“I could make you hot,” he says. “Your wolf’s panting for it.”
She is—at this point, she’s presenting—and it’s beyond awkward. I’m not paying her any attention. If I did, my face would spontaneously combust.
“We’ve agreed to disagree on this one,” I mumble.
“There’s no division between the man and the wolf. That’s a heresy.” Killian says it like he learned the words by rote. I bet he did. It’s what the elders preach. The man and the wolf are two sides of the same coin.
Abertha teaches us differently. She says everyone’s connection to their wolf is unique, a creation of their own making. When people are fucked up, it’s because of an imbalance in the relationship. She says that’s what’s wrong with a lot of folks in this pack. Their heads are up their wolf’s ass.
But I don’t say that. I hedge a little. “I don’t see it that way.”
“And you know better than your elders?”
“There’s a division between you and your wolf.” It’s as clear as the color of his irises. And the fact that his wolf actually likes me.
“Is that so? And how do you know?”
Because he’s a cocky asshole, and his wolf is a giant, homicidal snuggle bunny.
“Because your wolf is in my thrall.” I almost gasp when I say it. It’s way more truth than I intended. I brace myself. That was a challenge. He can’t possibly take it any other way.
His already angular jaw clenches, throwing those neck muscles into even sharper relief.
Why did I say that? What is possessing me? This whole conversation is bonkers. I should apologize for whatever I did or didn’t do, according to him, and go on to live another day.
But the moon is casting the world in blue, and everything feels hyper real. Heat radiates off Killian, and I’ve never had an alpha this close to me before. I’m not “aroused” as he put it, but I’m—interested.
It’s like my inhibitions—some of them, the filter on my mouth, for one—are fading. I forget to defer. That should be impossible. Submission to rank is hardwired into our DNA.
At least that’s what the elders believe.
I wait for Killian’s response, a knot coiling in my belly, fear and—anticipation.
He slides a finger along my temple, tucking my hair behind my ear. Then he traces the shell. I shiver. His mouth softens into something almost like a grin.
He leans close, and when he whispers, his lips brush my earlobe.
“And what are you going to do with him, little wolf?”
A husky whine escapes from deep in my chest, a demanding, impatient sound dripping with raw lust. I press my palm to my mouth, cheeks flaming, and Killian laughs, backing off.
Somehow, the spell is broken. A mask I didn’t even realize had been lifted returns, making Killian’s face cold and hard again. And almost—worried.
He jerks his chin toward the lodge’s front doors. “Come on.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He heads inside, fully expecting me to follow, the elastic from my braid around his corded wrist.
I wait a full three seconds before I scurry after him.
Nuala’s sweater is a really lovely pumpkin color, but I feel like a neon orange emergency cone when I trail Killian back into the great room. People are back at their seats, finishing dinner, but as soon as I walk in, there’s a massive clatter of forks and the hushed chatter dies.
Killian points to a spot by the elder’s table. “Stay there.”
He doesn’t bother to look back at me when he gives the order. He’s striding toward the A-roster table with a purpose.
I clutch the hem of the cardigan, stretching it as low as it can go.
People are staring at my messed-up leg. Thomas Fane’s fang marks should be old news to everyone, but packmates still ogle the scars, and I still squirm inside.
Besides Killian, I’m the only one standing. I catch sight of Annie, Kennedy, and Old Noreen at the window in the kitchen door. I bet Mari’s in the back, hiding her eyes.
Is he going to exile me now?
But he’s not focused on me. He stalks right up to Lochlan Byrne, whacks the back of his head, and grunts, “You. Me. Now.”
Then he goes to stand in the middle of the open floor.
Lochlan shrugs and smirks across the table at his buddy Finn as he pushes back his chair, feigning unconcern.
Of all the males, Lochlan is built most like a human fighter—wiry, slightly bow-legged. He has a quick walk and a buzz cut. Between the two of them, Annie and Mari have crushes on all the lieutenants, but neither of them like Lochlan. Kennedy says he smells like entitlement and drug store body spray.
However, Eamon is his uncle, so he comes from beta stock. He’s won titles on the circuit. He’s in the same weight class as Killian. And the fight with Tye was closer than it should have been. He’s a contender.
The entire pack holds its breath.
Is this an alpha challenge?
It feels like it as they face off, steely-eyed, expressions unreadable. They don’t tap fists. One moment, they’re staring at each other, the next, Lochlan swings.
It’s an obvious shot, not really meant to connect, just to start the action. It’s not surprising when Killian sidesteps the blow. I expect a counterpunch. I don’t know a whole lot about fighting—I’m not interested in the slightest—but you don’t grow up in Quarry Pack without developing a sense for how these things go.
Killian keeps his fists up, protecting his face. He bounces on the balls of his feet.
Lochlan swings again, this time launching into a combination. Killian ducks and sweeps Lochlan with his leg at the exact moment Lochlan throws a right cross. Lochlan wobbles, almost staggers, but he’s too good. He recovers instantly.
Killian bobs and weaves, fists in guard position. Lochlan lands a series of jabs to Killian’s torso and a right hook to his face.
Both males are sweating now, their chests vibrating with the growls and snarls of their pent-up wolves. Blood trickles from the edge of Killian’s eyebrow. Lochlan smirks. You can see the confidence swelling in him. He thinks he has a chance.
He doesn’t, does he?
My muscles are so tight they ache. My good leg is taking all my weight, and my thigh is so tired, it’s a knot. At least no one is looking at me anymore. Everyone is riveted by the show on the floor. The alpha is getting his ass handed to him, and he doesn’t seem the least bit fazed.
Lochlan lets an uppercut fly. Killian ducks, sweeps his leg again, this time driving an elbow into the side of Lochlan’s knee at the same time. There’s a crack. Lochlan stumbles. Weaves.
He’s not smirking anymore.
But Killian—Killian’s grinning now. His eyes are bright gold with pale blue rims.
“Get off on tripping lone females with bad legs, eh?” he pants.
Lochlan’s a good fighter. He ignores the taunt and goes after Killian with a vengeance, throwing combination after combination, driving him to the edge of the open floor. Killian takes blow after blow to the face, the ribs. He’s jerking back and forth like a rag doll, but he never loses his balance, not for a second.