Usher feigned a punch to the head and lowered his shoulder into Keon’s chest. With two arms around his waist, he lifted Keon from his feet and slammed him into the podium. Breath deserted him, and he coughed a spot of blood from what felt like a cracked rib. Before he could recover, Usher scrambled to his knees, grabbed Keon’s ankle, and pulled.
Usher flipped Keon onto his front, and a scream ripped from Keon’s lungs as something broke. An illegal move. He snarled and pushed to his knees with difficulty. This fight wasn’t over, and he wanted payback. When a fight was to the kill, anything was allowed, but a fight to the submission demanded blows couldn’t be traded if one opponent was prostrate.
He shook his head, as the bleary world struggled to focus. As his vision cleared, a hard impact, likely Usher’s foot, smacked his injured knee into the podium, and a scream loud enough to shake the world tore from his throat.
A mirroring scream came from the crowd, and he could barely decipher an authoritative voice snapping orders. Keon risked a glance at the waiting packs, scrapping like wild dogs.
The war he was fighting to prevent was about to break out if he didn’t get to his feet and finish. He’d need to do this the undignified way.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Keon crawled to the raised wall at the side of the podium. Using arm strength and the wall as support, he dragged his tired body onto the wall, forcing his left leg to bear his weight as he rose to his feet and grabbed the flag post. Only the knotted metal design at the top prevented his sweaty, bloody hands from sliding off the wood.
His body screamed in pain, but the rules had been broken and Keon was tired. He grabbed the wooden post at the base and snapped it from its place cemented into the podium. He tore Grier’s flag—not long returned to its rightful place—and let it flutter in the breeze.
The crowd were busy fighting. Usher stood at the side of the podium, screaming at Farley as the Meskli berated him and Thatcher for their behaviour. Only Weston’s wide, worried eyes focused on him. Though it hurt, Keon spared a wink of reassurance.
Bracing against the pain, Keon hobbled across the podium, hefted the pole, and swung with practised aim at the back of Usher’s head. While the pole splintered and shortened its length, Usher staggered, making it worth the sacrifice. When his opponent spun to face him, Keon landed a right hook that sent blood streaming from Usher’s nose. He grabbed Usher by the throat and shoved him across the podium, momentum and shock sending his feet scrambling but failing to hold. Usher fell to the ground.
“Hey!” Keon screamed to the crowd. When it made no impact, he stooped to raising two hands to his mouth and mimicking a m’weko cry similar to a wolf howl. Confusion brought eyes his way, responding to the sound they’d been trained to recognise from birth. Shocked faces stared and the fighting trickled to a stop.
Usher struggled to stand, rising halfway but falling, unsteady, blinking through blurred vision, blood trickling from a broken nose. Keon limped three steps, screaming internally at the pain. “Wait,” Usher whispered as Keon grabbed him by the hair, scrambling to his knees to avoid the painful tug.
“Stay,” Keon ordered, releasing his hair. As Usher fell to the podium, quaking limbs unable to hold any longer, Keon faced the hushed crowd, barely raising his voice. “This ismypack,mypeople, andmyfamily.” Turning to Thatcher, who stood behind Farley, held by the Meskli’s guards, he scowled. He wanted nothing more than to fight Thatcher, who tried to push his way onto the podium. “You think I’ll let you treat us like the enemy when we offered you a peaceful trade? I’ll never stop defending them. Never stop fighting. If you want me to stay beaten, you’ll need to kill me. But do it yourself, because your son isn’t capable.”
Usher had been biding his time, testing Keon’s strengths and weaknesses, going in for the kill when he knew the best direction.
Thatcher opened his mouth, but Keon didn’t need to hear it.
“His job was to kill me. Make it look like an accident, then you can have him ‘punished’ or dealt with. Leaving my pack unprotected,” he said, reading the situation clearly. Raising the pole, he pointed to his pack. “Do your worst! My pack is strong. We’re a family. You can kill me, but they’ll unite to tear every one of you limb from fucking limb!” he promised, shouting to force his aching lungs to work.
A resounding scream of support from his pack followed, giving him a sense of pride. Simeon had raised the blood levels of his pack with his hate and constant raids, but Keon had never seen them united like this.
While Thatcher looked on with concern, sparing the occasional glare at Usher, Keon struggled to the edge of the podium. He was grateful for the proud, confident look in Farley’s eyes, though Weston’s tears were a concern.
While two separate packs, who clearly needed to hear it, Keon addressed them equally. “When did our people start murdering freely?” He let his gaze rove through the crowd to meet the eyes of individuals, hoping to make a connection. “Are we not a family? Are we not supposed to support and respect one another? When did dictators become acceptable and worshipped like Gods?” he demanded, pointing the pole at Thatcher, who thought he could kill an Alpha in front of the Meskli, in an unfair challenge. The arrogance of the man was astounding.
“I am your Alpha, and we’re a family!”
His lungs protested long enough for his pack to scream in unison. Keon caught his breath, attention focused on Thatcher, blocking out the sweat dripping into his eyes and the blood crusting on his exposed skin, chilled by the night breeze.
“I’ll never be afraid of turning my back on my people,” he swore, trusting them more, after tonight. “You may be an Alpha, but I’m ashamed of you. You treat your pack like cattle, subordinates to be sacrificed at your whim. We’ve survived an Alpha like you before, and we’ll surviveyou.
“Ordering your son to kill or die in a fight to the surrender is the height of cowardice.” Shaking his head at the shame, he faced the crowd and offered a compromise. “Alpha Farley will settle the dispute Thatcher fabricated tonight. I’m offering a one-time deal,” Keon said, acknowledging how badly this could backfire. “Sanctuary. For anyone who wants to leave his pack of obedient mutts and joinmyfamily. We tolerate no prejudices, give no orders to kill, and we accept everyone, even those our society deems lesser or different. If that appeals to you, we welcome anyone who can abide by our laws. You’ll find them posted here tomorrow morning.”
Wincing as his next breath led to a sharp pain, he reluctantly shuffled to where Usher lay on the ground, worn and broken. With his eyes on Thatcher, he offered Usher his hand, relieved the sneaky bastard clasped it and let Keon help him to his feet. Ignoring Thatcher, he gestured to Weston, who came running, eyes filled with pride.
“Yes, Alpha?”
Keon let Usher wrap an arm around his shoulders, supporting his weight. “Please see to Usher’s injuries,” he said, though he couldn’t saywhocould. They didn’t have an official doctor, according to the records.
Weston nibbled his lip, clearly thinking the same. “I believe the midwife is proficient with stitches, and has adequate medical supplies,” he explained, answering one question. Whoever had been their doctor was gone. Dead? Banished?
Keon released Usher to one of the guards who stepped in, helping him descend the steps, which churned his stomach. “Maybe I can die here.”
“You will not,” Weston disapproved, rolling his eyes. “If the steps terrify you, I can suggest numerous men in the crowd who would be happy to carry the victorious hero.”
Keon barked a laugh, and cursed. Something pulled in his side, breath ending in a hiss. “Fuck. You’re getting impertinent, Beta,” he approved, giving him a nudge. “You’re getting used to me.”
“Nonsense.”
