CHAPTER 1
MATHIS
The two men circled each other warily, each waiting for the other to leave an opening. Mathis narrowed his eyes against the harsh lights of the gym, staring down his opponent.
All it would take was one blink, and the other man would take his chance.
So Mathis blinked.
In the split-second his eyes were shut, he heard his opponent move. The soles of his shoes scraped against the hard floor, his breath sharpening as he launched himself forward. Mathis opened his eyes to see the man’s right fist flying towards his face. He swayed out of the way, all feline grace and speed, and jabbed his own fist at his opponent’s unprotected midsection.
His fist connected with the other man’s flesh. Hard, but not too hard. Enough to make him twist into a defensive stance, protecting his injured side.
If Mathis had punched with his full strength, the man would have been nursing more than some bruised ribs. But Mathis wouldn’t lose control like that. Not against a human.
His lion was close to the surface. It always was, during these fights. But although Mathis used its heightened senses to gauge his opponent’s power, he kept the lion leashed.
Mathis circled around, his movements slow and deliberate. Inside him, his lion stalked with its eyes wide and its mouth open, tasting the air. Mathis grinned. He didn’t need his lion’s senses to tell him he was on the ropes.
He shook sweat out of his eyes, his gaze still fixed on the other man, a white guy in his early thirties. A seasoned fighter. Pale eyes, unwashed hair, and scars on his knuckles.
Mathis had seen him on the outside of the ring earlier in the night, watching Mathis fight. The guy must have been waiting for Mathis to tire himself out, so he could jump in the ring and finish him off.
No chance of that, Mathis thought, his skin prickling with adrenaline. This was his fifth match of the night, and he was just getting started.
Energy pumping through his veins, Mathis stepped forward. His opponent crouched defensively, and then surged up, taking Mathis by surprise.
Mathis raised his arms to take the blow, and the next one. The force of it jolted through his bones, but his shifter healing was already repairing his bruised muscles.
The crowd was cheering, their roar a faint ringing in Mathis’ ears. He knew as soon as the bout was over it would flood through and over him, an ocean of sound buoying him up, but it was meaningless right now. He filtered it out.
The other man was still raining blows on Mathis’ forearms, trying to beat him down, force him to drop his guard. Mathis lunged sideways, aiming another jab at his opponent’s ribs while he was off-balance.
The man stumbled back and Mathis grinned. He waited for him to pull back into another defensive stance, protecting his ribs, which must be screaming by now.
He was so sure that he almost missed the flicker in the man’s eyes.
The man twisted, but instead of protecting his injured side he spun sideways, hooking his arm around to plow towards Mathis’ neck. Mathis dodged, but too late, and the man struck a glancing blow under his ear.
Mathis’ vision went black, and then returned with crystal clarity. He growled, his lion rising within him as he turned on his opponent. The man was smirking, already anticipating his victory. If Mathis had been human, that blow would have left him dazed.
But Mathis’ lion was roaring as loudly as the crowd. Mathis whipped around, taking his opponent off guard. His fist shot out—Hold back, hold back, don’t give it your all—and caught the other man under the jaw.
Mathis stood still, his heart pounding in his ears, as his opponent fell senseless to the ground.
The referee counted One! Two! Three! Out! and then the rush of blood in Mathis’ ears was joined by the roar of the crowd. He held up his hands, staring out into the audience, waiting for their applause to spark his own sense of triumph.
Waiting to feel anything at all.
***
Mathis upended a bucket of cold water over his head, shaking icy droplets from his hair. The facilities here weren’t exactly top-notch, but state-of-the-art showers and gleaming changing rooms weren’t what Mathis looked for these days.
He toweled off and stretched, flexing his arms and back. He’d won ten bouts that night, and could have gone for more. He would have, too, except he could feel himself losing focus. It was the same every night. The first few matches warmed him up, woke up his lion inside him, got the blood pumping. Then he could really challenge himself, setting himself personal handicaps: play weak on your left side, don’t look for their next move in their eyes, stand so the spotlights blind you and fight that way.
For a while, that had been enough. But not anymore.
Mathis ran the towel over his head again, biting back a growl of frustration. What the hell am I meant to do now?
He’d thought fighting would fill the hollow space inside him, and for a while, it seemed like he was right. The exercise kept his lion sharp, and victory sated its animal instincts.
But now, every victory left him more hollow than before, yearning for something he couldn’t recognize. There was no thrill in defeating human opponents. None of the men he’d fought in the last few months had been anything close to challenging, and his lion was getting edgy. It wanted more.
If only it would be a bit clearer about what it wanted more of.
One thing was certain. It didn’t want to go back to the world Mathis had grown up in.
Last week he’d been in some podunk town in the desert. Tonight, a warehouse on the outskirts of Los Angeles. He didn’t know where he’d go next. He’d keep his ear to the ground, follow the rumors of other under-the-table fights, operating outside the formal leagues and beneath official oversight.
He ran the towel over his hair again. How long are you going to keep this up?
The words appeared in his mind so suddenly he looked around, checking that he was still the only one in the changing rooms. The place was empty. He sniffed deeply: nothing but the smell of sweat and bleach. There was no one else here, let alone another shifter who could telepathically speak into his mind.
No. The voice had been his own. And so had the fear beneath the question: If he couldn’t find satisfaction doing this… what else was there?
He could go home again, he supposed. He would have to eventually, anyway, go home and bury himself in the family business again. Just like everyone expected him to.
