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Bodhi laughs.Laughs.

“You're getting sloppy,” he murmurs, grabbing my wrist. “Thought you were better than this.”

“Iambetter than this,” I snap, twisting out of his grip and landing a solid knee between his legs.

He grunts, staggers back a step—but recovers fast.

“Warned you,” I say, teeth bared.

“Youdid,” he growls—and then he's right back on me.

He lunges low, trying to sweep my leg, but I pivot fast and catch his shoulder, using the momentum to swing behind him. My hand grabs the back of his shirt, fist twisting in the fabric as I pull.

"Payback," I snarl—andrip.

His shirt tears up the middle, splitting open in my grip. I shove it off his shoulders and throw it to the side.

Fuck.

All I can see is ink.

I’ve never seen him without a shirt, even sparring at the organization he had a shirt on. His back—allof it—is tattooed. Shoulder to waist, spine to ribs. A solid canvas of black and gray, sharp lines and winding chaos that moves like smoke across muscle and scar. There’s a serpent coiled around a dagger. A storm cloud shattering over a cracked crown. Wings—ripped, not spread.

I forget to breathe.

God. Fucking. Damn it.

I hesitate.Half a second.

Just long enough.

Matteo is behind me again before I can blink.

His hand snakes around my waist—tight, possessive—and his other grips the hem of my tank top andyanksit up over my head in one fluid motion. It’s justgone.

“Shit—” I gasp, trying to twist out of his grip.

Too late.

My arms are tangled in the cotton for a beat too long, leaving me exposed—bare from the waist up, breathing hard, sweat-slick skin pressed to his chest as he holds me still.

Bodhi laughs, the sound low and brutal as he turns back toward me.

"Aw, princess," he purrs, eyes dragging down over my now-bared chest. "You hesitated. Never hesitate in a fight."

“Fuckyou,” I growl, struggling in Matteo’s hold—but the way his hand slides down, gripping the waistband of my shorts while Bodhi prowls forward?

It’s not a fight anymore.

It’s a war.

And I’m losing.

And God, part of me wants to.

But it doesn’t stop me.

I slam my heel down onto Matteo’s foot, twist at the same time, and break free with a grunt—dropping low and sweeping his leg hard.