Three seconds. Giselle’s face cycled through disbelief, fury, and the crushing weight of what had just happened.
She’d lost. It wasn’t a draw but she was defeated by a human. In front of the entire camp.
Giselle shoved Mira, rolled to her feet, and stood with her fists clenched.
A growl ripped from my throat before I could stop it. Lucian’s snarl echoed from across the clearing, and Percy was already halfway to her, gold bleeding into his eyes.
“I’m fine!” Mira’s voice cut through the tension. “Stand down. It’s normal combat. I’m okay. No need to make a fuss.”
She was on her feet, brushing dirt off her training clothes, looking more annoyed than hurt. The other trainees had frozen,eyes darting between the three of us and the human woman who’d just barked orders at lycan alphas.
Dirt caked Giselle’s hair. A bruise forming on her jaw from the impact with the ground. Her eyes found mine across the clearing and the decade of service and loyalty pooled in amber irises that couldn’t hide the humiliation.
She’d come to prove the human wasn’t worthy. The human had put her on her back.
I held her gaze with a stern glare. Let the silence stretch until she flinched.
“Accept defeat,” I said. “With grace.”
Her face crumpled. Shame and fury merged into a single expression that cracked her composure. Her jaw worked, fists shaking. She turned and stormed toward the eastern perimeter, stride too fast for regulation, discipline shredded.
I would’ve dealt with Giselle and reprimand her actions but she wasn’t my priority. I was already moving.
Mira shot me a look that said she didn’t need rescuing. I ignored it.
Three strides and I had her arm. My hand closed around her bicep, firm, steering her away from the sparring ground toward the supply station behind the tree line. Away from the audience.
“Solomon, I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s a scrape.”
“You’re bleeding and your heart rate is elevated. You seem to forget that you are pregnant.” My voice came out lower than intended. My discipline barely contained the wolf who wanted to press her against the supply crates and check every inch of her with his hands and then his mouth and then his hands again.
I pulled her behind the crates. Enough tree coverage that the clearing couldn’t see us.
“Let me look.”
“Solomon, it’s a scrape on my elbow.”
“Let me look.”
She held out her arm. My fingers wrapped around her wrist and turned her arm, clinical on the surface, possessive underneath.
Her skin was flushed from the fight, pulse slammed beneath my thumb. Dirt smudged her jaw and her hair had come loose and her chest was still heaving with exertion that made the damp fabric shift against her body in ways I was memorizing.
“You beat her,” I said.
“I got lucky.”
“You adapted faster than she could. That’s not luck.” My thumb was still on her pulse. I hadn’t let go. “I’ve trained warriors for centuries, Mira. What you just did on that ground doesn’t come from training manuals.”
Her eyes lifted to mine. Still carrying the fight. The adrenaline hadn’t faded and neither had whatever she was reading in my face because her gaze dropped to my mouth for one second before pulling back up.
The space between us compressed. My hand on her wrist. Her pulse racing. Mine matching it. Neither of us breathing at the correct rate.
“We should treat that,” I said. My thumb was still on her pulse, voice quieter than intended.
