“Isn’t preening wonderful?” Gayle asked, binding her long braids into a bun at the nape of her neck. She covered her head in a stretchy wrap just to make certain nothing would come loose, and dropped into a crouch, performing a series of quick punches. She’d met Mila in the women’s locker room at the Academy. The shorter woman was dressed like Gayle. Not in their Academy uniforms, because if shit hit the fan, the Academy couldn’t be suspected as having sanctioned two rogue students in mostly illegal shenanigans. But they wore close-fitting garments in breathable material, dark colors, and flexible sports shoes. The kind a gal could twist, kick, and run like hell in without her toes getting stubbed.

Life was good.

Mila rolled her eyes. “Let’s get this over with.”

Gayle grinned at her friend. “Now, that’s no way to talk about a good fight. You know he’s going to freak. There will be blood.” She said it with relish. Hopefully, enough blood and ruckus that it would get back to her father. Pulling her father’s nose was maybe a little immature for a woman her age—Gayle considered the thought and then discarded it.

She wouldn’t have to pull his nose if he’d keep it in his own business. Marry? As if. He acted like he was a feudal lord and Gayle his virginal daughter to hand off to the highest bidder as a prize. She snorted. And her parents believed she wouldn’t relish the challenge of being thrown out to the wolves.

They didn’t know her very well. She itched to test her strength, to try out her full capabilities. Mila took care of herself and a sick mother, and she was younger than Gayle. There were other women in the Academy who were single mothers, or had no family. Gayle looked at them and realized they were the warriors, not her. Dissatisfaction settled low in her belly. She didn’t want to be the princess in the tower.

She wanted to be the dark knight.

The journey through Omaha to Samson’s place was short, Gayle entertained herself with pictures of her father’s face, hoping today’s amusement would make it to the local evening news. Gayle contained a chuckle at her childish fantasies as they walked up to the house containing the man who was a threat to Mila and Ayita, Mila’s mother.

“Does your mate know you’re here?” Gayle asked.

Mila slanted her a sidelong look. “Are you crazy? Of course, not.”

“Hell, yeah. Ithann’s going to freak out, too.”

Mila grimaced. “I just don’t get you and him. He’s so… stuffy. And mean as a rattlesnake.”

Gayle smiled. She had a handle on Ithann. All bark and no real bite. “I’m wearing him down. You’ll see.”

So would her parents, when they realized she was slowly steering the male towards choosing her as a mate. He was perfect. Cool, calm, a snarky foil to her frenetic energy, and he didn’t treat Gayle like a fairy princess. His training was often brutal, he didn’t hold back because of who she was. The only daughter of a long line of entrenched, famous politicians all the way back to a history-making president of the United States.

“What are you doing here?” Samson asked with a scowl, bleary eyed, when they banged on his door.

Gayle followed hard on Mila’s heels as her friend barreled into the house. She looked around, taking in the poorly lit interior with interest. Old-fashioned stucco on the walls and real wood trim to match the creaky floors. It wasn’t unkempt—but it had character.

“You should really try to get to bed at a decent time, Sam,” Mila said. “You don’t look so hot.”

The man slammed the front door closed, eliminating most of the light. Gayle itched to walk up to the curtains and open them.

“Slamming doors is rude,” she said, turning to observe him. Mila watched the male, eyes bright, that expression on her face that told Gayle the girl was about to do some of her juju.

“Who the fuck is you?” He squinted. “Hey, aren’t you—”

“No. I get that all the time,” Gayle lied, heading him off. She might want some media attention if it happened that way, but she wasn’t stupid enough to make herself a target by confirming vague suspicions about her identity. Another reason she’d wrapped her braids. “I’ve got that kind of face.”

He tugged up the waistband of his drooping pants. His white tank didn’t look entirely clean, but then it must have been his maid’s day off.

“Oh, yeah? What do you want, Mila?” he asked, still giving Gayle a suspicious look. “You here to pay the tab?”

Mila crossed her arms, balancing on the balls of her feet. “I’m here to make you an offer you can’t refuse. Ayita is broke. I’m broke—”

“That’s a lie. I heard you was messin’ around with them aliens, girl. They got money.”

“They have muscle,” Gayle corrected, then smiled sweetly. “And advanced weaponry.”

“Yeah? Where is it? Not here.” Samson pulled a communicator out of his pocket and tapped a few buttons.

Mila snapped her fingers in his face. “Don’t get sidetracked. What I’m going to do is make six monthly payments in an amount that will equal one fourth of what Ayita owes you. In return, I won’t rat your ass out for being an unlicensed dealer.”

He stilled. “You wanna watch your mouth. Your mama will be back here sooner or later and I’ll take your disrespect out on her.”

Gayle watched his fingers carefully. He wasn’t replying to comments on social media. She expected backup to arrive any second now, and subtly eased herself into a defensive position, back to the wall. At a certain angle, she could see through the living room, the dining room and kitchen, also a view of the back door. She didn’t hear feet upstairs, so backup would likely come through the kitchen.

