“Want a moving target?” I offer, shrugging off my jacket.
Now she stops. Turns. Looks at me directly for the first time since our kiss at the boundary.
The moment stretches between us, sharp and electric. Her eyes assess, calculate, and decide.
“Your pack might not appreciate their Alpha getting dropped in the dirt,” she finally says. The moon cuts silver light through the trees, catching the sheen of sweat on her arms.
“No one’s watching.” I roll my shoulders. “And my pack needs to remember why I’m Alpha.”
She nods once. No smile. No challenge. Just acceptance.
We circle each other, testing distance, reading intention. She strikes first—a feint toward my left, then a quick pivot toward my right. I block, counter, and push forward.
She’s fast. Precise. Her smaller frame compensates with perfect timing and leverage.
I have the advantage in strength. Use it to press her backward, testing her footwork.
She slips under my guard, palm striking upward. I dodge but feel the air displaced by her movement.
We find a rhythm. Strike. Block. Advance. Retreat. The space between us charges with each near-miss, each almost-contact.
When my hand grazes her shoulder, her skin burns through the thin fabric of her shirt. When she hooks her leg behind mine, the pressure lingers a beat too long.
This isn’t fighting. It’s something else packaged as combat.
She pins my arm. I twist, breaking the hold but catching her wrist. Pull her closer. She doesn’t resist.
The space between us disappears. Her chest rises and falls against mine, sweat making her shirt cling to curves I’m trying not to notice. Heat radiates from her skin where my fingers circle her wrist.
Her face tilts up toward mine, lips parted, eyes dark with something that has nothing to do with combat. Her scent wrapsaround us both—sweat and magic and something darker that makes my blood pound.
For one heartbeat, we’re locked together, breathing hard. Her pulse hammers against my fingers. Mine echoes it.
Then her free hand is at the back of my neck, pulling my head down as hers tilts up.
Our mouths crash together. Nothing gentle about it. Nothing uncertain. Just need, raw and immediate.
Her back hits the equipment shed. My hands find her waist, lifting. Her legs wrap around me. Everything narrows to contact points: mouth, hands, the press of her body against mine.
No thought. No strategy. Just hunger.
A branch snaps in the darkness beyond the yard.
We break apart instantly.
Mateo’s voice calls from the path: “Alpha? You out here? Ben says we’ve got movement at the north line.”
Nova slides from my grip, feet hitting the ground soundlessly. Her expression gives nothing away as she steps back.
I don’t follow. Don’t answer right away.
Because every instinct I buried after Maelik is clawing to the surface.
And if I fall for her—really fall—
I don’t know if I’ll be a protector ... or the monster I swore I’d never become again.
Chapter 17
