By day three, Isla's entire body was a collection of bruises and aching muscles.
Her thighs burned from running. Her arms trembled from holding shooting positions. Her ribs were tender from where Killian had demonstrated—gently, but effectively—how to break someone's grip during hand-to-hand combat training.
She'd never been in so much pain in her life.
She'd also never felt more alive.
"Again," Killian said, circling her on the mat he'd set up in the clearing behind the cabin.
They were both sweating despite the cool mountain air. Isla wore workout clothes that clung to her skin. Killian was shirtless—he'd removed his shirt an hour ago, claiming it was restricting his movement, but Isla suspected it was also strategic distraction.
Hard to focus on self-defense when your instructor looked like he'd been carved by someone with a vendetta against moderation.
"I can't," Isla panted, hands on her knees. "I've got nothing left."
