FOUR

Xander

WE'RE ALL ON our feet when the lights dim and Jimmy's song starts up. Instead of the crowd going crazy like I expected, it's as if we're being held in the cresting anticipation of promised menace. The low strum of the guitar and bass. The light pealing of the cymbals, contrasting the deep resonance of the singer's voice. The eeriness and warning in his words, the confidence of which leaving no room for argument.

My heart beats at an erratic pace, and my eyes are drying from staring unblinkingly at the circle of bright light against the black stage curtains draped over an entryway at the end of an aisle. I'm so enraptured by the need to see, to experience what this is leading up to, I nearly gasp when the curtains begin to billow out from unseen movement. The singer gets louder and fiercer... and we're all waiting, standing. Slanting my weight forward, I'm scarcely breathing when, finally, at the highest pitch of "Mooootheeeeer," the curtain parts. The crowd absolutely loses it as black is sliced down the center by the shining Irish green haze of Jimmy's robe.

At first, I don't see Billie. Jimmy has his hood up with his head down. Micky's behind him, green hoodie over his bowed head, hands on Jimmy's shoulders fingers alternating from flexing to patting. Even as the song gets heavier and louder, the O'Sullivans keep their unhurried pace, and it feels as if we're all being pulled toward them, and they're drawing our energy into themselves. As they round the corner, I'm finally able to see Billie. She's in front, green half hoodie on, with hood up and head down, and—

"Fuck" I groan. She's wearing these black booty shorts.

"When did she put those on?" Ethan grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest in agitation while sucking on his bottom lip, his tongue playing with his piercing in something akin to arousal. My eyes are laser focused on her bare torso, defined thighs, and the flexing of her hips that makes a side divot when she walks. Feeling both aroused and on guard, unable to form words due to my abruptly dry mouth, I merely give him a shrug in response. Suddenly I'm thankful for the scantily clad card girls and the attention they command.

"Tradition guys," Marcus comments, and I peel my eyes off Billie to look at him. "When she was fourteen, her body, it didn't... didn't really." He stutters as his hand gestures up and down the length of her. He grumbles a sigh. "Fill them out like now." Yeah, Marcus isn't too thrilled about how much skin she's showing either.

The O'Sullivans pass around the bend in the crowd to the corner nearest us, and she turns toward the ring. My eyes trail from her toned legs right up to her muscular ass—an ass I chased naked through a field earlier this week. My dick pushes against the zipper of my jeans, letting me know he'd like to have another run at it. When she climbs the stairs to set up their corner, the bottom of her shorts rise up, exposing the crest of her bum. Not liking how much skin she's showing, my eyes critically roam over the crowd. Numerous gazes are glued to her backside, and my wolf sends me images of him clawing out several pairs of eyes.

Ethan releases a low growl that is muffled by his hand, and I focus on taking deep inhales and exhales through my nose. My nasal breathing is interrupted by a tap on my shoulder. I spin my head around, ready for anything—anything except Enzo looking down at me with almost sympathetic eyes. His long dark hair is in a low ponytail that sways around to his front as he leans over to whisper in my ear. "They'll look, but they wouldn't dare touch," he says his voice deeper than his trim frame would suggest. Tilting his chin to Micky, then looking back to me, his full lips tug up on one side, and he asserts "Nobody fucks with The Den."

Some of my tension eases, and I nod. "Thanks, just a lot of eyes on her."

Keeping his gaze on me, he takes a swig of beer and licks some foam from his upper lip. "Yeah, including ours," he says with a wink. Then he gives my shoulder a squeeze and stands back up, while his shining green eyes gaze over my head, unabashedly locking on Billie's backside.

Turning back around, I feel a little jarred by the whole interaction. A sense of camaraderie and animosity at the same time. My attention is pulled to the entrance once more as Jimmy's opponent is introduced.

When the O'Sullivans entered, their energy was calm and collected, as if they were amassing it within, letting it simmer below a controlled surface. This fighter is the complete opposite. He's jumping all around and swinging his arms up in the air. He's not wearing a robe. He's around six feet tall and lean. His right arm is sleeved with tattoos, and he has a shaved head, a wide nose, and wide, wild brown eyes. He's throwing air punches and hollering out to the crowd. His whole demeanor seems so dramatic and almost stage-worthy, as if he's performing the part of a boxer instead of actually being one.

If this is a representation of his boxing skill, then I don't think he'll be a threat to Jimmy. When he rounds the corner of the ring in front of us, I take a large inhale. My lungs fill with a scent that is all threat. One that awakens my wolf and sends tension through my muscles. The smell of a predator. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and my eyes widen in both disbelief and concern. My personal assessment is affirmed by the sharp inhale from Jax at my side. Wolf-shifters, more than one.

