by Elaina Jadin
And I can’t take my eyes off that sliver of bright red running from her wrist up her forearm. I know Draven wove it on to her as a way to keep her safe tonight, because no one will dare to fuck with her while she’s wearing his symbol, but my one-track mind has fixated on the connotations it has. It brands her as his possession, his chosen submissive.
Just seeing his claim displayed so clearly makes the front of my pants tighten. What is his is mine as well, as it has always been among alphas in the Barons. And that ribbon… it marks her for me, too, for the world to see.
I can feel her fear, smell her uncertainty rising every minute the drive goes on, hear her heart beginning to race. It makes her pheromones flood my senses until I’m practically bathing in her scent.
I can’t. Fucking. Handle. It. I’ve got to do something because it’s driving me crazy.
She startles when I suddenly grab her wrist, squeezing tightly, my large hand nearly covering the red ribbon Draven tied there. Her eyes widen and she blinks, giving me a look that’s a cross between inquisitive and apprehensive.
But I don’t say anything. Instead, I turn to look out my window as I continue to apply pressure to her wrist, trying to gauge the fine line between provoking enough pain to calm her, and simply crushing her bones with my strength.
Jemma wiggles beside me, but I keep my gaze trained away from her. It’s bad enough that I have her in my grip. I can’t chance anything more, at least not until I’ve let out some of this pent up aggression by bloodying the face of my opponent.
As we drive along, the night skyline of the city flying by us, she eventually settles down, and her pulse slows under my fingers. Still, I hold her, allowing myself this one concession.
I only release her when we arrive and Bishop slides out of the opened door, my fingers trailing over the soft skin of her hand with veneration. The grateful look she sends me over her shoulder makes me snarl. She’s already taken the hand Bishop’s offered to her and is sliding out his side, so she doesn’t see me at war with myself.
Come hell or high water, I am determined that she will not make me weak.
In our world, weakness is exploited. And wanting something… especially someone like her—fragile, beautiful, and human—will make me weak in the eyes of many. But it’s far too late for making wishes about that. I already want her too much.
Fuck. I can’t wait to beat the ever-loving shit out of someone tonight.
“Do you know who I’m fighting?” I ask Nio as I slam the car door shut so hard the force makes the vehicle rock.
The loud, harsh sound doesn’t phase the kid, and I’m struck by how much he’s grown over the last few years. When he and his brother were young pups, they used to nearly jump out of their skins every time I looked their direction.
Now, Nio straightens his shoulders and faces me with a strong confidence, and his brother has grown as much in strength and sureness, both of them becoming trusted prophytes of the inner circle. They’ll make good warriors for the Barons one day soon.
“You’re the third fight, with Nikolai,” he answers as he falls into step behind me and to my right. “The Redtails pulled out, forfeiting their bets. They’ve moved their slots to the Alpha Challenge. There are two fist fights at the start—neither with a Baron. Two more hand-to-hand fights after you, then the shifted matches begin.”
Nikolai. Perfect—he’ll give me the fight I’m craving. He’s a well-known fighter with a strong record to defend, and he’s absolutely brutal in the ring. It’ll be a good match-up.
If I cannot hunt my fawn like I desire, I’ll slake my thirst with the grizzly’s blood instead.
Bishop and Draven are waiting for me outside the steel doors, Jemma between them. Because I’m fighting tonight, Jemma will walk in on my arm. As she wraps her arm through mine, I can feel how nervous she is.
“Remember,” I speak against her ear, satisfaction coursing through me as I feel her shiver, “there will be the beasts of your nightmares here, but not a single one will approach you.”
“And if they do?” she whispers, a mix of fear and anticipation catching in her voice.
I tilt her chin, not gentle like a lover’s caress, but a firm demand of her attention, and her gaze rises to meet mine, her eyes shining bright through her thick eyelashes. She looks so damn innocent it makes my chest ache.
