With a grunt, the males collide.
Killian’s cruel lips soften into what might be considered a smile, but it’s a lot closer to the look a snake has after it swallows a rat.
I don’t know why I’m watching Killian. Usually, I avoid eye contact with higher ranks at all times. Saves a lot of getting asked to fetch something.
Killian’s not looking at me, though. He’s intent on the fight. There’s no clear favorite at the moment. It’s a two-man rugby scrum.
My arms are getting heavy, and somehow, it’s hotter in here than the kitchen. Sweat trickles down my temples, and I can’t wipe my face.
I inch further toward the front table, but as soon as I step near the open floor, the fighters sprawl in front of me. Tye scrabbles for dominance. There’s a crackle in the air—like he might shift.
I’m stuck. If I venture closer and they change, I’m wolf meat. If I’m in their way, they’ll plow me over.
Sweet Fate, someone needs to crack a window. Now there’s sweat dripping down my back. Standing puts more pressure on my leg than moving, and my thigh muscles are starting to ache. This is miserable.
Why did I wear a flannel? It’s sticking to me. So gross.
I need to drop this tray and get some air. What if I just skirt them—
Lochlan slams Tye into the ground, barely missing my foot. Okay. Guess I’ll wait right here.
After several long moments of grunts and growls, Tye gains the upper hand. Half the room roars. Then there’s a reversal; Lochlan wrangles Tye into a headlock, and the other half goes wild.
Killian watches, fingers steepled, gaze flickering from male to male. Our king. He’s wearing a plain white tank top, faded jeans, and tan work boots. It’s pretty much a uniform in this pack.
Killian should look basic, but he doesn’t.
His shirt clings to every defined muscle, and like his gargantuan wolf, he’s in a whole other weight class than the other males. His jeans hug his thighs, and they’re more solid, too. His sculpted shoulders are broader, his posture more arrogant, his dusky blue eyes flintier.
Every angle on his face is harsh. His nose is crooked, his Adam’s apple pronounced, his lips a slash. Even when he smiles, they barely curve.
I’m really thirsty. I swallow, but my mouth is bone dry.
Why am I looking at Killian Kelly’s lips?
I drop my gaze, and my face blazes. It’s the heat in here. It’s muddling my brain.
Killian Kelly is strong, but he’s not attractive. He looks mean—which is what he’s always been. He’s only two years older than me. I’ve known him since the day I was born, and I’ve never been into him like the other females. I’m not a rank groupie.
I shake myself off as best I can with a full tray. Tye and Lochlan are still blocking my way. I could go back, circle around behind the tables, but that’d take forever. It’s getting muggier and more humid by the second, and my shirt is sticking to me. I’ll wait a few more seconds. Tye looks to be making his comeback.
He’s not going to lose. Killian wouldn’t have ordered him to fight if it wasn’t a sure thing. Killian and Tye are closer than brothers, and in this pack, everything goes the way Killian wants.
That’s because unlike the other packs, Quarry Pack is ruled by strength, not blood. Any male can challenge for rank at any time. Theoretically, Killian could have to fight every day to keep the lead, but he doesn’t because he cannot be beat. It’s a fact.
Besides having the biggest wolf in the five packs, Killian’s a flip-shifter. He can change from skin to fur and back again whenever he wants, without effort, in the blink of an eye. It’s an unbeatable advantage.
Abertha says flip-shifting isn’t magic, but it sure as hell looks like it when he morphs back and forth mid-air. No one wants to challenge an alpha touched by the moon.
A flash of heat crashes through me. It has to be at least ninety degrees in here, and behind Killian’s makeshift throne, the fire’s roaring. Why does no one open the windows?
Probably because the mated and protected females are perfectly comfortable. They’re allowed to wear short sleeves, and per usual, the males who aren’t wearing tank tops are bare-chested.
My wrist is so tired. I switch so I’m holding the tray in two hands. My palms are getting slick. It’d serve them right if I dropped the tray, and they’d have to go get their own damn beer. The folks at the far table are already casting me dirty looks—like why don’t I wade through the shifter fight?
Ugh. I press my legs tight together. Sweat is dribbling down my inner thighs and tickling the back of my knees. And my stomach’s doing something weird. Do I have a fever? I can’t get sick. I’ve got a mushroom deal in the works.
Fortunately, the match seems to be wrapping up. Ivo Bell is squatting and squinting between Tye and Lochlan’s entangled bodies. I’m not sure why he doesn’t call the match. Tye is howling at the ceiling in victory, and Lochlan’s face is beet red, fur sprouting from his collar. There’s definitely a winner and a loser, and if Ivo doesn’t call it, there’s gonna be a wolf fight in the great room.
I can’t stand here any longer. I need air. All this male musk is making me queasy. I’m gonna yak. I grip the tray and pick my way around them, praying Lochlan doesn’t break free at the very last second and topple me ass over tea kettle.
Luckily, I make it past them to where Killian’s lieutenants sit next to the dais. From the way everyone treats the table like sacred ground, you’d think it’d be special, but it’s like the others—worn laminate top, backless benches, wheels. The tables came with the building when the pack bought the property in the 80s and stopped living in dens.
“Took you long enough,” Finn Murphy gripes as he grabs a pitcher, knocking my hand as he helps himself. I set the tray down and unload it. I don’t bother to respond. I don’t talk to dicks.
“Get us some more.” Finn shoves an empty bread basket at me. He doesn’t meet my eye, just gnaws on a drumstick while he watches Tye help Lochlan off the floor.
“Bad call,” he grumbles under his breath. He’s just sore because he’s in cahoots with Lochlan. From where I was standing, Tye won without a doubt.
I snag the basket and turn to go. I’m going to “forget” about the bread and duck out the back. The sun is setting. There’ll probably be a breeze from the foothills. I can cool down.
I want to be outside so bad. The desire hits me so hard, it’s a longing. I need open sky. I want to breathe in the night air. I want to bask in the moonlight.
Mostly, I want out of these clothes. My bra straps are digging into my shoulders, and my khakis are damp and too damn tight. They must’ve shrunk in the wash. Or I’ve ended up wearing Annie’s again by accident.
I take a step toward the kitchen, but before I head back, I glance up at the dais. I have to. I’m called. It’s instinct even though no one said my name.
But there’s only Killian, staring at me.