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I watch longer than I should while she jogs past. She’s light on her feet, clearly athletic. She doesn’t struggle like some of the other guys who are on lap two and barely keeping pace.

Fuse appears beside me again once they start their laps. “Damn, she’s hot…but fuck, that smartass mouth on her is lethal. Let’s pray she can hold her own with fighting or she’s fucked. ”

I sigh heavily. “Fuse.”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “What? I’m just saying.”

“You’re saying it out loud.” I shake my head and give him a look. Interrupting their run, I shout out, “Circle up!” The prospects gather in the middle of the mats, breathing hard already.

Fucking pathetic.

I lock eyes with the prospects. “Pair off. Mason with Thomas. Tyler with Evan.” My gaze lands on Tatum. No one moves toward her. “Fuse will run fundamentals with you.” I look back to everyone else. “Basic sparring. I want footwork first. We are working on form. No wild swings. No dumb shit like trying to impress me.”

Tatum raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. She strips off the cropped sweatshirt in one smooth motion, and the sports bra underneath leaves little to the imagination. The full floral sleeve tattoo, the knife-shaped scar across her collarbone, and the mottled bruising spotting her ribs are on full display. Several prospects stare before catching themselves.

Fuse keeps his face neutral. “Hands up. Follow my lead.”

They start slow. Footwork drills. Basic jabs. She mirrors him exactly, her movements clean and efficient. No wasted energy. Fuse talks her through dodges and counters. She absorbs it without complaint. Then she throws a quick jab to his ribs—sharp, controlled. Fuse blocks the next and returns a light tap to her shoulder. She smirks faintly but stays in rhythm. Another exchange. His jab clips her chin lightly, and a small split forms on her lip. She licks the blood away and steps back.

Fuse stops for a moment, checking to make sure she’s okay, before wiping sweat from his brow. “Not bad, Tatum.”

She nods, and the session moves on. I run the full group through circuits—push-ups until their arms shake, sprints across the gym floor, heavy bag work that leaves their knuckles raw. Most prospects drag by the halfway mark, lungs burning, faces red. Tatum keeps pace. She breathes harder toward the end, sweat glistening across her chest, strands of hair sticking to her neck, new bruises blooming on top of some of the old ones. But she never asks for a break. Never looks for help.

Independent to a fault. Probably because she had to be.

I watch her more than I should. The tiny tattoo behind her ear. The way she bites the inside of her cheek when a set gets brutal. The quiet refusal every time someone offers her some water or a towel. She carries herself like someone who’s learned the hard way that relying on others usually ends in disappointment.

Makes me wonder what sounds she would make if she was underneath me. Fuck…Can’t go there. She is bad news wrapped in a pretty little bow.

Eventually, I shout out, “Hydrate. Ten-minute break.”

The prospects scatter toward the water coolers and benches like wounded animals. I grab my own bottle near the ring, and Tatum appears beside me a moment later, still catching her breath.

“You trying to kill us on day one?” she asks with a playful tone.

“Yes,” I say matter-of-factly.

She lets out a short breath that might be a laugh. “Cool. Just checking.”

I take a long drink, then look at her. “You handled yourself better than expected.”

Her dark blue eyes narrow slightly. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

“Observation,” I answer plainly.

She smirks faintly, like she won a small victory.

Dangerous woman.

“Most prospects come in cocky,” I continue. “Loud mouths and big egos. You came in prepared. Quiet. Watching everything.”

Something flickers across her face—gone before I can read it fully. “You don’t survive places like Redline by being stupid.” Her tone carries an edge. The words land heavier than I expect them to, almost casual. Like surviving hell has become background noise for her.

I lean against the ring post, studying her profile and can’t help the question that comes out next. “Why stay?”

She glances over, cautiously. “What do you mean?”

“You got out. Could’ve disappeared anywhere. Started over clean.” I stay nonchalant, maybe staying in a neutral tone will allow the conversation to continue smoothly. For a second, I think she won’t answer me.