“Then I will lay their dead bodies at your feet,” I promise her.
22
Kade
The ancient doors to the Tribunal stadium open, the basis of high-energy music vibrating through the air, the hum of conversations buzzing as people debate and discuss the night’s events.
Draven takes his place at the head of our procession, and I guide Jemma in behind him, Bishop taking the rear guard behind us.
As usual, the rest of our pack arrived ahead of us, no doubt filling our spectator seats to overflowing inside the stadium to cheer me on. It’s not often that an alpha of my prestige appears as a contender at these events. It’s usually the younger pups, the ones who’ve worked hard to join the ranks of warriors and are looking to prove themselves in a public arena.
None of them would stand a chance against me. I’ve stood as the victor over the bodies of my opponents too many times to count. I earned my title as an elite champion long ago, and I’ve only grown stronger and more exacting in my prowess since then.
But fighting is like breathing for me, and I need to enter the ring now and then to get my fix.
Fortunately, there are enough seasoned fighters across The Brotherhood to provide me with a worthy match. They’re made of the same cloth as me.
We don’t give a fuck about proving ourselves to anyone—it’s purely about quenching the incessant call of the wild, the need to engage in a battle for our very existence, to feel alive. There’s nothing as satisfying as the raw energy and beautiful cruelty of life and death combat in the ring.
Except for perhaps one thing.
My eyes rake across Jemma, who is clinging to my arm as we stroll through the crowd that has congregated in the Great Hall to welcome the fighters. I know from her tight grip that she’s nervous and clearly feeling out of her element, but you wouldn’t know it from her expression. She’s adopted a mask of calm detachment, and her shoulders are straightened with a tenacious resolve.
If she keeps it up, she may actually survive living among us.
I catch myself staring at her more than I should, reveling anew in her beauty each time. Bishop, for all his strange ways, certainly knew how to dress her. The dark, shimmering gown she’s adorned in perfectly accentuates her lithe curves and alabaster skin. But my gaze is drawn to the lovely features of her face—her rich honey-colored eyes that peer out at the world behind long eyelashes, and those full, pretty lips I long to taste.
As we proceed down the red carpet laid out in the long hall, we’re greeted by an array of Families who’ve gathered to take part in this ancient event. Some are local, others have traveled from far and wide. Across the stands, some groups are intermingled, but the important divisions are clear to anyone paying attention—foes versus friends.
Along the stone walls are the crests and symbols of every Family that has produced a champion here, arranged in order of wins. The moon and wolf emblem of the Blackfang Barons is displayed prominently in the first position. And there it shall remain, for as long as I draw breath.
The remaining members of the local fox family, the Redtails of East River, step back petulantly, a grim resignation on their faces as we pass them. Sampson is nowhere to be seen, as expected. He’s all but a memory now.
The Redtails will be in limbo until a new leader emerges. From Nio’s report, it seems they’re throwing several contenders into the Alpha Challenge tonight to see who makes it out of the ring alive. The AC is always the deadliest round of matches that take place. I guess that’s one way to narrow the field.
Further inside the Great Hall, the Russian Zvers, the leading bear pack, eye me respectfully. We have a
s much of a steady alliance as possible in our world, and the fight between Nikolai and I will be one of respectful brutality.
Our game will likely be called by time, rather than by unconsciousness, injury, or mortality. Such is the case with two highly experienced fighters that are well matched. Afterward, regardless of who wins the fight, we will send a gift to each other, as a thank you for an honorable battle.
The Zvers would never dare to bet against Nikolai, just as the Barons will never bet against me—but the bears that meet my gaze still nod—a gesture of respect between fellow predators.
I notice the jaguar, leopard, tiger, jackal, and lion families are present, and several other shifters have sent at least a dozen representatives as well, but I only see a lone raven.
The ravens are so secretive that not even Bishop’s army of spies have been able to infiltrate their ranks. They’re the ghosts of our world, with more rumor than truth surrounding them. Rarely does more than one ever appear at events like this.
