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Ihit the street seconds after Felix disappears. The scent is still fresh. Sharp. Predatory.
Wrong. I don’t hesitate. I shift mid-stride, the world snapping into heightened clarity as muscle and instinct take over. The town blurs behind me as I follow the trail straight for the forest edge.
He doesn’t bother masking it. Not completely. That tells me everything I need to know. He wants to be followed. Good. I’m not in the mood to be cautious.
Branches snap under my weight as I push deeper into the trees, tracking the path he cuts through the undergrowth. He’s fast—faster than most—but he’s not trying to disappear. He’s drawing me out. My lips pull back in a low snarl.
“Not subtle,” I mutter.
The forest thickens as I move farther from town, the sounds of Redwood Crossing fading behind me until there’s nothing left but the hunt. And the rage. He touched her. That thought burns hotter than anything else. My pace increases. I close the distance. I feel him before I see him. A shift in the air. A presence just ahead. Then he stops. Just like that. Waiting.
I slow slightly, circling to the left instead of charging straight in. Not giving him the approach he expects. Felix Navarro stands in a small clearing, his posture loose, almost relaxed. He turns as I emerge from the trees, a faint smile playing at his mouth.
“Took you long enough,” he says.
I don’t answer. I don’t waste words on him. I circle once, measuring distance, terrain, movement. He mirrors me. Controlled. Confident.
“You’re angry,” he observes. “That’s good. Makes this easier.”
I lunge. No warning. No hesitation. We collide hard, the impact sending both of us crashing into the ground before rolling apart and coming up again just as fast. He’s strong.
Stronger than I expect. But not stronger than me.
He strikes first, fast and precise, aiming for my throat. I block, counter, drive my shoulder into his chest and slam him back against a tree hard enough to crack bark. He grunts, then twists, using the impact to shift momentum and throw me off balance. We separate again. Circle. Close.
Strike. The fight is brutal. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Claw, bone, muscle—every hit meant to disable, to dominate.
He comes in low this time, sweeping for my legs. I jump, pivot, bring my weight down hard across his back and drive him into the ground. He snarls, twisting beneath me, forcing space between us with raw strength before rolling clear.
“You fight like you’ve got something to lose,” he says, breathing harder now.
“I do,” I answer.
And then I hit him again. This time I don’t hold back. The impact snaps his head to the side, and I follow through with another strike, then another, driving him backward step by step.
He blocks some. Not all. Blood hits the ground. His. Good. But he doesn’t go down. He adapts.
Shifts. Finds openings. He lands a hit to my ribs that forces air from my lungs, then another across my shoulder that burns sharp and deep.
Pain registers. I ignore it. We clash again, closer this time, grappling for control instead of distance. I get my hands on him—solid grip—and slam him down hard enough to shake the ground beneath us. This time, I don’t let him up. I pin him. Forearm across his throat. Weight locked. Control absolute.
“Where is he?” I growl.
Felix grins up at me, blood on his teeth.
“Closer than you think.”
I tighten my hold, cutting off his air.
“Where.”
He laughs. Actually laughs.
“You really don’t see it, do you?” he says, voice rough. “This isn’t about taking the town.”
