Parker stands in the doorway, backlit by the hallway lights, and for a moment I just stare. She’s in workout gear—black leggings that hug every curve, a sports bra under a loose tank top that’s already been cut short enough to show a strip of pale skin at her midriff, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail. Her feet are bare, her hands already wrapped.
She looks ready for a fight.
And fuck if that isn’t the hottest thing I’ve seen all week.
Cal straightens beside me, his grin fading as he takes in her expression. Across the gym, Silas pauses mid-strike on the heavy bag, his knuckles still pressed against the leather.
“Parker,” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Get on the mat.” Her voice is flat, controlled. “Either one of you. I don’t care which.”
Cal glances at me, confusion written across his face. “Angel, what?—”
“Now.”
There’s something in her tone that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Not fear—I’ve never been afraid of Parker. But wariness. Recognition that the woman standing in front of us isn’t here to talk.
She’s here to make a point.
“Okay,” I say slowly, moving to the center of the mat. “What’s this about?”
She doesn’t answer. Just walks onto the mat with the kind of deliberate calm that precedes violence, rolling her shoulders back, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet.
Her stance is good. Better than good—weight distributed properly, hands up but loose, ready to move. This isn’t someone who took a self-defense class once and thinks she knows how to fight.
This is someone who’s been trained.
“Silas,” she calls out without taking her eyes off me. “Medical cabinet down the hall. Swabs and sample tubes.”
I see Silas’s expression shift—understanding, then satisfaction. He doesn’t question it, just heads for the door.
“You want to spar?” I ask, keeping my voice even. “Parker, I don’t think?—”
She moves.
Fast—faster than I expected—closing the distance between us in two steps. I react on instinct, raising my arm to block, but she’s already pivoting, using my defensive position to get inside my guard. Her elbow comes up toward my ribs and I twist away, catching her wrist.
She uses the grip against me, pulling herself closer instead of away, and suddenly her leg is hooked behind mine and I’m off-balance.
I let her take me down—not because I have to, but because I’m still processing the fact that Parker Carter just executed a textbook sweep that would make most of our guys look sloppy.
We hit the mat and she’s immediately moving, trying to establish position, and I have to actually work to counter her. She’s strong—not as strong as me, but she knows how to use leverage, how to make her weight count.
“When were you going to tell me?” she asks, her voice sharp as she attempts an armbar I barely escape.
“Tell you what?” I’m breathing harder now, focused on defense because attacking feels wrong even though she clearly has no problem coming at me.
“About Charles asking Cal to investigate my sons’ paternity.” She shifts her weight, tries for a choke. I block it but she’s already transitioning to something else. “About Ryan Matthews lying about us having history. About you two spiraling instead of just fucking asking me.”
Fuck.
“Parker—” Cal starts from the edge of the mat.
“Get on the mat, Cal,” she snaps, not looking away from me. “Unless you’re too busy hacking into my medical records to fight me face to face.”
Cal’s face goes white.
I use Parker’s momentary distraction to reverse our positions, pinning her beneath me. She doesn’t panic—just immediately starts working to escape, her body moving with practiced efficiency.