In fact, I can only recall one time when the leaders of their family gathered—the night The Brotherhood and other key provincial pacts around the world came together to put down the rogue wolf pack that was hunting humans and violating our sacred laws.
I smell them long before they come into view. Trouble is brewing.
Half a dozen females, all betas of the Baron pack who’ve warmed our beds at one point or another step through the crowd and approach us. As brutal as tonight’s fights will be, the importance of the event encourages sophisticated attire, and sure enough, the six of them are dressed to the nines.
It’s clear from the moment they lay eyes on us exactly who they’re hoping to impress.
Betas are always jockeying for a chance to grab an alpha’s attention—they climb the ranks fastest by mating with the strongest wolves, and as alphas we’re the ultimate prize. Although the three of us are male, in our world it could easily be the reverse.
In the Baron pack, there are no gendered lines that define one’s station in life. Draven’s mother is a powerful alpha wolf, while his father was a lowly beta who won her over despite the odds. Having one of us as a mate propels betas to what amounts to shifter royalty in our society, and they’ll never stop striving to make it happen.
A dark-haired female named Casey steps forward, her eyes lowering demurely as she presents herself to Draven. “Alpha,” she murmurs, her blood red dress hugging her generous curves as she does a small curtsy.
His expression is a mask of detachment as he regards her. Casey’s spent more than a few nights bent over Draven’s lap, a true submissive—too submissive for Draven, despite what he thinks. She has no fight in her at all, no fire.
Whether our esteemed leader would admit it or not, he needs to be challenged. He might value control above all else, but he doesn’t want it handed to him blindly. He wants to earn every ounce of power he holds, including the obedience and loyalty of a submissive.
“It’s been awhile since we’ve enjoyed each other’s company, sir,” Casey keeps her head tipped down respectfully, but she’s studying him through her eyelashes.
Jemma stiffens beside me and I dart a glance at her in time to see her nose flare with irritation. It makes me smile inwardly—I can’t wait to see what she’s like when she gets really riled up a bit.
“Yes, it has,” Draven acknowledges simply, his tone giving no indication as to his feelings on the matter.
“Maybe after the fights, I can bring you a bottle of your favorite whiskey and confess my latest transgressions,” Casey suggests, a hint of a hopeful smile as she glances up at him.
Jemma’s hand squeezes down on my arm, but I have no comfort for her. There’s no reassurance I can offer without drawing attention to her reaction and making her look weak. When betas sense the smallest sliver of weakness in another female competing for our attention, it only makes them go for the jugular that much faster.
“Perhaps,” Draven replies noncommittally, but there’s no interest in his tone, and his eyes are already moving across the room.
It’s a dismissal, and Casey knows it. She slinks away into the crowd, her hopes dashed.
The tension in Jemma’s hand eases slightly, but her relief will be short lived, because Sadie, a tall blonde, has locked her eyes on me.
She strides forward, her head held high, her dark blue gown rustling elegantly as she moves. Sadie knows I enjoy a rousing celebration to burn off my adrenaline after a good fight, and she’s no doubt hoping to join me.
But I’m not extending invitations tonight.
Her eyes fall to the red ribbon adorning Jemma’s wrist, and her eyes widen, her lips twisting with barely suppressed anger. She sneers dismissively at Jemma before turning her attention to me.
“Hello, Kade,” she drawls. My name is husky on her lips, but her tone is too forced, and it doesn’t grab me the way it might have a week ago. She’s always been one who likes to put on a show.
“Sadie,” I reply with a slight nod.
Her lips twist with discontent. It’s clearly not the greeting she wanted, but it’s all she’s going to get. From the haughty look in her eyes, I know she’s furious that Jemma’s on my arm tonight—a newcomer, and a human at that. She’s looking to start drama, and I won’t tolerate it.
