Page 313

If he didn't leave soon...

“Get off the field, Miles!” Nash growled, finally getting a hold of Noah.

“What if I don't want to?” Miles laughed. “After all, this isn't your campus.”

My hands automatically clenched into fists. I dropped the helmet.

Miles immediately looked at me.

“Am I right, Wheeler?”

In the corner of my eye, I caught Emely stopping in front of the grandstands and turning to me in alarm.

Kieran, no! her words reached me. Leave him alone. Best to get out of here.

I really wanted to be rational, but that bastard’s dirty grin stimulated a part of my brain that was designed for action, not thought.

I had not forgiven him for what he had done to my motorcycle. And even the new model I had ordered, which I was willing to upgrade, wouldn't change that.

He had declared war on me. And I wasn't someone who lost wars. I directed them.

I wasn't going to take any more insults.

Without thinking twice, I lunged at Miles DeLoughrey and landed an uppercut that could be heard across the entire field.

A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd, and somewhere in the distance I heard Jenny Bexley yell, “Come on, hurry up!” But I didn't give a damn about any of that as my second fist knocked Miles to the ground.

“Wheeler!” I heard Harry Jones yell, but I didn't look up.

Miles dodged my next punch, and suddenly a sharp pain shot through my jaw. Miles had hit me.

My transformation was beginning to build up inside me as I desperately blocked the guys' voices from my head.

Suddenly, I was pulled back. Miles, meanwhile, was held fast by the blond professor.

“Kieran!” Emely yelled, rushing across the field toward me.

The guys behind me let go of me. Their mistake.

I rushed past Emely toward the Ruisangor, who dodged me, tripped me, and lunged at me before grinning and swinging a fist at my nose. I dodged, but he struck my eye.

Stars sparkled before my vision, but that didn't stop me from throwing a punch.

He hadn't expected that, and my fist hit him in the nose, causing him to stumble backward, blood splattering all over his face and jersey, drenching the white number twenty-two, as well as running down my fist.

“Not bad,” he laughed, blood running from his mouth.

The anger in my stomach multiplied.

I wanted him dead.

Screw the treaties.

“Miles!” Emely screamed.

He turned his head toward her.

Idiot.