Page 17 of Celestial Combat

Her jaw tightened. “You don’t know me.”

I held her gaze, unwavering. “I do. You’re fucking up. And you can’t take feedback. So you’re not getting better.”

Her fingers flexed by her sides, her knuckles bruised and raw from the day’s work. There was something simmering beneath her dark gaze, something sharp. But she didn’t lash out.

Neither did I.

The space between us felt heavier with each breath.

I nodded toward the bag. “Keep your left up.”

Walking away, I let her to figure out if she was going to sink or swim.

The heat of the sauna curled around me, thick as smoke, wrapping over my skin. The scent of essential oils clung to the air.

My head tilted back against the wall, arms draped loosely over the wooden bench, towel slung low around my waist.

It was silent except for the slow, measured inhale I took. And then – footsteps.

I didn’t open my eyes. Didn’t need to.

I already knew who it was by the speed, weight and pattern.

The door shut with a quiet click, sealing in the heavy heat. A slow exhale that wasn’t mine filtered through the thick air. Steam curled around her silhouette as she moved toward the center of the room, rolling her shoulders, letting the warmth work into her muscles.

She hadn’t seen me yet.

Not until she made it too far.

And then she stilled.

I watched the realization flicker across her face, the slight tightening of her fingers around the towel wrapped around her body. Her gaze flickered down, dragging over the tattoos winding up my arms, across my chest. Black ink coiled like smoke over muscle, intricate lines cutting over my ribs, stopping just beneath my jawline.

Her gaze lingered. Just for a second.

Then lower.

The silver studs in my nose and brow glinted under the dim light. I saw the moment she wondered where else I was pierced.

Silence stretched thick between us.

She hesitated for a moment, then moved to sit down by my side. I watched as she lowered herself onto the bench, the white towel shifting over her skin, exposing the ink curling across her back.

A dragon.

It twisted through cherry blossoms and waves, dark ink and delicate beauty, curling over her spine like something ancient and unyielding.

“Your ink.” My jaw flexed as I readjusted my low-waisted towel. “Who did it?”

“Someone in Tokyo.”

“It suits you.”

She tensed.

I caught the way her fingers curled into the edge of the towel, the way her shoulders pulled just slightly. Compliments from me weren’t something she trusted.

“If only you were this nice during training.”