Page 334 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

I see his shoulder rotate and tighten my abdomen an instant before his fist buries itself beneath my ribs. The air whooshes out of me. Wraith grips my jacket and slams me into the wall again.

The brick bites through the leather.

I could end this.

His throat is open. His right knee is carrying too much of his weight. Whatever they gave him has disturbed his balance, and his left hand is twitching every few seconds. One strike beneath his ear would collapse him. A sweep and twist would put him on the ground. If I break his elbow, he can’t hit me with it⁠—

“Val, don’t hurt him! Please!"

Well. There goes that plan.

Wraith swings again. I catch the punch on my crossed forearms, absorbing it through my shoulders.

He follows with another.

And another.

Each impact travels down to my elbows, grinding the bone, raining blows down on my head and arms. My fingers start going numb. His scarred fists are opening between blows now. He'll wear himself out eventually.

Hopefully before my brain scrambles.

His fist hits my ribs. Pain blossoms along the old knife scar between them. My breath catches, but I keep my eyes on his, searching for Mikhail beneath Wraith.

His knuckles clip my jaw.

Again.

A strike pounds against my sternum with more shove than snap.

Weaker.

Wraith snarls and grabs for my throat. His fingers close around the collar of my jacket instead, tearing the leather as he tries to haul me away from the wall only to drive me back into it.

"I liked this coat," I tell him, annoyed.

It was my second favorite. And the one I liked best is ruined in the woods by the pack house somewhere.

He doesn't respond, of course.

His breath comes in violent, uneven rasps as tremors roll through his entire body. It isn't rage now. Perhaps it never was. It's exhaustion, pain, ferality taking over on a biological level.

And all because he thinks I mouthed off to Ivy.

Sweet, even now.

He is so very much like Ilya.

I watch his pupils. His breathing. The tremor in his left thigh. How his right boot scrapes backward across the concrete to correct his thrown balance.

I've done this dance before.

His fist strikes my crossed arms and slides away.

He sways.

I move fast, my left hand catching his wrist. I step inside his reach, turn under his arm, and drive my shoulder into the center of his chest. His size makes moving him like trying to redirect a falling wall, but his balance is already gone.

Momentum takes care of the rest.