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She looked at the mitts. Looked at him.

“I train alone.”

For some reason, she couldn’t help but be curt whenever she spoke to him.

“I know.” He tapped the mitts together. “Hit these instead. I’ll move. The bag doesn’t move, at least not like I would.”

Everything in her screamed to insist that he leave. But her left hand was still dropping and the bag didn’t move, and Chris was standing in the yard with his hands up, asking for nothing.

She hit the right mitt. He absorbed it. Shifted left. She followed, threw the cross, caught the left mitt clean. He moved again, faster, angling away. She had to chase him, adjust her feet, keep her guard tight while she closed distance. The left hand stayed up.

They worked for twenty minutes without speaking. He called combinations by tapping the mitts in sequence, and she read the pattern and answered it. He was good. His footwork was clean, and he read her telegraphs, pulling back when she loaded for power, holding firm when she threw speed. He’d trained with Viktor. She could see it in the economy of his movement.

She was breathing hard. Sweat ran down her temples and her wraps were soaked through.

“Again.” Her voice came out broken, out of breath, and Chris lowered the mitts. “Take a break.”

“I don’t need a break.” She scowled at him and lifted her arms, though they almost sank down again by themselves.

“You’ve been out here since before I showed up. Your shoulders are climbing. You’re compensating with your traps because your delts are fatigued.”

“I said I don’t need a break.”

He pulled the mitts off and set them on the fence, ignoring the unadulterated rage in her voice. “Five minutes.”

“Put those back on.”

“Five minutes, Sloane.”

She closed the distance between them. “Put the mitts back on, or get out of my yard.”

“It’s the compound’s yard.”

“I was here first.”

“And you’ll stay right here. You will still be here in five minutes. When your shoulders have dropped below your ears.”

She shoved him. Both hands flat against his chest, hard enough that he stepped back. He let her. He didn’t grab her wrists, didn’t block. Just took the step and looked at her.

“Does that feel any better?” he asked simply, keeping her gaze. Rather than calm her, it made her even angrier.

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not patronizing you. I’m telling you to rest.”

“Because you think I can’t handle it.”

“I know you can handle it, Sloane. But your body needs rest too. Do you know that? Do you know when to stop? Because from where I’m standing, it doesn’t seem that way.”

She stood there, her hands still raised from the shove, her chest heaving. He was close. Close enough that she could smell him, clean sweat and cedar and something sharp with pine. Despite herself, her wolf pressed forward, leaning toward him.

His eyes dropped to her mouth. Then back up.

“Don’t,” she whispered in a fractured voice.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re looking at me.”