“You need to work on your upper body strength as much as your form. Those bands Riley gave you aren’t enough. Start swimming laps, hard. Start doing push-ups, pull-ups. You do any yoga?”

“A little.”

“Do more. Planks, chaturanga, use your own body weight. Don’t do the same thing every day. Switch it up, but do something every day. Increase the time until you’ve got real muscle fatigue.”

“All right.”

“What?” he demanded when she just kept looking at him.

“We’re having an actual conversation you initiated.”

He shrugged, drank some beer. “No point in conversations unless you’ve got something to say. You held your own last night. Part of that’s the knife Bran gave you. But most of it’s because you’ve got guts. I’d’ve said you didn’t the day I met you.”

“You wouldn’t have been wrong.”

Those sharp green eyes took her measure, straight on. “Yeah, I would’ve. I’m coming from the outside. You formed your group—not long before I came into it, but you’d formed it. You’re the glue.”

“I’m the . . .” The idea surprised her into silence.

“That’s right. And what you said this morning, that was right. Truth is truth, even when you don’t want to hear it. Everyone’s not going to just fall in line, because people just don’t, especially people who’ve had their own agenda for a while. But you were right. We went out there last night and we fought off an attack. We were lucky because we weren’t fighting as a unit. That’s got to change, and that’s something I can help with.”

“How?”

“Battle plans, Blondie. Training. Discipline.”

“That sounds . . . military.”

“That’s why soldiers fight the wars.” He started to flip up the lid on one of the pizza boxes.

Sasha laid her hand on it, kept it closed.

“We eat together—that’s training, too, isn’t it?”

“Okay. Better eat inside. Storm’s coming in.”

“Then let’s go tell the others.” She started out, looked back until he shoved away from the counter to come with her. “Can I try out your other crossbow?”

“It’s got a hundred-eighty pull weight. Even beefed up, you couldn’t cock it.”

“I’d still like to try it.”

“Push-ups,” he said.

The first rumble of thunder sounded as she started up the stairs.

By the time they’d all gathered around the kitchen table, the sky hung dark and broody. With the quickening flashes of lightning, the thunder rolled closer on a hard wind.

“Nothing like a good storm,” Riley said. “Unless it’s pizza.”

“Even bad pizza’s good.” Sawyer lifted a slice, bit in. “And this ain’t bad.”

Watching him, Annika picked up a slice, took a careful bite. “It’s wonderful.”

“Best pizza? Where?”

“New York,” Bran said immediately, and Riley shook her head as she chowed down.

“This little mom-and-pop in a little hillside village in Tuscany. Amazing. Sash?”

“I had some really nice pizza once in Paris.”

“French pizza?” Sawyer snorted. “Forget about it. Neck-and-neck between New York and this trattoria in Florence. How about you?” he asked Annika.