“My mother will never be back here—and she’s somewhere you won’t be able to touch her.”

“You can get out of my house,” Samson said. “I’ll take full payments in cash, or ass. One or the other and you have a week.” He stopped. “You know what, forget that shit. Give me my money now.”

And those were the magic words that told Gayle his people had arrived.

She saw the swing of the back door opening and a handful of nondescript enforcers file in. Plain t-shirts, dark-washed jeans, and sneakers.

Gayle grinned, lifting a hand to wave a little welcome. “Oh, squee—I love parties.”

“Looks like,” Samson said. “So, what’s it gonna be? Cash or ass? Same deal I give your mama, it’s only fair.” Gayle saw the half grim, half-crazy smile on Mila’s face, watched the way her eyes intensified, and knew matters were about to get real.

Five on their side, likely well versed in deliciously dirty street brawling, and two on their side. Trained in a style the street fighters wouldn’t have knowledge in, and with Mila’s strange ability to give them an edge… but still. Not great odds.

Training kicked in as the two women closed the space between them, guarding each other’s backs. Yadeshi style was all about using the opponent’s momentum and weight against him—allowing the enemy to make the first move and betray their strategy. Which was why duels often took so long to begin, until one person decided to get things rolling.

“Now, you don’t really want to tear up your house with a fight, Sam,” Mila said.

“There isn’t much to tear up, the decor is deplorable,” Gayle murmured, containing a wince. She sounded like her mother. She reminded herself that being Low Tier didn’t necessarily excuse one for a lack of color in one’s domicile.

“Daddy’s princess has a mouth on her,” Samson said, watching Gayle.

And with that comment, her amusement evaporated. He knew who she was, which meant this wasn’t going to be a clean beat down, but an opportunity for him to grab a politician’s daughter for ransom. Or other things. She didn’t put it past a man with eyes like those to keep a High Tier woman for the sheer entertainment factor of gang rape.

“Beat the shit out of the short one—take the lamppost upstairs.”

The flunkies had their marching orders. Two moved in, one for each woman. Gayle waited until he’d entered her space. Medium height, lean muscle, and smooth skin with a healthy layer of fat under his face. The whites of his eyes were clear and he moved properly. So well fed, and not on any substances that would make him easy prey.

He feigned; Gayle didn’t move. After he tried her two more times without a response, he must have assumed she didn’t know what she was doing. But she was waiting. When he broke through the space that placed his momentum in her power, she countered. A quick flurry of kicks and punches set to stun sent him staggering back outside her circle. If she’d had another ally, he would have been restrained at that point.

He shook it off and returned, coming in hard and fast, but still not understanding how to attack someone with her training. She grabbed his wrist, using his own speed and weight to slam him into the wall, the heel of her free hand knocking his head into the stucco. Mila had already shifted, dealing with her own assailant, and remaining aware of Gayle simultaneously.

Gayle whirled to intercept another attack as the man she’d just knocked out slid down the wall. A blow to her face left her stunned for several seconds. She cursed mentally. Too slow. He swung again and she blocked, parrying with a twist and sharp kick to his knee. Samson joined the fight, a visual sweep showing that even with two men down, they were still outnumbered.

“Time to level up,” Gayle said.

Samsun snorted. “What, this a vid game, now?”

Mila understood. They fought at a lower offensive level, the level predicated on one’s situation not being dire, and thus not necessitating a great amount of risk in counter offense. Gayle burst into action, taking herself inside Samson’s guard, allowing her own defense to open enough for potential blows to break through, but giving her more options to inflict damage. The idea being to take a proverbial—or literal—knife to win the fight.

They circled around to the living room. She had a split second to register the location of furniture—a couch shoved against the far wall with an old coffee table. A tall lamp at her right near the arch into the entryway. Enough space in front of the curtained windows to maneuver without tripping over anything except the edges of a mass-produced area rug.

Samson lunged, Gayle dropping at the last moment and pushed up, using her back to propel him backwards—through the front window. The shattering of old-fashioned breakable glass startled the remaining men.

Gayle intercepted the remaining flunkies, who moved as if to go to Samson as Mila aimed a swift punch to the nose at her momentarily distracted opponent, grabbing his head when he moved to catch spurting blood and looking deep into his eyes.

He swiped at her, Gayle jumping back at the last moment as she saw something shiny on the edges of his knuckles.

“Fuck, that’s cheating,” she yelled.

He grinned. “No cheating in war, bitch.”

War was an excessive term to use in the circumstances. When he moved on her again, she was ready, grabbing his arm above the wrist, yanking him past her and whirling to aim a kick square in his back and send him straight into the opening door and an angry, blue warrior.

“Well, shit. I guess we have reinforcements,” Gayle said.

Ithann glanced at her, expression hard, and dealt with the human male as if he were no more annoying than a flea. He barely exerted effort, the casualness of his movements stirring a kind of sour envy and determination to get better, damnit, in her belly. And then Jaron stepped inside.

“Oh, hell,” Mila said. “Hi, babe.”