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I was adaptable.

Reed trudged toward me a few seconds later, all stiff, broad shoulders and hulking muscle mass. He sifted a hand through his hair and sighed.

I sank down to the mat to do a few sit-ups for the sole purpose of avoiding conversation.

“You and Scotty?” he probed, standing over me and folding his huge arms like a forbidding shadow.

Breathing in and out, I concentrated on the way my abdomen flexed and burned through the movements. “Maybe.”

“That’s interesting.”

“It could be. Guess we’ll find out.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Why?”

Why?

Some better questions would be:

Why do you care? Why does it matter? Why won’t you evaporate into thin air, float into somebody else’s atmosphere, and let me finally breathe without choking on the idea of you?

But no part of me truly wanted that, so all I said was, “He’s one of the few people on the planet who doesn’t like peanut butter.”

Reed’s jawline went rigid as he scraped his teeth together. He watched me through ten more sit-ups before biting out, “Let’s get started.”

Heaving in a deep breath, I lay back on the mat for another drumbeat, staring up at the paneled ceiling while my lungs fought for a second wind. Then I jumped to my feet. We stared at each other in silence before circling the mat, eye contact holding, muscles twitching and preparing for battle.

A new wave of adrenaline surged.

My heartbeats galloped, fingers curling into fists.

Scotty strolled in and turned on music as he watched us from the sidelines.

The room vibrated and hummed with the opening chords to Shame by Stabbing Westward, an industrial rock song that fueled my inner flame with golden heat. I let my gaze trail from Reed’s dark bangs glued to his sweat-laden forehead, to his broad chest, rippled abs, and inky, corded arms. The veins in the backs of his hands dilated along with his pupils as we continued to slowly circle each other like two hungry predators vying for domination.

He reached down and grabbed a pair of fingerless gloves, tossing me a second pair. We slipped them over our hands, and I tightened my ponytail, meeting his eyes again and measuring the distance between us. Then, in a burst of fluidity, Reed lunged forward with a lightning-fast jab. I sidestepped, feeling the rush of air as his fist whizzed by, and countered with a swift hook to his ribs. The impact resonated through my arm, and I saw a flash of acknowledgment in Reed’s eyes.

The intensity escalated as we exchanged a flurry of punches, blocks, and evasive maneuvers. I ducked beneath a sweeping hook, my hair trailing through the air like a honey-tailed comet. Reed countered with a roundhouse kick, the force of which I deftly deflected with a well-timed block.

He grinned. “Good.”

The mat beneath us absorbed the impact of our footwork, the sounds of shuffling and pivoting adding a percussive layer to the music. I inhaled a breath into my lungs, the air thick with an electric charge and the scent of exertion.

We moved in a synchronized dance, a fusion of martial arts and instinct. Reed executed a spinning back kick, and I responded with a low sweep, aiming to unbalance him. He leaped, avoiding contact, and landed with the grace of a wildcat.

A smirk pulled on my lips. “Not so bad yourself.”

“You’re predictable.”

My eyes narrowed. “You’re holding back.”

We circled each other again, breathing heavily. I focused on his patterns, anticipating his next move. As he shot forward with a high kick, I dodged him and countered with my own.

The kick connected.

Reed staggered slightly, his eyes glinting with a twinkle of satisfaction. Seizing the opportunity, I closed the distance with a rapid combination of jabs and hooks, my fists moving with newfound speed. He attempted to block, but the force overwhelmed his defenses.

I watched as he tried to recalibrate his strategy and then used his moment of vulnerability to execute a spinning back kick, the heel of my foot connecting with his midsection.

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