Soldier Boy doesn’t train. He hunts. Every time you step onto the mat, it feels like you’re walking into a warzone with nothing but your fists and pride. He watches you stretch, smug and sprawling like a king on the bench. “Didn’t think you’d show up again. Thought maybe you finally got tired of getting your pretty little ass handed to you.”

“Didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to open your mouth again after last time.” That gets a low laugh out of him, rough and condescending. He steps into the ring, towering over you, grin sharp like broken glass.

“You got spirit. I’ll give you that,” he says, circling. “Careful with that mouth. Sooner or later, I’m gonna find a better use for it. You’re just here so someone’ll pay attention to you in a tight shirt, huh? Not like a little thing like you could actually keep up.”

You throw the first punch. It lands, but barely. He catches your wrist after the second, spins you with brute force, and suddenly your back’s to his chest, his breath warm against your ear.

“Fast,” he murmurs, voice low and curling like smoke. “But not fast enough. Shame.“ You elbow him. Hard. He stumbles, laughing again. The next exchange is brutal. Sweat burns your eyes, your ribs ache and he wipes blood from the corner of his mouth and grins. “You hit like someone with something to prove. Trying to earn a seat at the big boys’ table? Or just hoping I’ll pin you down and make you feel useful?” Your fist connects with his jaw before you even realize you’re moving. “Damn. That almost turned me on.”

You’re heaving, staring him down, knuckles throbbing. The silence between you sizzles, thick with heat and hate and something else you both refuse to name. He licks the blood off his lip. “Careful, sweetheart. Keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you want me to ruin you.”

You step forward, eyes locked, fists clenched. “You couldn’t ruin me if you tried.”

“Oh,” he purrs, leaning close, breath ghosting over your cheek. “That sounds like a challenge.”