Page 167 of Knotting the Cowboys

The broken mug still glitters on the office floor, coffee seeping into the concrete. Tomorrow I'll clean it up. Tomorrow I'll file reports with contacts who can actually do something about Blake Harrison and his pack of killers. Tomorrow I'll build a case so airtight God himself couldn't find a loophole.

But tonight, I just hold Willa while she shakes, my promise echoing in the blue-lit darkness: They won't get near you or Luna again.

Even if I have to become the monster that hunts monsters to ensure it.

The barn doesn't smell like hay and horses anymore. Mavi's converted it into something between a gym and a dojo, all padded floors and equipment I don't recognize but that makesmy stomach flip with nervous energy. Afternoon light filters through the high windows, catching dust motes that dance like witnesses to what I'm about to attempt—learning to fight back.

My bare feet sink slightly into the blue mats as I follow Mavi to the center of the space. He's changed into workout clothes that shouldn't be distracting but absolutely are—a tank top that shows off arms corded with lean muscle, shorts that reveal legs built for pursuit. I'm in borrowed clothes again, Austin's old sweatpants and one of Cole's t-shirts, swimming in fabric that smells like safety while I prepare to learn violence.

"The goal isn't to win a fight," Mavi says, turning to face me with an instructor's precision. "It's to create opportunity to escape. Blake's bigger than you. Stronger. But that doesn't make him invincible."

Just hearing Blake's name makes my skin crawl after what I learned last night. Three other omegas. Three other 'accidents.' The knowledge sits in my chest like shrapnel, sharp and impossible to ignore.

"I've never hit anyone," I admit, wrapping my arms around myself. "Never even wanted to. Iron Ridge said violence was for alphas, that omegas should be soft, yielding..."

"Bullshit." The word cracks like a whip. Mavi steps closer, his intensity making the barn feel smaller. "That's not omega nature—that's conditioning. Control. Making you easy prey."

He's right. I know he's right. But twenty-eight years of training doesn't vanish overnight.

"We'll start simple," he continues, reading my hesitation. "Stance first. Everything builds from how you hold your ground."

He demonstrates, feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced. I try to copy him, feeling awkward and exposed. His hands hover near my hips, asking silent permission before adjusting my position. The contact is clinical, professional, butmy body doesn't care about context. Every place he touches lights up with awareness.

"Better. Now, if someone grabs you from behind..." He moves behind me, arms coming around in a loose hold. "What's your instinct?"

"Freeze," I whisper, hating the truth of it. "Submit. Don't make it worse."

"Natural trauma response. But we're going to rewire that." His breath is warm against my ear as he guides me through the motion. "Drop your weight. Turn into me, not away. Use your elbow here—" He taps my side, "—against soft targets. Stomach, groin, throat if you can reach."

We practice the movement slowly, his arms barely touching me. Drop, turn, strike. Again. Again. Each repetition builds muscle memory and something else—a new awareness of my body as capable rather than just vulnerable.

"Good," he murmurs after the tenth repetition. "Now faster."

The next round has more contact, his arms actually holding though still gentle. I practice breaking free, using the techniques he showed me. My elbow finds his stomach (softly), my heel his instep (carefully). Each successful escape makes me feel a little less like prey.

"You're holding back," he observes after I execute a particularly tentative escape. "Afraid of hurting me?"

"I don't want to?—"

"I can take it." Something shifts in his expression, goes darker. "And Blake won't hold back. If he comes for you again, he won't care if you don't want to hurt him."

The reminder sends ice through my veins. He's right. Blake tried to kill me. Would try again if given the chance. My next escape attempt has more force behind it, catching Mavi by surprise. He grunts, a sound that shouldn't make heat pool in my belly but does.

"Better. Again."

We continue, intensity ramping up with each round. His holds get firmer, more realistic. My escapes get more desperate, more violent. Sweat begins to bead on my skin, making Cole's t-shirt cling. Mavi's not unaffected either—I can see the sheen on his arms, the way his breathing has deepened.

"Now we're going to ground work," he says, and my stomach flips for entirely different reasons. "Most attacks end up on the ground. You need to know how to fight from your back."

He demonstrates the position, lying on the mats with knees up, hands ready. I copy him, hyperaware of how vulnerable this feels. Then he's above me, knees on either side of my hips, weight carefully balanced to not crush me.

"If someone's on top of you like this," he explains, but his voice has gone rough, "you have options. Buck your hips, try to throw them off balance. Go for the eyes. Use your nails."

I try to focus on the instruction, but he's so close. I can see the gold flecks in his green eyes, count his eyelashes, smell his scent intensified by exertion—smoke and cinnamon and male arousal that he's trying to hide but can't, not when we're this close.

"Try it," he orders, but the words come out strained.

I buck my hips as instructed. He rocks forward, catching himself with hands planted beside my head, and suddenly his face is inches from mine. We freeze, both breathing hard, and not just from the exercise. His pupils are blown wide, and I know mine match. The air between us crackles with electricity that has nothing to do with self-defense.

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