Never had I seen such pure satisfaction on someone’s face. My mate wore the biggest smirk ever recorded in the history of smirks as he wiped the blood off with his palm, only to smear it across his chest like war paint.
Savage. My mate is a savage.
And just when I thought I couldn’t sink any further into my seat, silver eyes flipped up to mine.
Logan threw me a winning wink, gave Sillas one last kick in the ribs, and then jogged off.
His primitive little stunt had worked. A dirty strategy to distract the Comets.
Because the Dark Diamonds had just made their first touchdown.
My phone buzzed in my lap.
Logan
Told you I’d score for you
And I knew he didn’t mean the touchdown.
No.
He meant Sillas.
And he sure did, I thought, as I watched what remained of Sillas being carried out of the arena on a stretcher.
CHAPTER 32
YVAINE
Ashock of cold struck my cheek. I touched it, and my fingers came back wet.
Sometime during the game, the drizzle had turned into a full rain, slicking the field and increasing the dangers of an already extremely dangeroussport, if you could even call it that.
Could you call gladiators fighting against lions a sport? Could two tribes of apes competing for territory be called asport? Maybe from a third primitive tribe’s perspective, yes.
The crowd howled, snarled, and screeched like a zoo on fire. All the animal sounds. The Terminator’s fans made chicken noises.
There was something about the way the Terminator moved. Unhinged. Lethal. It completely enraptured me. He knew no fear as he sprinted across slick grass turning to bloody mud, barking commands to his teammates with codes and numbers that only the Dark Diamonds players understood.
His very being erupted with domination. Every feint, every fake-out, every brutal shove told the arena,Bow. Or break.
He wasn’t just playing; he was hunting.
Rain plastered his blond hair back as he drove through the Comets defense. Right, left, then a cruel feint to the right before blasting forward, faking a pass. His legs churned like engines, throwing mud up behind him.
My eyes fell on the 140-yard line at the exact same moment that Logan pulled his arm back, the ball flying seventy yards down the field in a perfect spiral. At three times the size of a human stadium, werewolf arenas were huge.
My lips parted slightly as I watched the ball’s arc. His teammate caught it cleanly, with an easy hop, and Logan’s fist punched the air in pride, teeth baring in a vicious smirk.
And then all hell broke loose. A Jester pounced on him from the right, while a Comets player blindsided him from behind.
My hand slapped over my mouth as two sets of fangs sank into his forearms, blood spilling from the tattooed cracks.
“Yeah, that’s it! Chew those cheating arms off!” Tiziano shouted through the megaphone, his own exposed fangs dripping foam.
Logan rammed his elbow backwards, driving it into the Comets’ gut so hard that the guy folded like a camping chair.
Then something odd happened.
