He spits blood on the linoleum. “Rules don’t apply to you, eh?”
Lochlan raises his fist, and Killian sweeps his leg again, this time with so much power, Lochlan collapses and rolls. He jumps back to his feet, showing no pain, swiping his nose with his thumb.
He doesn’t launch immediately into another attack. Lochlan studies Killian, the wheels turning. Killian’s stance hasn’t changed. He’s still bouncing lightly, fists in guard position, cool and collected despite the blood and sweat streaming down his face.
My wolf is riveted. The twisted little monster is into this. She wants popcorn.
Lochlan glances behind him at the A-roster table. Finn and Alfie are grinning at him, barely containing their glee. They still think Lochlan’s winning.
Behind me at the elder table, there’s a hushed murmuring. They know better.
Lochlan lunges. Killian kicks, driving his foot into the side of Lochlan’s knee. There’s a crack. Lochlan slams into the floor.
Panting, Lochlan slowly raises himself. He has to do it like me—awkward and step-by-step. When he’s upright, Killian lets him land a few more shots.
Now Lochlan understands what’s happening. His face is twisted with frustration, and he starts fighting dirty, aiming for the throat, the groin. Killian flip-shifts for split seconds at a time, easily avoiding the below the belt blows.
The murmurs become a whisper. “That youngster better watch himself. Alpha will kill him.”
“He shouldn’t have tripped the female. Alpha won’t stand for that.”
My wolf strains forward in anticipation.
Lochlan throws a haymaker. Killian snaps a kick, slamming his bare foot into Lochlan’s other knee. It crunches. Lochlan topples to his side, and this time, he stays down, teeth grit, neck bared.
“Get up,” Killian snarls.
Lochlan bares his neck further.
“Get up!” It’s a command. Lochlan has no choice.
He slowly rolls to the knee that isn’t bent at an unnatural angle, his neck still exposed, face blanched and sweat dripping onto his white shirt. Unlike Killian, there’s no blood splatter on his chest. It’s his jeans that are soaked red.
Lochlan stands there, broken but unrepentant, waiting. Cheryl, his aunt and the alpha female, sidles up behind Killian. She reaches out to touch his arm. He snarls over his shoulder, the message so powerful and clear that even I trip back a step.
“We do not harm females,” Killian says, voice meant to carry through the lodge.
“Yes, Alpha,” Lochlan mutters resentfully.
“Or the young.”
“Yes, Alpha.”
“Or the defective.”
I can hear the pack’s heads turning to stare at me. Oh, ouch. He’s talking about me.
“Yes, Alpha.”
“Gael?”
“Yes, Alpha.” Everyone searches for the voice. I’d have thought he’d be in the infirmary, but he’s in his usual seat at B-roster table, though considerably worse for wear. His face is black and blue and swollen past all recognition. He’s upright, but he’s cradling his right arm to his chest.
“There’s a seat open in A-roster.” Killian points to the metal folding chair across from Finn where Lochlan always sits.
The pack mutters. For a moment, nothing happens. Then Gael’s seat screeches back, and he drags himself the few feet to resettle at the table of honor. Tye claps him on the back. He winces, but he smiles. He’s missing a tooth.
I figure that’s the end. It has to be. But then Killian raises his arms to his side like the statue of Jesus on top of that mountain in Brazil.
“Well? You wanted your shot, Lochlan. Take it.”
Lochlan’s gaze shifts. Finn. Alfie. Eamon. His aunt. You can see his mind racing, getting nowhere. He’s backed into a corner. He either falls to his shattered knee, or he swings.
Quarry Pack are fighters. If he doesn’t want to sink lower than me in rank, he doesn’t have a choice. He has to swing.
He draws in a ragged breath and throws a left hook. Killian flickers, the flip-shift so quick it’s almost invisible to the eye. Lochlan’s fist meets nothing but air as Killian casually extends his leg and drives his foot into Lochlan’s good knee. A bloodcurdling scream echoes from the rafters, and bone tears through flesh, a rain of red spurting through the air.
My stomach heaves. My wolf howls in delight.
Behind me, an elder, maybe Nuala, says, “He should’ve taken a knee. At least then he’d still have a working one.”
“You don’t mess with defectives,” an old male opines. “That’s just plain wrong. Everyone knows that.”
My wolf falls quiet, her glee deflating like a punctured tire.
That’s me they’re talking about again. Us.
Fuck this shit.
Suddenly, a weight descends on my shoulders. I didn’t ask for this.
Am I supposed to be impressed? Vindicated?
‘Here, Una, stand right here all alone by the elderly, and I’ll remind everyone not to pick on weak folks like you.’
Thanks, Alpha.
My leg aches. Given, not as bad as Lochlan’s must right now, but I’ve had enough. I’m going home.
Killian’s talking to Tye, gesturing as if he’s dissecting the match, while Lochlan’s friends get the stretcher down from its hook on the wall.
No one seems to be paying attention to me, so I shuffle toward the door. I have no pants on, my hair is wild, and I’m so damn tired.
I’m focusing on my balance—at this point, my bad leg is close to giving out—so I’m at the entryway before I glance back and notice Killian. He’s standing on his dais, arms folded, face severe and unperturbed, Ivo and Tye at his sides. The males are talking to him, but he’s staring straight at me.
My belly flutters.
I force my spine to straighten, hike my chin, and give him my back as I leave the lodge.
If I sway my hips—and I never sway my hips on purpose—but if I do, it’s my wolf. She’s smug as hell.
She’s not the least bit humiliated.
Good mate. Avenge. Protect.
The little idiot. She’s got it all wrong.
6
UNA
After texting ShroomForager3000 to confirm the time for tomorrow’s meet, I shower off the lingering scent of potato salad, braid my damp hair, and put on a plain, white cotton nightgown.
I’m moving painfully slow. My bad leg throbs. There’s an ugly bruise on my hip from where I hit the floor, but it’ll be gone by morning. I flip off the overhead and plug in the fairy lights strung across the ceiling. The room fills with a soft, mellow glow, and I climb in between the clean, crisp sheets of my twin bed and exhale.
I’m home. Safe. Surrounded by my people. My things.
My fancy custom label maker. The rose petals, lavender, and orange peel I’m drying for potpourri. I’ve got Mari sewing some cute sachets with wolves on them. I’ll probably be able to sell the lot to the souvenir stand for at least two hundred bucks.