Too bad Mercy had had to go and find herself attracted to a throwback like Riley who wanted little wifey at home with an apron and a dress and a "Oh, honey, I missed you - I can't do anything without you" smile on her face.
"Ha!" She speeded up the routine, hoping it would stop her brain cells from firing.
No such luck. Instead, she began to scent Riley on the air currents. At this rate, she'd be seeing him - "Fuck!" She continued with the workout, knowing he was watching her. She hid nothing of her speed or strength, doing her best to intimidate him.
To show him the truth of who she was.
He leaned against the tree and watched her with the intense focus of a soldier who'd trained more than a few young ones. He was watching for mistakes, errors, not because he'd get pleasure in pointing them out, but because it was habit - it was better to warn a fighter in training, than have them fail when it meant life or death. Mercy knew - she did the same thing herself.
Finally, a good twenty minutes later, she lowered her speed and began to go through a cool-down routine.
Riley didn't speak until she'd finished and was wiping the sweat off her face using the towel she'd hung on a tree branch.
"You move like liquid lightning," he said quietly. "I've never seen anything that beautiful."
Her mouth dried out. Damn it. She'd been good and mad at him. And now . . . "You're a lieutenant. You'll have seen lots of people train."
"No one like you." He shook his head. "It's like you're dancing. I almost wanted to put two swords in your hands."
"I can do that, too," she told him, grinning at the unhidden spike of interest in his eyes. "Someday, when I'm in a good mood, ask me and maybe I'll play with knives for you."
"Why do I get the feeling that if any blood was spilled, it would be mine?" Dark eyes, steadfast gaze.
She shrugged, very aware of the sweat molding her black sports bra to her body, the airy thinness of the loose white gistyle pants she preferred over tights. "No pain for Riley, no fun for Mercy." She was still so mad at him, but now that he was here, the anger was dulled, covered by . . . hope. Because he'd come. The arrogant bastard had come to her.
"Merciless," he said. "Is that why they call you Mercy? To be ironic?"
"No."
"No?" Open interest in his expression.
"It's because my mother would always say 'Have mercy on my nerves, baby!' after I pulled one stunt or another," she said, not sure why she'd shared that childhood memory. "It stuck."
"Your poor mother." He stepped out of the shadows. "What stunts did you pull?"
"Why don't you tell me what stunts you pulled."
He gave her a pensive look. "Sorry. I was a pretty good kid."
She knew he'd helped raise Brenna and Andrew, but his parents had been alive till he was ten. "What, you behaved even when you were seven or eight?"
"Yes." He watched her, so intent it was almost a physical touch. "My mother used to say I'd been born old."
"Do you agree?"
"I am who I am."
It was such a Riley answer that she smiled. "What you are is a pain in the ass when you want to be." Especially to her.
"Never said I didn't pull stunts as an adult."
Clever, clever. Her cat liked clever. "What're you doing here, Kincaid?"
"Looking for a cat to play with."
"Hmm." She put a hand on her hip. "I think I saw a nice tame tabby over thataway." She pointed over his shoulder, in the opposite direction from her home.
"Still mad, huh?"