The Werewolf Meets His Match

Hank let him go long enough to make him think the move had been a fluke.

It worked.

“Lucky”—Prescott sucked in another breath—“shot.”

Hank almost laughed. Instead, he charged, fist forward, and landed a blow in the center of Prescott’s chest, knocking him to the ground a second time without air in his lungs.

Hank stood over him. “Done yet?”

Panting for air, Prescott rolled to all fours, his eyes golden. He bared his teeth in a half-hearted snarl. “Maybe,” he wheezed, “I’ll hurt you after all.”

Hank shook his head slowly, let his wolf into his gaze. “I don’t think you know what pain is.” He rolled his head around, cracking his vertebrae and loosening himself up for the real work. “But here comes lesson number one.”

With a snarl, Hank attacked. Prescott retaliated by going into his half form and slicing wildly with his claws. He made contact with Hank’s upper arm but only managed to cut through his shirt.

Hank threw him off but stayed in human form. The half form had its limits, like not being able to make a fist without digging your claws into your palm, and this wasn’t the kind of fight where a backhand was going to suffice.

Prescott had regained his breath, but his eyes were round and gleaming with the realization that Hank wasn’t the easy mark he’d thought.

Building on that, Hank punched Prescott across the jaw. His eyes rolled back in his head as he staggered, trying to stay upright.

Hank put another fist in Prescott’s gut, doubling him over, then Hank swept his leg around and brought Prescott to the ground.

He went fetal, gasping for breath as he returned to his fully human state.

“Do you give?” Hank asked as he stood over the man. No point in fighting more than he had to.

“Hell, no,” Prescott rasped. He put a hand on the ground and pushed to a sitting position. Blood trickled from his lip.

“Really?” Hank raised his brows. “So you’re only a quitter when it comes to fatherhood.”

Prescott glowered at him. “Why aren’t you attacking me? Why are you letting me recover?”

“Because you’re not a threat to me. I want you to realize what a bad decision challenging me was so that you never do it again. Just remember how completely unprepared you are.”

Prescott cursed. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you?”

“From a fighting standpoint, I know I am.” Hank backed up a step to give the man some space and gestured for Prescott to rise. “Get up and let’s finish this.”

Prescott shook his head, eyes glowing gold, and with a growl, he launched toward Hank, shifting into a wolf as he came down. He took Hank to the ground. Hank jammed his arm up to shove Prescott off, but Prescott sank his teeth into Hank’s arm.

Pain shot through Hank, and he howled in anger, the pain driving him harder. He drew his feet up, planted them on Prescott’s body and shoved, flipping the wolf into the air and giving himself a chance to roll free.

The wolf landed with a yelp as Hank got to his feet. He checked the bite. Blood oozed from the punctures on his right arm, but it would heal. Right now, he had more important things to deal with. Like Prescott charging at him on all fours, jaw gaping, muzzle red with Hank’s blood.

Hank put his head down and ran toward Prescott, shifting into his wolf form on the move. He collided with Prescott in a chaotic tangle of teeth and claws. They rolled over the ground, biting and snarling.

Prescott clearly needed the payday because he’d finally started making an effort to win, but Hank was done playing. Time to bring this challenge to a fast close. Prescott threw his head back to wriggle free, giving Hank the opening he needed. He clamped his jaw over Prescott’s throat. The other shifter wheezed and whimpered and went still.

Prescott had to know he’d been beat. Any second, Hank expected to hear the fight called. Then cries went up from the crowd, and Sebastian Ellingham’s voice rang out. “Hold.”

Hank released Prescott and backed away, knowing he’d won. But when he looked around, the crowd wasn’t focused on him or Prescott, but on a small figure running toward them, about to cross the chalk line.

Charlie.

Birdie trailed after him, yelling for him to stop.

Hank opened his mouth to yell, too, but he had no voice as a wolf. He quickly shifted back to his human form and put his hands out. “No, Charlie. Stay where you are.”

Charlie skidded to a stop, looking at Hank with questions in his eyes. But it was too late. His sneakers were dusted with white, and the line behind him blurred in two spots. Hank’s stomach dropped. He sank to his knees, the cold hand of defeat squeezing him.

Charlie had crossed the line.

Ivy wanted to run to Charlie, to scoop him up, but fear held her back. She was definitely on Hank’s side whereas Charlie could possibly be seen as belonging to either. She didn’t want to be the reason Hank was disqualified and Eric won. She laced her fingers into a begging pose. “Charlie,” she pleaded. “Get out of there.”

On the edge of the circle, just feet away from Charlie, Birdie wrung her hands, her eyes tearing up. “I’m so sorry. He got out of the car before I knew what he was doing.” She looked at Sebastian as he walked toward Charlie. “He didn’t mean anything—”

Sebastian held his hand up. “The damage is done.” He stepped over the chalk line and into the circle to speak to Charlie, his role as adjudicator letting him cross the line without consequence.