They avert their eyes as I pass, otherwise ignoring me. Which is fine. I feel bad for their mates, stuck on their laps or crushed to their sides, forced to listen to them recount old fights in excruciating detail—for the umpteenth time.
I’m skirting the edges of the great room, focused on the task at hand, when Killian’s voice booms from his makeshift throne on the dais.
“Lochlan.” He snaps and points to the open floor at his feet. Lochlan’s crew goes nuts. Shouts shake the rafters.
“And—” Killian pauses for dramatic emphasis. “Tye.”
The shouts turn to howls. Folks stomp their feet. Everyone has been waiting for this match. Lochlan Byrne has been picking fights, challenging wolves closer and closer in rank to Killian. Lochlan’s working himself up to a beta challenge and everyone knows it.
Tye is our beta now. If Lochlan wins, he can demand the rank, and Killian would be going against tradition to deny him. If Tye wins, Lochlan has to step back down. For now. My stomach aches. I spend a lot of time worrying about what would happen if Lochlan and his backers took over. It wouldn’t be good for me and my roomies, that’s for damn sure.
Killian’s a dick, but Lochlan is a “back in the day” type. You know, “back in the day” bitches presented at command. None of this mating-for-life bullshit. “Back in the day” the alpha put down defective wolves. For their own good. This, of course, is always said within my hearing while eyeing my bum leg.
I’m not afraid of Lochlan, but I’m terrified of all the packmates who think like him and keep it on the down low. I’m scared they’ll outnumber Killian’s crew, and I won’t see it coming in time to run.
I can live with our current level of backwards, but I’m not going face down, ass up because some higher-ranking male wants to scratch an itch. Screw that. I’ve got cash in a jar buried behind my cabin. I’ve got options.
As Tye and Lochlan make their way to the center of the room and square off, Killian bends forward in his metal folding chair, bracing his forearms on his thick thighs. It might as well be a throne. The huge fireplace at his back frames him in stone and fire, and no one dares approach unless he gives them the nod.
Tye and Lochlan bump fists and crouch. It’s gonna be a wrestling match. I edge along the wall. They’re cutting off my direct route, but I can pick my way to the table that needs the beers.
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.