Georgina tipped her sunglasses up. “Watch him.”
One second, Gage was in formation. The next, he had a man across his shoulders, hoisted in a single smooth motion.
He didn’t grunt. Didn’t slow. Like the weight didn’t matter. Like he could bear it, whatever it was.
Across the sandbags. Past the barrels. Over the crawl beams. Step after step.
“Look at that form,” Isabel murmured. “I swear Mason has better posture under stress than I do after a decade of yoga.”
“Charles is lifting like someone insulted his lineage,” Naomi muttered, eyes tracking the field. “It’sso hot.”
Georgie gave a reverent sigh. “Let there be deltoids.”
She couldn’t look away. Thought was a casualty. If necessary, dignity might go, too.
Gage was first across the final line, dropping his burden like a man his size weighed nothing. He adjusted his wrist strap, lifted his eyes. Found her, watching him.
Bea smiled. Bit down on the whimper that wanted to escape.
A ridiculous but sincere thought came to mind.God bless the UR and the men it produces.
“I know he beat the record,” Georgie said with lazy amusement, “but try not to look too owned, Bey.”
Too late. If he hadn’t bought it yet, she’d be gift-wrapping it and throwing it at him.
There were three more events: knife drills, rope climbs, and controlled takedowns, before the final one. Bea watched them all with awe.
These were heirs. Men raised primarily for boardrooms, not combat. And yet, not one of them hesitated to drop into mud, haul their weight and another man’s over a wall, or spar full-speed under a judge’s whistle.
There was no irony here. No bravado. Just men who knew what men should be capable of. Whose bodies were in submission to their minds.
But that wasn’t the only thing that captivated her.
It was the way they barked encouragement. Clapped shoulders. Offered a hand after a pin. These men had learned to walk a razor-thin line—rivals in love, in status, in legacy—but still bound by rank and nation and blood. And in the final summation, it looked as though they knew they could fight on the same side.
The last challenge had the women gathering closer to the rope line. Parents sat forward. The air smelled like sun and grass and gunpowder.
“Rafael’s the best marksman with a net worth in ten digits,” Isabel whispered.
Bea’s eyes drifted six positions down the line.
Weapon parts were laid out in neat rows across the tables. Safety glasses beside them. Targets fixed beyond the clipped edge of the lawn.
The objective was simple: Assemble. Load. Fire. Five shots. Ninety seconds.
Rafael stepped forward last.
His hands moved like lightning—snapping the rifle together like he’d done it for a living in another life. Fast. Exact. His shoulders rolled once as he locked the magazine in place.
Then he stilled.
Raised the weapon. Exhaled.
Five shots.
Five hits.
One of them split the bullseye.
