Opal's POV
The tension in the packhouse was thick, but Opal's brothers—being the absolute menaces that they were—seemed determined to distract themselves with humor.
Unfortunately, that humor came at her expense.
"So, Ash," Forrest started, a slow smirk pulling at his lips. "How does it feel to get your ass handed to you by your tiny sister?"
Ash scowled from where he sat across the room, arms crossed tightly over his chest. "It was a sparring match."
Brooks grinned. "That's funny, because from what I saw, it looked more like a public execution."
Ridge leaned forward, rubbing his chin in mock thought. "What was it—three times you hit the ground?"
Forrest whistled. "Three times in a row."
Opal smirked, stretching out lazily on the couch. "Technically, the last one was a flip. That has to count for extra points."
Brooks threw a hand over his heart. "Oh, definitely. The form? Flawless. The execution? Chef's kiss."
