Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
“Not for my face to heal.”
“No one gives a shit what your face looks like.”
“Fuck you.” Seth grins and licks the red from his teeth.
“Come.” I wave him on. He lunges. I take the blow on my chin and nail him with a right. Griff tries to sweep my leg, but I anticipate the move and front snap kick, toppling him like a tree.
“I surrender,” he moans.
“No surrender. Get up.”
“My back is broken, man.” He is lying at a weird angle.
As always, Seth is the last man standing. I give him a nod. “Come.”
Seth throws a haymaker. I sidestep easily and feint left. He falls for it, but I pull the punch.
He drives a fist into my face, splitting my eyebrow. It hurts, but not enough.
“Is that all you’ve got?”
I pepper his sides with pitty-patty slaps. Killian would call me a pussy for taking it easy on an opponent, but I don’t want Seth to quit yet. I need the pain. This was the longest day of my life. How do I get through another hour? Another night?
Eventually, Seth gets pissed, finds his second wind, and throws a few decent punches. He breaks another rib. Smashes my nose. It’s not enough. I can still feel.
“Fuck.” Seth scowls at my fucked-up face. “Your mother’s gonna have my balls.”
“I’ll tell her Griff did it.”
“Hey,” Griff protests from flat on the mat.
“Come on, second.” I swipe the blood out of my eyes with the hem of my shirt. “You done already?”
“Getting close.” He proceeds to fade in front of my eyes, throwing a weak cross that glances off my shoulder. I counter, but he staggers and avoids the brunt of the impact. He’s done. Or concussed.
My own head is buzzing. The pain isn’t enough. I need more. I need to focus.
I swing. He clinches, hugging me like he loves me.
“Mercy, man,” he pants in my ear.
Fuck.
He’s done.
“All right, brother.” I pound his back. I rein in my aggression, slow my pulse, and crack my jaw ’til the joints pop back in place.
I master myself.
As is required.
Bitter gall floods my mouth, joining the taste of copper. Behind a thick wall of glass, my wolf is back, prowling at the edge of our two selves, muscles taut, fangs bared, eyes glowing silver. Silent.
Silent and judging.
He doesn’t understand.
He is the animal. There’s no making it make sense to him.
I stalk off to the punching bag. Kenny pulls himself together enough to trot over to hold it for me. He barely has the strength. Only his limp weight keeps it from flying off the S-hook.
As I pound the bag, I lay out the realities in my mind.
My uncle Alban Hughes is six and a half feet tall. He weighs two hundred and forty-nine pounds.
Thud. Thud.
The bag sways, dragging Kenny along the mat like a ragdoll.
I’m six and a half feet tall. I’m nineteen, so it stands to reason I haven’t reached my full height. I weigh two hundred and fifty-seven pounds. That’s an advantage.
Thud. Thud.
Uncle Alban’s faction has about half the pack’s ranking families. That’s about seven hundred males.
Thud. Thud.
We have the other half. That’s seven hundred.
That’s a stalemate.
Thud. Thud.
My pinkie snaps. I keep going.
I am two decades younger than my uncle.
He has twenty more years of experience.
I have more discipline. More skill. More tolerance for pain. More stamina.
Those are advantages, and none of them fucking matter.
Uncle Alban was raised in the Last Pack, so he can flip-shift, morphing from wolf to man and back again, effortlessly, in the blink of an eye. He can’t do it an infinite number of times like Killian Kelly, but he can do it two or three times. That’s enough to beat me no matter how much I outweigh him or how much harder I train.
A knife is a more subtle weapon than claws.
I pummel sand over and over, harder and harder, until my knuckles are swollen, and then harder still until the skin cracks and bleeds. For a brief second, the immediacy of pain finally focuses my mind.
And there’s Rosie.
Oh, shit.
Can she feel my pain?
I scrub my chest where the bond strums, sweet and delicate. I felt her pain in the cafeteria, hot and jagged, and then when she ran, the intensity ebbed and that hurt worse, salt on the wound.
Fuck.
I close my eyes and conjure words, the first that come to mind.
Hold on, female.
I’ll fix it.
Can she hear?
How the hell does this work?
Not like this. I know that. Males don’t let their mates walk away. Even with mismatched pairs when the female can’t be acknowledged, she’s protected and provided for.
A male doesn’t sit in the same dining hall as his mate, served at table, ignoring his female while she shoves food around her tray and eats nothing.
My father’s words echo in my ear.