Page 34 of Talk Howly to Me

I could spend hours in here, she thought, already cataloging the possibilities for training routines.

But all thoughts of equipment and training schedules evaporated when her gaze landed on Ronan.

He stood at the front of the class with his back partially turned toward the door, leading ten guests through what appeared to be pre-workout stretches. His choice of athletic wear—a fitted black t-shirt and black workout shorts—showcased every line of his powerful physique with devastating effectiveness.

The shirt clung to his broad shoulders and defined chest, while the shorts revealed muscular thighs that spoke of years dedicated to physical conditioning. When he raised his arms to demonstrate a shoulder stretch, the fabric pulled tight across his back, highlighting the V-shaped taper from his shoulders to his narrow waist.

Mine.

Heat flooded her system with embarrassing swiftness, pooling low in her belly and making her mouth go dry. She'd seen attractive men before—the underground fighting circuit wasn't exactly lacking in physical specimens—but something about Ronan's combination of raw masculine power and controlled grace made her feel like a teenager discovering desire for the first time.

Ronan spotted her in the doorway and his face lit up with a smile that made her knees weak. He gestured for her to join him at the front of the class, and she forced her legs to carry her across the polished floor with something resembling normal coordination.

"Everyone, I'd like you to meet Sloane," Ronan announced as she took her place beside him, close enough to catch his cedar and spice scent. "She's our newest team member and has graciously agreed to share some self-defense techniques with us later."

Standing next to him feels ridiculously right, she realized as she smiled and waved at the assembled guests.

Several faces looked familiar from the previous evening's bonfire—Margaret and Tom Martin, the young anniversary couple, two of the college friends on their reunion trip.

"Good morning, everyone," she said, pleased when her voice came out steady despite the chaos Ronan's proximity was wreaking on her nervous system. "Looking forward to working with you all."

Ronan began leading the class through a series of dynamic stretches, his movements fluid and precise. Sloane followed along but found herself stealing glances at him with increasing frequency. The way his muscles shifted beneath his shirt as he demonstrated each movement was mesmerizing, and she caught herself studying the strong line of his jaw and the focused expression in his clear blue eyes.

Focus, Sloane. These people are counting on you to be professional.

But professional felt nearly impossible when Ronan's gaze kept meeting hers during transitions between exercises, his eyes darkening with a burning intensity that matched her own growing desire. The mate bond hummed between them like a live wire, making even the most innocent contact—his hand briefly steadying her during a balance exercise, their shoulders brushing as they moved through the routine—feel charged with possibility.

Thirty minutes into the workout session, Sloane's body hummed with the familiar satisfaction of physical exertion. Sweat beaded along her hairline and dampened the fabric of her sports bra, but instead of exhaustion, she felt energized in a way she hadn't experienced since arriving at Hale Lodge. Every muscle burned with the good kind of fatigue that came from purposeful movement, and for the first time in four days, the storm of emotions churning inside her had channeled into something constructive.

This feels incredible, she realized as she moved through the final set of burpees alongside the class participants. Like I'm finally using my body for something other than survival.

The ten guests were breathing hard but smiling, their faces flushed with exertion and accomplishment. Margaret Martin wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, grinning at her husband Tom who was pretending to collapse dramatically against the wall. The college friends were good-naturedly ribbing each other about their respective fitness levels, while an older gentleman named Frank was nodding approvingly at his own performance.

Ronan called for the final cool-down stretch, his voice carrying easily across the spacious gym. Even after thirty minutes of intense exercise, he moved with the same fluid grace that had captivated Sloane from the moment she'd entered the room. His black t-shirt clung to his muscled torso, dark with perspiration, and when he demonstrated the shoulder stretch, she caught herself staring at the way his biceps flexed beneath the damp fabric.

As the group completed their stretches, Ronan turned toward her with an expression that made her stomach flutter. "Alright, everyone," he announced, his blue eyes never leaving her face. "Now it's time for the part you've all been waiting for. Sloane is going to teach us some essential self-defense techniques."

A flutter of nerves danced through her stomach as ten expectant faces turned in her direction. She'd fought in front of crowds before, but those were spectators betting on her ability to inflict damage. These were lodge guests trusting her to teach them something valuable—something that might actually save their lives someday.

You know this stuff better than anyone, she reminded herself, drawing on the confidence that had carried her through countless underground matches. You've been defending yourself since you were a kid.

She stepped forward, rolling her shoulders back and adopting the authoritative posture that had served her well in more dangerous situations than this one.

"Okay, everyone," she began, pleased when her voice came out strong and clear. "I'm going to walk you through some fundamental moves—basic skills you can use to protect yourselves if the situation ever demands it."

The group moved closer, forming a loose semicircle around her. She could see genuine interest in their faces, along with the kind of nervous excitement that came from learning something entirely outside their comfort zones. Her gaze found Ronan, who stood slightly apart from the guests with his arms crossed over his broad chest, watching her intently.

"Would you mind volunteering?" she asked, proud of how steady her voice remained. "Be my partner for the demonstration?"

His pupils dilated visibly, transforming his blue eyes into something darker and infinitely more dangerous. "Of course," he said, his deep voice carrying a rough edge that sent shivers down her spine. "I would love to be your partner."

The space between them crackled with tension as she cleared her throat and addressed the class. "The first technique I'm going to show you is how to break free when someone grabs your arm or wrist. This is one of the most common ways an attacker might try to control you."

Turning back to Ronan, she extended her right arm. "Go ahead and grab my wrist. Use a firm grip—don't hold back just because we're demonstrating."

His large hand wrapped around her wrist, but she could feel the leashed strength in his fingers, and that familiar electric shock of awareness shot up her arm and straight to her core.

Get it together, Sloane.