She practiced it a lot with Trash and some of the other fighters, and also with Neeko and the scouts. It was kind of scary and kind of fun, and she could feel how it increased her confidence while also giving her some muscle tone. And if she thought about being a badass ninja while she ran those drills, well . . . no one else had to know.

Now it was critical for her to be truly as silent as one of those shadow warriors. Her gear was padded so nothing clanked or creaked. She and Trash took time moving through the forest, making sure not to step on twigs, watching for trip wires and booby traps as they got closer to where Neeko said the old fart was camped.

The forest was oddly lovely today. Sunlight slanted down through the treetops and painted big swaths of foliage with gold. There were all kinds of birds out here, and their combined songs filled the air with the kind of beauty that survivors often forgot about, or ignored. Dahlia did not ignore it. Without beauty, what was survival even worth?

Trash moved past her, angling down a slope toward the creek where Neeko got beaten up. For all his faults—and there were a lot of them—Trash knew how to move. His body was lean and muscular, and she loved to see him in action, even if it was just walking across a room. He looked pretty damn good naked, too, and that thought always gave her a flush. Trash was the first boy she’d ever slept with. She was moderately sure he didn’t know she was a virgin that first time, but he was as gentle in the sack as he was brutal in a fight. And on missions like this one, he always reminded her of a panther or tiger. There was a phrase she read once in a novel: “moving with oiled grace.” That was him. It was the kind of movement she aspired to, and seeing him glide past her and down the slope made her want him. Tonight was going to be one of the intense sessions, of that she had no doubt. He might have that oiled grace, but she had the stamina to wear him out.