The click of m’weko claws on the stone podium, the flutter of the pack flag through the breeze, the increasingly rich scent of copper as wounds were lashed, traded and swiped across thick m’weko fur.
The two packs watching screamed for blood, shouting in joy when their challenger made a hit, or heaving a collective wince when a hit landed against their fighter. They made every move a dance, weaving, padding, to catch a stray swipe of the claw, a snap of teeth. All conducted under the watchful gaze of a hundred and sixty m’weko.
Keon’s m’weko eyes logged every prick of Usher’s ears, every bristle of hackles, every questioned and second-guessed step moving two inches in a new direction. He used the scents on the wind, the change of pheromones, noting when Usher grew frustrated or cocky, scent changing with every shift of emotion. Keon analysed the fight. The faltered step indicating a swipe at Usher’s rear leg had caused damage. The crease between the eyes when Usher moved away and his body lilted to the left, suggesting a muscle injury.
Every moment was a learning experience.
Within ten minutes, Usher’s breathing grew heavily from an excess of adrenaline and anger. The continuous lunging and backing away bored Keon, but he traded nips and swipes of his claw with Usher’s hits. Goading Usher close enough to hit his target got him a gash on his shoulder and a bite to the ear. Neither bled nor hurt, making them a waste of time and energy. The scent of blood was strong, hitting his tongue, encouraging the kill instinct. The slow trickle of blood from wounds, staining the podium.
Targeting the front paws, he could incapacitate his enemy, making it impossible to retain his m’weko form. Transitioning between bodies didn’t heal in the way humans claimed, but it moved the wounds to corresponding positions.
A boon Keon knew well, after Simeon had tormented him for his m’weko size—a head smaller than his overgrown brother—and called him a dog. Throwing a stick and telling Keon to ‘fetch’, his aim had been shocking, sending the stick into Keon’s m’weko chest. The wound could have been fatal if Keon hadn’t the presence of mind to transition, moving the wound to his shoulder.
A wry smile became a grimace on his m’weko face as he recalled removing the stick, walking toward Simeon and stabbing him blatantly in the shoulder, mirroring the wound. Simeon had been in shock, but once he registered what Keon had done, he’d laughed. Called Keon a scrapper and caught him in a headlock.
The fight was one of the few fond memories he had of the bastard. The ghost of hard knuckles rubbing his head lingered, as Simeon kept him in a headlock the whole way home, proudly leaving the stick in his shoulder to gloat to Teowulf.
The trick of biology was the reason Keon wanted to fight this challenge as men. Wounds made to m’weko evened out and became less dangerous with the shift, but a wound to a human body could be deadly if they risked switching to m’weko. Which explained why Usher was avoiding it. Not realising Keon was a keen observer and had learned from his brothers. More from the human self-defence classes he’d taken with Drew and Denny.
Usher was a coward, and it was screwing with his plans. Every time he made a hit, Usher retreated, leaving Keon playing a chasing game, counter-productive to his endgame. He’d used every trick to force Usher to leave an opening for another hit, but it meant wasting energy and accepting smaller hits to get close.
It was time to attack and force Usher to make a mistake he’d regret.
When Usher lunged, Keon fought the instinct to roll and make a clean wound to weaken him. Holding position, he let Usher knock him to the ground. Thatcher’s pack roared with support, but Keon’s pack cheered, earning confused glances from Thatcher’s people.
From his position on the floor, Keon locked jaws around Usher’s knee and kicked with his legs, toppling his opponent onto the podium. In one fluid move, he rolled to his feet, setting his teeth around Usher’s throat as he let momentum work in his favour.
Keon set his feet beneath him, waiting.
Logic and biology determined Usher had no choice but to bleed out or trade his m’weko for his human body. Keon had calculated the bite to let his canines pierce the flesh in the right place to be threatening to the m’weko,but a minor inconvenience to a human. As long as Usher shifted, he would survive.
Growling long and loud, Usher struggled to his feet, his m’weko attempting to shake off the attack. When he wobbled a step to the side, Keon witnessed the moment realisation hit copper eyes. Keon gave Usher one second to initiate his shift, then returned to his human body.
Here, the fight commenced anew.
The sight of Usher’s strong, naked body rising from a crouch, eyes blazing with fury, proved his hits had been strategic. The cuts to the ankles made Usher’s gait unsteady, and chest wounds bled well. If left untreated, they’d fester into nasty injuries. Sweat trickled over his impressive pecs into open wounds.
Unable to resist, as the blood, adrenaline, and Usher’s impressive naked physique made him hella sexy, Keon winked at his opponent. Two hands clenched, and Usher raised them into boxing fists.
Keon clasped his hands to crack his knuckles. “Let the games begin,” he muttered, rushing at Usher and landing a right hook to his left cheek.
Chapter Thirteen
Milo
THE TIME HADcome, and Milo’s hands shook with anticipation. In his tent, he eyed the two guards celebrating the challenge with him, his nerves building with every sip they took of a glass of wine. Believing Milo to be ‘too ill’ to join the pack at the podium, they hadn’t hesitated to celebrate with him, unaware of the sleeping potion he’d placed into their drinks.
Halfway through their wine, both guards finally dropped to the floor unconscious.
Relieved the plan had worked and knowing the guards would sleep for hours, Milo cleared away the evidence and grabbed his getaway bag. He hadn’t packed much?medications, his replacement vision notebook, dried foods, a change of clothes, and an heirloom passed down from his grandmother?but it would be enough to last until he discovered his fate.
Leaving the tent, his first few steps were awkward with the added weight of the bag on his right shoulder. Nervous and afraid to linger, Milo began hobbling towards the trees where he would meet the worn path the border guard had pointed out. As soon as he was there, the walk would be far easier, though he’d taken painkillers to prepare for the inevitable fallout of his rushed journey.
“Milo?”
Pausing mid-step, Milo glanced behind to find Haley leaning against a tree trunk, one hand on her hip. “I thought you’d gone to the challenge,” he said, surprised by her unexpected presence and the complication it presented.
“I did. But a few of us skipped away once Father was distracted,” she confessed, the stark honesty as surprising as her appearance. If she and her friends thought to break the rules while no one was looking, he supposed it made sense. Except Haley stepped forward, squinting in the darkness. “Where are you going?”
