The Werewolf Meets His Match

“So be it,” Sebastian said. “A winner will be declared when one combatant surrenders or is physically unable to continue.”

Then he made eye contact with the small crowd. “Anyone who enters this ring will cause the immediate disqualification of the party with whom they side.”

As far as Ivy knew, Eric had no one on his side, which meant Hank was the only one who would suffer if someone crossed into the ring.

Sebastian waited a beat, then brought his hand down and backed away. “May the just win.”

Hank and Eric began to circle each other. Bridget leaned forward again to talk to Delaney. “Sebastian did a good job memorizing the words.”

“He’s a stickler for that kind of stuff.” Delaney frowned. “I thought there would be more rules besides ‘don’t cross into the circle.’ What about rules for the fighters?”

“There aren’t any,” Ivy said, her eyes on Hank.

“Really? Yikes.” Delaney shoved her hands in her pockets. “That’s hard core.”

“That’s how shifters settle things,” Sam said.

Ivy was too busy mentally channeling all the strength and cunning she could toward Hank to talk anymore. She worried her wedding rings, twisting them around her finger nervously.

Bridget brushed her shoulder against Ivy’s and said softly, “It’s going to be okay.”

Ivy nodded but couldn’t respond. Her pulse was speeding, her stomach hurt and the inability to help Hank win this thing was eating at her.

If by some cruel twist of fate, this challenge didn’t go their way, if Hank was hurt and unable to keep Eric from leaving with Charlie, she knew exactly what she’d have to do. Not only that, but she was prepared to do it.

And if that meant she ended up arrested for murder, so be it.

Charlie’s life was worth spending hers behind bars.

The world outside the clearing fell away. In the human part of his brain, Hank knew Ivy, Sam, Bridget and Titus were out there. But in the shifter part of his brain, the soldier part, Hank functioned on a different level. His focus had narrowed to the task before him. Defeating Prescott. His mind became a war machine: calculating distances, anticipating moves, projecting outcomes.

Preparing to attack.

Prescott was close in height, maybe an inch shorter, but he had the soft body of a weekend warrior. Prescott’s shifter genetics were probably the only thing keeping him from turning into a complete pile of mush. But if the man thought he could take on Hank and win, he must have some kind of training.

Prescott took on a martial arts stance.

Hank wasn’t about to underestimate the man. Maybe he knew some karate or judo but Hank knew his own skills and even if Prescott had been taught to fight by the best shifters around, Hank’s Ranger training would make that look like a middle school field day.

His plan was to take Prescott down fast and hard, but he also wanted to teach Prescott a lesson, and for that, he needed the other shifter to make the first move so that he could lull Prescott into thinking Hank was an easy mark. Then he would strike with the kind of speed and force that would paint a picture with pain. He needed Prescott to understand what a mistake it was to take on a Merrow.

Enough so that Prescott never tried it again.

Prescott grinned at him as they slowly moved around each other. “You scared, Merrow?”

Hank said nothing. Kept his expression stern. If Prescott wanted to play mind games, he was about to be sorely outclassed.

Hell, he was already outclassed. He was just about to figure that out. The hard way.

Prescott’s fool grin never left his face. “I’ll take that as a yes. Look, I won’t hurt you too much in front of Ivy, but I plan on putting on a good show so some pain is inevitable. Unless you just want to give up now. I’m cool with that, too.”

Hank kept his mouth shut.

“I get it,” Prescott said. “You’re doing the tough thing, right? Saving face in front of the little woman and all that. You do what you gotta do, man.”

Maybe Hank wouldn’t wait for Prescott to make the first move. The desire to deal this idiot some pain was fast becoming more than Hank could ignore. But he really wanted to lull Prescott into thinking this was going to be an easy fight.

Then Prescott lunged, and instead of dodging, Hank fought his instincts and training and let the man connect. A little. Prescott’s fist grazed Hank’s jaw, succeeding in splitting his lip.

A gasp went up from those gathered, but Hank’s only response was to retreat from Prescott and wipe the back of his hand across his mouth. He could hear Ivy’s voice asking someone what the hell he was doing. He wanted to tell her to watch and see, but she’d figure it out soon enough.

The idiot went back to grinning. “First blood.”

Not as sweet as last blood, Hank thought.

“You ready to give up yet?”

Hank kept circling.

Prescott huffed out a bored sigh. “You’re really going to make me do this the hard way, huh?”

Then he shrugged. “Suit yourself. If you want to look like a chump in front of your friends, that’s your business.” Prescott’s brows bent as his eyes lit with confidence. “I’ll try not to hurt you too much.”

Then he launched.

This time Hank went low, caught him under the shoulder and flipped him into the air. Prescott hit the ground hard.

The breath whooshed out in a strained wheeze. He lay still for a couple seconds, then managed to get back on his feet. Prescott’s chest was heaving as he struggled to recover his wind.