When she lowered them, Riley poked her. “Come on, you haven’t even broken a sweat yet.” But she reached in the small duffle she’d brought out, handed Sasha a bottle of water. “Hydrate anyway.”

“I thought you’d show me some martial arts, not just have me punch your hands.”

“Baby steps, Sash.”

She opened the water, drank. “I’ve never actually hit anyone before.”

Riley widened her eyes. “I’d never have guessed.”

“Oh, shut up.” But rolling her aching shoulders, Sasha laughed.

* * *

Bran thought yanking some bloody weeds from the bloody vegetable garden might purge him of the considerable resentment still stuck in his gut. And he’d take some of the herbs and roots while he was about it. He could use them.

Armed with a hoe and work gloves from the garden shed, his own boline for harvesting, he made his way to the garden gate. Over the odd and homey hum the chickens made, he heard Sasha laugh.

The woman plagued him, he thought with no little bitterness. Those big blue eyes filled with her hurt feelings. And worse. Disappointment.

As if telling everybody and their brother you were a hereditary witch was part and parcel of everyday conversation over a bloody pint in the bloody pub.

He hadn’t known her a week, for Christ’s sake. And let’s not be forgetting that being what he was, using what he had, saved her from an ugly fate.

But not before she’d been hurt, he thought. It fucking killed him she’d been hurt.

And he didn’t have time for that. They were, all of them, going into a situation that risked more than cuts and bruises, so he couldn’t afford to find himself worrying about her the way he found himself worrying about her. Each of them had to hold their own, use whatever skill or power at their disposal.

There was a lot more at stake than one woman.

He could want her, he thought, glancing toward the grove again. That was allowed. Sex never hurt anyone if done right and both were willing. And did a lot more to ease the mood and clear the mind than hoeing rows or pulling weeds.

He caught movement and, curious, propped the hoe against the fence, walked to the far corner of the garden.

He could see now, through the trees, Sasha in a skinny sleeveless black shirt punching into Riley’s open hands. She’d twisted her hair up somehow or other, he noted, leaving the back of her neck exposed.

Entertained, and considerably charmed, he leaned on the fence, watched the show.

Teaching her a right cross, he realized.

Doyle wandered down, stood on the other side of the fence. “What’s the deal?”

“Looks like a boxing lesson.”

Doyle watched a moment. “Brunette’s got form. The blonde hits like a girl.”

“She does, but I’ve got twenty says she won’t when Riley’s done teaching her.”

Doyle watched another moment, the way Riley demonstrated technique, or came around to take Sasha’s shoulders, move her body with the punch.