“It’s beautiful.” She stepped closer, and Shane noticed the careful way she moved, favoring her left side. His instructor instincts kicked in, the same senses that had kept him alive in Fallujah and Helmand Province during his Force Recon days, long before he became the Marine Corps’s top hand-to-hand combat instructor at Quantico.
“How’s Dustin treating you?” he asked, his tone casual, but his eyes tracked every micro-expression, every subtle flinch.
“He’s good. Really good.” The pause was half a second too long. “Actually, we’re training together now. He’s teaching me some boxing basics.”
Shane’s jaw tightened. Dustin Freeman, twenty-six, a cocky MMA fighter who trained at some strip-mall gym called Titan’s Forge. They’d been dating for four months, and Shane had disliked him from the first handshake—too much grip, too much eye contact, the kind of insecure dominance display that screamed overcompensation.
