Page 80 of Ravaged Saints

Aspen’s face turns even redder. “I didn’t—” she snaps, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “We didn’t—” She shakes, but her eyes are locked on Knox.

“Oh, Aspen,” Knox chuckles, stepping closer. “If you’re going to pretend you didn’t just fuck, you need to hide it better.” His tattooed hand reaches for her chin, lifting it so she has no choice but to meet his gaze.

“And by the look of those lips,” his grin darkens, taking on a predatory edge, “he fucked that beautiful mouth of yours.”

Aspen gasps, stepping back and slapping Knox’s hand from her chin. “You guys should mind your own business!” She snaps, full with frustration.

God, I love seeing her all riled up. That bratty side drives me insane.

“We apologize, Miss Aspen,” I say, raising my hands in surrender, and Knox chuckles darkly behind me.

She shakes her head and walks past us, her ponytail swaying with each step, but I grab her arm, pulling her toward me. Her gasp is soft but sharp, and I lean down, my breath brushing against her ear. “Tomorrow is my turn, doll,” I whisper.

Her cheeks are red as she freezes, her pupils dilating when her gaze meets mine. She doesn’t respond, but her silence says enough. I let her go, and she hurries inside, her steps quick and uneven.

“Want to join me?” I ask Knox, my eyes still on her retreating figure.

“I’ll let you have that fuck all to yourself,” he says with a grin, a hint of mischief in his tone.

I huff. “And Ethan?”

Knox shrugs, though I can see the tension in his shoulders. “I don’t know, Grit. The kid’s an asshole, but he’s harmless.”

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” I say firmly.

Knox cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders back. “Want to spar, Grit? I need to take the edge off.”

“Yeah.” I nod, needing the release, too.

We head to the training area behind the base, where the dirt is scuffed from years of training.

I strip off my shirt, the cool air biting against my skin. Knox does the same, revealing the intricate ink that sprawls across his chest, arms, and back. The massive Reaper tattoo dominating his back seems to move as his muscles shift.

Knox is an intimidating motherfucker. The first time I met him on a mission, I couldn’t take my eyes off him—not out of admiration, but out of caution—but it didn’t take long for me to realize he was the most professional sergeant I’d ever worked with.

He’s the one who saved us from a mission that should’ve ended in disaster, and later, when we returned to civilian life, he pulled me back when I was spiraling without the structure of the army.

“Ready?” Knox asks, circling me like a predator stalking his prey.

“Come on, Reaper,” I taunt, lifting my hand to signal him.

He charges like a freight train, and I barely manage to brace before his shoulder slams into my midsection. The force takes me to the ground, but Knox is careful, though—I know he’s holding back. Even so, the weight of him pressing me into the dirt is enough to remind me why he’s called Reaper.

I twist under him, planting a knee and shoving him to the side. I spring to my feet as he rolls gracefully, standing in one fluid motion, and a smirk plays on his lips, his eyes sharp and assessing.

It’s then I notice Aspen sitting on the wooden bench Ryker built last year, her arms resting lazily on her thighs, but her lips are slightly parted, her gaze locked on us. There’s something in her eyes; I think our doll is horny.

Her eyes roam over our bare torsos, taking us in, and the corners of her lips curve up sweetly and sinfully. There’s a glint in her eyes that tells me she’s enjoying the show.

“Let’s give her something to watch,” I murmur to Knox, dropping into a low stance.

Knox nods, storming toward me like the force of a hurricane, and my muscles coil, tightening in preparation for the impact, and I welcome the adrenaline rushing through my veins.

His fists fly, but I block them, our arms colliding with a smack that echoes through the clearing. I sidestep and swing, but he ducks, his movements quick and calculated. The tension between us is palpable, a charge in the air that’s as much about dominance as it is about trust.

He lunges again, and I grab his arm, twisting as I pivot, using his momentum against him. “Got you,” I grunt, but Knox, ever the strategist, counters, locking my arm and pulling me down with him.

We hit the ground hard, but I barely register the impact as Knox pins me. His weight presses into my chest, his grip is firm, and his face is inches from mine.

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