Page 3 of Lone Wolf (Red Rivals)

CHAPTER 3

Ariadne

I prefer the training room when it’s quiet, empty, just me. But I’m focused enough to block out the noise of the other recruits as we gather for our next training exercise, though the clamor makes the huge space feel smaller.

I hover around near Zach and Elijah, but I can’t help watching Sunny Santiago as she jokes and laughs with the other recruits across the room. She’s easy to spot—bright grin, bouncing on the balls of her feet like she can’t keep still, and that mass of multi-colored hair. She’s holding the pads for Enzo Rittoli, who’s half-jokingly punching at them, guard way lower than it should be. Their laughter grates on me. Training is not a joke, and yet they look like they’re on a playground.

I pull my focus back to my own routine. I’ve already warmed up, and now I’m strapping my wrists. It’s something that Lyssa insists on for training, even though knows as well as I do that there’s no time to strap wrists in the field. But I follow orders.

Even though I don’t enjoy these sessions.

Fighting for one’s life is not a game. Not a sport. Certainly not a bonding exercise.

It’s about survival , which is why I always win. Today will be another sparring session, and I assume that, as usual, no one will want to pair up with me. I always end up with Scarlett. And I don’t mind that—at least she gives me a run for my money.

Lyssa never offers to fight me. At first I was surprised, then confused, then annoyed—and then I realized it for what it was. She doesn’t want me to have any extended practice with her in case she needs to take me down one day.

I can respect that.

When Lyssa comes into the room, Scarlett behind her, we line up in front of her in a square formation. The room goes from raucous to tense in the span of seconds, and even the squeaking of shifting sneakers stops as we wait for orders.

“Sparring today,” Lyssa tells us, as expected. As the recruits begin to pair up, murmuring, she says more loudly, “Shut up and listen to me. You’re not staying in pairs today. You don’t get to pick your fights in the field. So today we’re doing a round robin—winner stays in until he or she loses, and we’ll go as many rounds as needed to toughen you soft little fucks up.”

An uneasy laugh follows her words. Frankly, I think it’s about time. I catch Elijah watching me, but his gaze slides away to Zach. Even those two, who will put up with me at meal times, don’t like to train near me. I guess I can’t blame them. They tried sparring with me once; I put them both on their backs in tandem. People don’t tend to come back for seconds with me.

But this time, no one is going to escape me, and for the first time I feel a prickle of anticipation. Lyssa steers Matty Barino toward me in the middle of the mats and points at me, crooking a finger to bring me forward. “The rest of you better take notes,” Lyssa calls. “Let’s see how we go. Barino. Graves. Let’s go.”

Barino gives me the kind of stupid grin I have come to associate with cocky men here in the Syndicate. There are a lot of them at recruit level. Far fewer in the senior levels, because by then, they know that everyone at their level is just as dangerous as they are. But these guys? They don’t know yet.

It’s time for Barino to learn.

Unfortunately for him, the lesson takes only a few seconds before I’ve kicked his feet out from under him and brought my foot down against his neck, stopping a fraction away from crushing his windpipe. His eyes go wide with the sudden knowledge of how close he’s just come to death.

I pull back as Lyssa calls out, “Next!”

I even reach out a hand to help pull Barino up, but he ignores it, scrambling away on his hands and knees until he gets to his feet and saunters off, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.

Next is a brunette—I think her name is Vanessa, but I don’t know her surname. I deal with her about as quickly as I did with the first recruit. She sprawls, blinking in shock at how quickly it ended.

I offer my hand.

She doesn’t take it.

“Next!”

I work through the crowd of them, taking each of them down in turn. One or two take a little longer than the others, and I see Lyssa give an approving nod and murmur to Scarlett, who has joined the training session to watch. It’s then that I realize this isn’t just a normal training session: Lyssa and Scarlett are looking for people. Scouting .

They’re forming a team.

And I want in. So, to keep up the pretense that I have anything approaching respect for any of these people, I go on offering my hand to help up the vanquished. Some of them even take it. But as focused as I am on the impression I’m making on Lyssa and Scarlett, I can’t help getting distracted by someone else.

Sunny Santiago is leaning against the wall, arms and ankles crossed, that bright grin never leaving her face. Every time I take someone down, she chuckles or shakes her head in what looks like amusement. And as I circle my next opponent, I overhear a snatch of conversation.

“She’s so good.” The admiration in Sunny’s voice catches me off guard, but I’m still together enough to block the next blow when it comes, turn it against my opponent.

“She’s a machine,” the scoffed reply comes.

I’m actually pleased about it until I hear Sunny’s response. “Nah. Machines don’t get pissed off. She does.”

Right then, the next attempted blow from my current opponent nearly clips my side, and I whip around to smash a kick into their midsection. They land hard on their back with a pained gasp. I don’t bother offering a hand—I’m glaring across the mat at Sunny instead, something hot stirring under my ribs.

I point at her. “Next,” I snap, before Lyssa can call it out.

I half expect Lyssa to tell me off, but Sunny is already bouncing onto the mats, cracking her knuckles like some kind of prizefighter, making everyone laugh at her antics.

I’ve seen Sunny Santiago fight many times before. She’s lazy. Predictable.

This will be over fast.

“Guess it’s you and me, Frostbite,” Sunny laughs, as she begins to circle me, and a ripple of laughter runs through the onlookers. I narrow my eyes. The overhead lights glint off her hair, and she looks so…vibrant, while I feel stiff and coiled, even though I’m well warmed up.

She bounces on her toes, light and playful, and we circle a few times as I aim to confirm my opinions of her. Everyone else I’ve faced either froze up or rushed me. Not Sunny. She’s waiting, light on her feet, coaxing me with that maddening grin.

Fine. I make the first move. My strike is perfect—wrist firm, a textbook approach?—

She dodges.

And she doesn’t attempt to counter, just keeps moving, weaving, daring me with that wide grin.

I push forward again, dropping low for a foot sweep, and she literally hops over my leg, landing lightly and then darting to the left. For a second, her eyes flash with excitement.

I’ve never had to work this hard just to land a hit. And despite myself, I’m impressed.

Sunny Santiago is not just some bouncing golden retriever. If she took things a little more seriously, she could be a player. She’s not lazy or predictable—not with me. No. With me, she’s chaos, and it’s forcing me to adapt.

“You’re fast,” Sunny says to me. “But I’m fa— oof! ”

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 going instead 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 the recruits 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.