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I barely have time to register his forward lunge before I duck and twist, slipping past him with a grin.

“You move slower when you're trying to impress me,” I taunt.

He spins, and this time he’s faster—more brutal. I block the elbow, redirect the follow-up punch, but he grabs my wrist and twists, shoving me backward toward the edge of the mat.

I recover quick, swinging my leg up and landing a sharp heel against his side. He grunts, but it only fuels him.

“You call that a kick?” he growls, charging again. “Your left was better last week.”

“Youlikedmy left last week,” I snarl, driving my shoulder into his chest.

He catches me, grips me around the waist, and I’m airborne for a second before I twist out of his hold midair and land in a low crouch. My tank top rides up. His eyes drop.

“I know what you're staring at,” I snap.

“I’m appreciating the view,” he says—and lunges again.

This time when we collide, his hand tangles in the hem of my shirt. He uses the motion to spin me, but I drop down and wrench free, the fabric ripping as I twist out of his grip. I feel it tear over my ribs.

“Oops,” he mutters with zero remorse.

“Next one of you that tries to rip something is getting kneed in the dick,” I promise.

I don't even get to finish my breath before Matteo’s hands are on me.

No warning. He just comes in low and fast—slamming into my side like a freight train, spinning me across the mat. I crash shoulder-first, barely catching myself before I eat the floor.

“Cheap shot,” I hiss, pushing to my feet.

“Adapt,” Matteo says, stalking toward me like he’s already inside my next move.

I launch at him—fast and vicious—but he grabs my arm mid-swing, redirects me with a smooth pivot, and slams my back into the mirror wall.

“Fuck off,” I growl, twisting in his grip.

“Only if you say please.”

He grins—too smug, too sharp—and I snap.

I grab the front of his shirt in both fists and yank. The sound of it tearing is sharp and satisfying.

Except it doesn’t go how I want.

He freezes for half a beat… then lets out a low, dangerous laugh as he steps back and strips the rest of it off himself. It’s slow and deliberate, revealing smooth muscle, scars, and those tattoos I always pretended I hadn’t noticed crawling up his ribs during ops.

Shit.

I hate how fucking good he looks. Hate how my breath catches even though Iknewit would. Hate how the bastard knows it, too.

“Feeling better now?” he asks, tossing the ruined shirt aside.

I don’t answer. I lunge instead.

We clash again—harder now. He catches my kick with a knee, absorbs the impact, spins me by the hips and slams me chest-first into the mirror. His hand grabs my tank at the back and yanks it up high enough to expose my bare skin underneath.

I’m reminded that I have no bra on. No panties. Just sweat-slick cotton and attitude.

I manage to twist before I lose my shirt, shove Matteo off me, and spin fast enough to catch Bodhi with an elbow to the ribs.