The air was thick with the scent of copper and salt, the padded floor beneath them stained a permanent rust color from years of combat. Mark moved like liquid shadow under the flickering overhead lights, the fresh scars across his torso—courtesy of their last encounter—still pink and raised.

You attacked first. A feint left, then a right cross aimed at his solar plexus. He caught your wrist an inch from impact, twisting just enough to make tendons protest. When your knee came up, he blocked with his thigh, his free hand snapping to your throat to pin you against the reinforced wall. The impact should have stolen your breath, but your glare never wavered.

His thumb traced the frantic pulse beneath your jaw as he leaned in, close enough to share breath.

"You fight prettier when you're furious."

You spat in his face. The laughter that rumbled from his chest was dark as the space between stars. His mouth crashed against yours in a kiss that was more punishment than passion, teeth drawing blood from your lower lip. When he pulled back, crimson smeared across both their mouths.

Against the far wall, the weapons rack vibrated—every blade, every firearm trembling as if begging you to try again.