Page 8 of Lone Wolf

My kick finally rams into her ribs. She staggers back, a quick flash of pain crossing her face, but she’s still—laughing? “Okay, that hurt,” she concedes, “but nice hit, Frosty. What else you got?”

I scowl, pivoting for a head-level strike. Sunny ducks at the last second. We’re not supposed to strike at the head in training, but there’s no shout from the sidelines. Lyssa doesn’t call time out.

And I can see a change in Sunny’s attitude, too. She’s done playing. Still bouncing, but her eyes have focused.

Almost before I register it, she’s attacking me—fast, fluid, unpredictable. I manage to beat away her hands and the final kick that she gives, but she doesn’t back off. She presses her advantage, an advantage that none of the other recruits would even notice, but I’m off-balance, caught on the back foot when I should be on the front.

And this time, her punch lands—just about, anyway. A fist glances off my shoulder, but once again, Lyssa doesn’t call for a stop.

From the side, the recruits have stopped murmuring among themselves and are as intensely invested in this battle as I am. “Holy shit,” I hear one of them whisper.

As for me, my frustration is rising. Sunny Santiago, of all people, shouldn’t be getting the better of me.

I breathe in, remember my center, and regain control. And then I counter, hard, abandoning the martial arts show and goinginstead straight for her, my shoulder contacting hard with her lower ribs as I tackle her to the mats.

The mats squeak under our combined momentum as I pin her beneath me, knees braced, arms locked. She’s smaller than me, lighter, but surprisingly strong. Her breathing is ragged. Mine is too, though I try not to show it.

She relaxes beneath me, her chest rising and falling fast as a smile lifts her lips once more. I should move. The match is done. The gym is silent, and every eye is on us.

Sunny’s smirk turns more wicked than playful. “I think you like having me underneath you, huh?” she murmurs, so low nobody else can catch it. Then she rolls her hips—a subtle, intimate movement no one else sees.

Fire jolts through me, a rush so intense it makes me want to recoil.

There’s a beat of silence and then I push away from her, shoving her a little harder than necessary into the mat as I scramble up.

She reaches out toward me. “Little help here?”

I hesitate too long, but at last I grudgingly reach down and yank her up, wary for a moment that she’ll try to trip me down next to her. But she just bounces up again like the rubber ball she is, irrepressible, grinning away.

And she’s still holding onto my hand.

“Damn, girl, that was fun,” she says. “Go again?”

“Enough,” Lyssa says from the side. “Everyone hit the showers.”

I pull my hand away and turn instantly, heading for my water bottle and towel. The hush in the room breaks as some of therecruits crowd around, congratulating her. She landed a single blow on me and managed not to die—that’s apparently cause for celebration.

And I can’t quite decipher the look on Scarlett and Lyssa’s faces as they consult in a murmur. Maybe amusement. Maybe approval. I’m not sure.

Something in me is burning, hot and uncomfortable. It’s hate, I think for a moment. But I know hate, and this isn’t it.

I take a long swallow of cold water, trying to put it out, and I try my damn best not to glance over my shoulder as I leave the training room.

Self-control. That’s what I’ve perfected. I straighten my spine, forcibly calming my breathing. My reflection in the mirrored wall is flushed as I head for the door.

But at the last second, I can’t help it. I glance back over my shoulder.

And Sunny Santiago is still grinning right at me.

CHAPTER 4

Sunny

After the showers,we have dinner, and then the schedule is free for a few hours. I wander around the mansion for a while—it’s always fun to explore, brand new like it is. The west wing still smells of fresh paint and sawdust, and there are a dozen bedrooms here for full members of the Syndicate to take. One might bemineone day, if I make it through recruitment. I trail my fingertips along the walnut paneling as I walk, feeling the grain beneath my touch.

Eventually, needing company, I head to the common area in the mansion where the recruits hang out at night. It’s bigger than the common areas in the dorms, and the room buzzes with energy—laughter, the click of pool balls, music from someone’s portable speaker. Bodies sprawled across couches, perched on armrests, huddled in corners sharing secrets. Ariadne never does, of course. But that’s okay. I get the feeling she doesn’t plan to make an appearance again for a while. I might have landed one glancing blow on her, but I think her ego took the bigger hit.

And frankly, I’m happy to have some time out from her, too. I surprised myself making that obvious play when she had mepinned to the mat, her weight solid and commanding above me, her breath a whisper across my collarbone. At least no one else noticed the way my body responded to her...

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