”
By the third round, sweat carved a line down his temple. He was improving, tighter and quicker, but a beat behind.
She saw the flaw in his footing a second before he did.
A pivot. A hook. A clean takedown.
He hit the mat with a grunt and a curse.
“Damn, Rivers,” he groaned, half-laughing. “Remind me never to cross you outside this building.”
She offered a faint smirk as she peeled the wraps from her hands. The adrenaline coursed through her, fast and hot.
Damon passed by, nodding once as he clapped her shoulder.
“Good work today. Stay sharp.”
She nodded back.
Focus.
Discipline.
Control.
Everything she needed, everything she felt slipping, was here. Tucked between the strike and the silence that followed it.