A knock on the door distracted Mathis from his thoughts.
“Come in,” he said gruffly, hooking the towel over his shoulder and pulling on a pair of sweatpants.
The door swung open and Josh Lanyard, the gym’s owner, walked in with his hands in his pockets.
Mathis turned to face him head-on, his own thumbs hooked into the waistband of his pants, posture open and unthreatening. Mathis had only known Lanyard a few days but he’d figured early on that the man was an old fighter, and not just inside the ring. Puffing up like a peacock or acting aggressive in front of the old man wasn’t going to get him anywhere.
“Gidday, Matt,” Lanyard said now, giving him a nod. “Good night, tonight.”
“Not bad,” Mathis agreed. He sat down on a bench, resting his back against the cool concrete wall. “What can I do for you, Mr. Lanyard?”
“Keep your face pretty and keep drawing in the crowds,” Lanyard said dryly. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and threw something at Mathis. “Here’s your share for the night. And there are three or four honeys lingering out the front, waiting for you to peek your little head out.”
“Guess I’ll be going out the back,” Mathis muttered. He shoved the roll of bills into his pocket without looking at it. Lanyard didn’t strike him as the type to short him on his cut, and besides, it wasn’t like he needed the cash.
Lanyard snorted. “Your loss.” He nodded back over his shoulder. “Fella here to see you, anyway. You gonna put a shirt on?”
Before Mathis could answer one way or the other the changing room door swung open again.
He didn’t recognize the man who walked in. He was in his late forties. Trim, almost wiry, with leathery skin that fell in wrinkles under his eyes and jawline. As he walked into the room he rubbed his fingers together, as though wiping off the residue of the door.
He greeted Mathis with a curt nod, and turned his stone-grey eyes on Lanyard. “I’d prefer to speak to Mr. Dell alone.”
Lanyard shrugged. “Well, I’m not his manager. See you tomorrow, Matt.”
He sloped off, letting the door swing shut after him. Mathis wasn’t surprised. If Lanyard was his manager, the old man would have kicked up a fuss at what appeared to be someone trying to home in on his talent. But he was the gym owner. He got his cut no matter who was in the ring.
“What can I help you with?” Mathis asked once Lanyard was gone.
“Matt Dell? My name is Gerald Harper.” The man’s voice was crisp and light, like paper rustling.
Mathis nodded, letting the issue of his name slide as he shook hands with the other man. His real name was Mathis Delacourt, but he’d been going by Matt Dell for the previous few months. The last thing he wanted was for someone to Google Mathis Delacourt and discover he was more than just some down-on-his-luck amateur fighter.
“So, what can I do for you, Mr. Harper?” he said again, and added inside his head: No, Mr. Dell, it’s what I can do for you…
“Actually, Mr. Dell, it’s more what I can do for you,” Gerald Harper replied.
Mathis hid a grin. Bingo. “Is that right?”
“I own an exclusive resort on an island off the coast of Florida,” Gerald Harper began, and Mathis felt suddenly very tired. He knew what was coming next. Either this guy was going to proposition him, or…
“...A private island, where I run a very discreet private club. I bring in fighters from around the world, on very competitive contracts, to entertain my few guests.”
Mathis let his head fall back against the wall. “Your own private fight club, huh?”
“Precisely.”
Mathis closed his eyes. It would be a change of scenery, but… no. Gerald Harper might have spent more time in the sun than was healthy for a human, but his clothes and the dull gleam of the watch on his left wrist screamed old money.
The same vintage of money that filled Mathis’ own portfolio. Which meant that even if Mathis didn’t know Gerald Harper from a pile of sticks, their social circles might overlap. If he showed up at this guy’s club and one of his guests recognized Mathis as the oldest son of the New York Delacourts, the whole jig would be up.
“You’re not convinced.”
Mathis opened his eyes to see Gerald staring straight at him, his grey eyes amused. He raised his eyebrows.
“No offense, Mr. Harper, but you’re not the first person to try to whisk me away to some discreet private island,” he drawled. “And as for your line about this all being more what you can do for me…”
Gerald smiled thinly. “I imagine that’s something you hear a lot in your line of work?”
“Sure. Hasn’t been true yet, though. Besides, I prefer the freedom to pick my own fights. Being cooped up on some private island doesn’t appeal.”
“Well,” Gerald said, holding out his hand for Mathis to shake, “Let me know if you change your mind.”
Mathis grasped his hand. When they’d shaken before, he’d noted how dry Gerald’s skin was. Now it seemed almost… scaly.
He looked down. Gerald’s hand, still gripping his, was growing longer as the bones stretched under the skin. His skin mottled, then transformed, turning hard and grey. Fine, feathery hairs sprouted from his wrist and the back of his hand.
He’s a shifter? Mathis’ eyes flew to Gerald’s face. The man’s grey eyes glinted black for a split second, and then he was entirely human again.
“That’s a convincing argument,” Mathis said slowly.
“I thought it might be,” Gerald replied, pulling his hand away.
Mathis’ mind was racing. Gerald Harper was a shifter. That put a whole new light on his offer. It was risky, too—if the social circles of old wealth were small, those of shifters were even smaller.
Still. This might be just what he was looking for. A fight against a shifter. Someone he wouldn’t have to hold back against.
Maybe this was what his lion had been searching for.
He stood up. “All right,” he said. “Tell me more.”