1. Lyssa

The musty scentof stale hay and horseshit wafts through the old barn as I enter slowly. Carefully. I move silently across the floor, scanning for any sign of life. My boots are quiet but I can't help the wisps of dust they raise that catch the late afternoon rays peeking through the slatted walls.

A flicker of shadow is my only warning before Scarlett drops from the hayloft above in a cascade of loose straw. I only just have time to dive away, but she tucks into a roll on impact and surges back to her feet, fists raised.

I barely deflect her first volley of blows, take a kick to the side that knocks me back. At least it gives a little space between us, a little time to get my bearings. She's bobbing and weaving with fresh aggression.

We kick into high gear at the same time, but I'm still faster than her, slapping aside her palm strike, and Scarlett staggers to the side, a victim of her own momentum. She recovers quickly, whirling with a high kick.

Careless.

I seize her ankle in an iron grip and yank, upending her balance. Scarlett crumples to the floor in an ungainly heap with a pained grunt.

"You're overextending," I tell her, driving my point home by burying my boot in her midsection, knocking the breath out of her. Scarlett coughs and heaves for air, eyes watering, but nods her understanding.

She's a fast learner. I'll give her that.

I back off, but Scarlett does this cute little flip to get to her feet as soon as she's caught her breath, and then she's on me again, raining strikes down. I counter each one until I spot an opening. I sway inside her guard and cinch her in a crushing embrace, pinning her arms at her sides as I shove her hard against one of the wooden pillars holding up the hayloft. Her back slams against my front and she's pinned between me and a hard place.

"You lose," I tell her, putting my hand around her throat in a soft warning. I can feel her wildly pulsing artery thrumming against my palm. "Again."

Scarlett stills in my restraining hold as we both slow our breath…or I try to, anyway. There's a surging need low in my belly at the intimate tangle of our bodies, the scent of her in my nose.

Easy, Wolf. Down, girl.

Scarlett tosses a look at me over her shoulder, eyes narrowed in irritation, but widening as I keep her gaze. The full lips part to suck in another breath, and I watch her tongue flick out over the lush curves of her mouth.

I'm suddenly, viscerally aware of every place our bodies meet—my arm around her waist, the curve of her ass cradled into me. My grip on her throat flexes infinitesimally, and I see her jewel-like hazel eyes go darker as her pupils blow wide.

"You done for now?" I murmur. "Or should I put you on the floor again?"

She tries to suppress the full-body shiver, but it's hard to miss. She gives a sharp nod and I release her with a shove to the side, putting space between us before things can veer into territory I don't dare entertain.

I finger-comb my disheveled hair back—she didn't give me time to get it into my customary ponytail—and calm my breathing. "Nice try."

"I nearly had you."

I snort. "Uh-huh. Okay." I head back to the worn gym bag I set down by the barn door, the one I tote back and forth from Elysium stocked with supplies and rations to keep my captive guest alive. I retrieve an aluminum canteen and a crumpled paper sack, tossing them to Scarlett.

Once she's drunk down half the canteen, Scarlett digs into the paper sack and extracts a gas-station sandwich and a couple of protein bars. She raises one critical eyebrow at me.

"I didn't have time to grab anything else." I sound more defensive than I'd like, but she just sighs and tears into the ham-and-cheese. Some days I get lucky and find a meatball sub or something more substantial.

And I feel bad about it. I really do. Scarlett needs to eat a lot more than she is right now, to keep up the muscle that I'm trying to pack onto her. It's difficult, though, without electricity or running water out here. She has some canned food, but I can't blame her for avoiding it. Not much fun eating cold chili.

But nevertheless, I frown at her. "You gotta eat more of the canned stuff. You'll need your strength for what's next."

Scarlett just stares back at me with that woodland-shadows gaze. For a while, we pass the time in silence, Scarlett chewing methodically while I pace the perimeter and think about whether I should try another training exercise today. She's taken to trying to surprise me when I arrive, though it never works. I mean, I already know she's in here, which doesn't help her out. But I like that she takes the initiative.

She wants to train. Wants to be better.

If she can just focus, start acting instead of reacting, she'll be a formidable opponent.

Once she's drained the canteen and stuffed down a protein bar as well, I check my watch. "I have a half-hour until..." Until what? I have to disappear back to the city? Hunt down more leads on Grandmother's whereabouts?

Plot Scarlett's eventual death?

"Until you have to leave," Scarlett supplies, reading my hesitation with uncanny perception. "Can we—I mean…do you have time to train some more before that?"

Her wide, hopeful eyes are my undoing. I should leave now, before things get...complicated. Should cut our time short. Keep my distance. Treat her like the walking dead woman she is.

But instead, I hear myself saying, "Yeah. I got time. Get up."

Scarlett scrambles to comply, fists raised eagerly as I launch into a series of close-quarters defensive drills. The steady cadence of grunts and fist-on-flesh impacts fills the still air as I walk her through shielding techniques and grappling counters. And when I feel like she's getting lazy about it, I immobilize her against the wooden pillar again, face to face this time, her wrists in my hands, held tight behind her back.

She twists in my grasp, muscles straining, tendons standing out in vivid relief along her elegant neck, sweat glistening on her skin. Her hips grind shamelessly against mine, teeth gritted as she fights my restraint.

That same rush from before floods through me again, my thighs clenching convulsively.

God, this woman is going to be the death of me.

I let her go and point at her. "You need to be better than that. You'd be cooling already if I really wanted you dead."

"You do, though," she says. "Want me dead. Don't you?"

Why'd she have to go and bring that up? And it's not that I want her dead, I just have my orders. But there's no point playing semantics.

"Yeah, I want you dead," I tell her. "But not yet. So in the meantime, be better."

By the time I call a halt, we're both covered in dust and sweat, and her bangs are matted to her forehead. Scarlett accepts a fresh bottle of water gratefully, gulping it down while I lean against a splintered beam to catch my breath.

She takes a step closer, running the back of her wrist across her brow to get the damp hair out of her eyes. "Seems weird, is all," she says.

"What?" I ask blankly.

"That you did all that to get away from Grandmother, only to join up with someone else who expects you to follow orders, no questions asked. I thought you wanted to be free?"

"That's not—" I start to snap, and then catch myself. She's just looking for a rise. "I gotta go." I grab the canteen, leave another six bottles of water, gather up the empties and the garbage, which I'll trash at a rest stop on the highway back into the city.

"When will you come back?"

There's that damned vulnerability in her voice again, that longing that stirs things in me I can't allow. I need to get gone before she chips away at my resolve any further.

"Tomorrow," I mutter. I have to look away from the naked hope shining in her eyes.

"And will we go after Grandmother soon?"

I push off the beam. "Finish your water. I gotta roll."

She just re-caps it and hands it to me. I spin around to head for the door, suddenly desperate to escape. But Scarlett's voice freezes me.

"Lyssa, wait."

I turn back, only halfway, because I know what's coming. She asks every time.

"Can't you stay a little longer? It's…it's lonely out here."

No point pondering what ifs and could-have-beens. My path is set. And I have my orders. "I'll be back tomorrow," I repeat, already shrugging into the battered leather of my bike jacket. "Keep training."

I leave without looking back. I can't look at her or I'll never be able to make myself go. Firing up the bike, I peel out onto the dirt road that leads to the highway, but I can't put any distance between me and the ache in my chest.

There's no room in my life for softness or regrets. I stamp down the swell of feeling as viciously as I would the face of an enemy. A Sokolov, maybe. Or an Imperioli.

But not Scarlett. No, when I kill her, it'll be different. Swift. And kind.

She won't see it coming.