Bending around Jax, trying to be blasé while feeling anything but, I ask in a neutral voice, "Marcus, how long has this fight been set up?"

"For five months. He's the reigning champ," Marcus answers on an exhale. Crossing his massive arms over his equally massive chest, he grunts. "Clyde DuFraine. He's got little to no skill. When he lands a punch"—he rotates his head to me and raises his brows— "which isn't often, and normally not until the sixth or seventh round, they've got brutal force." I meet Jax's shrewd gaze, and both of our jaws snap shut. I bet his punches are brutal because they're probably fueled by shifter power. Fuck.

Marcus, unaware of the true threat about to climb into the ring with his friend, uncrosses one arm and wipes his hand down his face before motioning to the fighter. "He gets beaten bloody, barely able to get off the mat, and you'd think the match would be over in the next round, easy. Then they go to their corners and..." Faltering, he puffs out a harsh breath. "He comes back almost like the hits never freakin' happened. Shit's insane." Shaking his head, he muses quietly, "Doesn't make sense."

Focusing on the opponent's corner, I close my eyes and let my wolf rise within. Sending alpha waves out in that direction, I begin assessing the energies of Clyde DuFraine and the two wolf-shifters that accompanied him. Finding theirs, I push mine against them. The process is similar to walking by someone and knocking my shoulder against theirs. It allows me to test the resistance and outward expression of their strength.

Withdrawing my energy, I wait to see if they'll push back, knock their shoulder against mine in rebuttal, so to speak. Any alpha will see what I did as a challenge. If the other two are his pack-mates, it won't just be personal but also about his position, his own alpha wolf. That's hard to ignore. It would take a deep understanding of alpha wolves and their tendencies, as well as control over his wolf and his own mind and feelings, to not answer. To not step up as the alpha, as their alpha , would mean going against his own nature. And what do you know, I feel a strong punch of alpha power against mine in response.

Opening my eyes, I don't need to search very long to locate the alpha, as his dark eyes are staring at me under thick gray brows arched in smug confidence. He's older, maybe fifty, with gray hair gelled back and a round face partially hidden behind patchy brownish-gray facial hair. Is that supposed to be a beard? Crossing his arms over his barrel chest, his upper lip twitches into a snarl while his eyes glow briefly. Yeah, he's the alpha all right. The other guy, a beta would be my guess, is maybe in his mid to late twenties, with long brown hair tied back in a low ponytail, a Zappa mustache, and a trim figure. He only spends a few seconds looking back and forth between his alpha and me before returning his focus back to DuFraine.

That's how he's winning.

DuFraine takes a beating, then returns to his corner and gets healed, repeating the process until his opponent tires and makes a mistake, thus offering him the opportunity he needs to land a shifter strength punch. No skill. No years of consistent, dedicated training. Nothing like Jimmy. It's all very unsportsmanlike, not to mention not aligned with the Shifter Code of Ethics set forth by the leaders of our kind over a century ago. I'm trying to figure out how we should handle this when there's a knock on the link:

Little Fox here. He's a FREAKIN' wolf-shifter! How can I protect Jimmy? Is this because of me? What do we do? Over.

X-Wolf here. Well aware. Not because of you. Been set up for over five months. He has an alpha in his corner, probably healing in between rounds. His punches, when landed, will be shifter strong. Winning by points won't work, Billie. Jimmy will need to knock him out. Over.

Little Fox here. Any way for us to even this out? It needs to be fair, and I can't have anything happen to Jimmy. Over.

Wolf-E here. Xander has access to your power now. He could try to tap into it and attempt to interrupt the healing. Nothing to do about the shifter-strength punches, though. Over.

Little Fox here. Use my power, X-Wolf. Anything to protect Jimmy. I trust you. Over and out.

Turning to face Ethan, I give him a hard glare and grind out, "Do you think I know how to do that?"

His dark eyes calmly assess me for several long seconds, and then he states, "I think you have more innate talent and intuition than you want to acknowledge. I don't think it will be too different from broadcasting. And I imagine your wolf will have the confidence to try."

Jax bends over, and I lean back to make room for him. His whispers. "X, I would think tapping into her power would be like tapping into E or myself. It'll just be the application, which I mean, no harm in trying at least."

Ethan places his hand on my shoulder and tilts his head to the side. "What other options do we have?"

Lifting my gaze back to the ring, I look at my mate, who must sense my attention since she spins around and meets my stare. With her hood pushed back, I can see her whole face. Her glossy lips are tight with determination, and her chin is lifted in acceptance of what she's willing to risk. With her hair pulled back into two French braids, paired with the makeup she has on, her cheekbones and green eyes stand out even more. Those pleading green eyes, locked on mine, are weighed down with worry and concern, seeking hope. It's a plea I cannot deny.