The Tyrant Alpha's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #1)(37)

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.

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.