She takes a step closer and beside me, Jemma squares her shoulders as though she’s ready to issue a challenge, and her nails dig into the muscles of my arm. Well, well. Our docile fawn has a hot little possessive streak, it seems. Good.
Sadie sidles up to me with a coy smile. “Why bother yourself with a novice, when I know exactly what you like?”
She reaches out to press her hand to my chest, but her fingers barely graze the fabric of my suit before I grab it. Rather than pull her to my side as she expects, I shove her away. She stumbles back into the other females, who cluster together with surprise, their eyes wide.
Sadie glares at Jemma as she straightens herself and brushes a strand of hair out of her face.
“You would do well to remember your place,” I snarl, making all the betas flinch.
Immediately, Sadie drops her gaze to the floor. “Yes, sir.”
A few of the other females eye us as though they’re still considering making an approach of their own, perhaps hoping for a better outcome than the two who’ve gone before them, but Bishop steps forward with an impatient growl.
“Enough,” he snaps, the displeasure in his voice immediately chilling the air and the betas quickly scatter to the edges of the carpet, pressing against the crowd to let us pass.
I lock my arm to my side, pulling Jemma in close. “Come, Fawn.”
If she feels the murderous stares of the betas as we move past them, she doesn’t let it show. As we walk through the Great Hall, people are looking at her with envious, curious expressions, their eyes immediately noting the bright red ribbon woven along her arm.
She’s a new face here, and those who covet a place at our sides will already be scheming to replace her. Bringing her to an event of this magnitude has marked her as a new opponent in the social society’s war, at least in the minds of those who think they have a snowball’s chance in hell of becoming our choice of companion. They can keep wishing and hoping.
There are barely veiled lustful glances from many of the male shifters we pass, their noses flaring with her scent, their eyes following her as she walks.
It’s very unusual to bring a human to this sacred stadium. Most of the world will live out their whole lives without ever knowing such a place even exists.
The few who are permitted to attend are usually high-ranking political allies or important business associates that are privy to our way of life. Jemma is neither, but no one will be questioning her presence tonight, not as long as she’s by our side.
As I glance through the crowd, the looks of lust and envy are quickly replaced by somber expressions of respect and reverence for the most powerful alphas in the city.
Near the end of the hall are t
he wolves. They’re from all over, representing at least three dozen packs from around the world, but they all know who we are. And as soon as their eyes land on the fur draped across Jemma’s shoulders, heated murmurs and awed stares ripple through them like a shockwave.
They know whose pelt it is, what his crime was, and the merciless suffering we delivered as punishment. Whether Terrion is here or not, he’ll get the warning. Submit or be skinned alive, like your father.
If he continues his whispers of sedition, we’ll make the choice for him.
We make our way to our balcony overlooking the rings, and I guide Jemma to her chair. When our chosen betas of the evening are in attendance, they always sit at the outer edges of our balcony, never near us.
But as Jemma perches on the edge of the leather armchair next to Draven, the message to the entire crowd is clear. That seat alone declares her position tonight.
When we first discussed bringing her, it was Draven’s idea to seat her by his side. It’s a huge fuck you to the Latians, who loathe humans even more than they hate the Barons. To bring her to the fights, and to place her at the left hand of our head alpha… it will make them seethe.
The fact that we’ve adorned a human female with the pelt of their fallen leader—it’s the perfect grievous insult to ensure we’ve gotten their attention. We will not be fucked with.
But now, as Jemma sits with us, her back ramrod straight as she looks over the milling crowd with guarded, but curious eyes, it strikes me how perfect she looks beside Draven, as though it’s her rightful place. Perhaps it’s the elegant gown, or the stiff tension she holds in her body, but she looks absolutely regal—the very image of an alpha’s mate.
Draven and I share a quick glance as Xander makes his way to the balcony, a familiar man following behind—my opponent this evening. I nod at Xander, who steps aside and lets Nikolai approach us. He’s as massive a man as he is a bear.