FIVE

Billie

"JIMMY," I CROAK.

Jimmy turns those light-blue eyes on me, taking his focus off his opponent, who's paying more attention to a group of women near the front of the crowd than preparing himself for the match.

"Yeah, Demon?" he mumbles through his mouth guard.

Swallowing down my apprehension, I try to make light of this possibly deadly situation by bringing a finger to my temple and fluttering my lashes as if I'm communicating with a being from the beyond. Humming, I proclaim, "I'm getting a message . . . a sign. Like a knockout is what this douchebag needs."

He grins and grunts. "Yeah, Pa's already gone over it. KO is the only way."

Micky nods. "Yeah, and don't let him get a good shot. His punches got powah." I dip my chin in agreement. Jimmy and I fist bump, then Micky and I step out of the ring.

The first round is going a little differently from Jimmy's other matches. Jimmy's fighting style is normally decisive and aggressive: take a short amount of time to read his opponent, commit to an approach based on the intel he gathered, then go on the offense, controlling the tempo and the match. But as Marcus told the guys, Micky always stresses the importance of flexibility in style depending on your opponent. Jimmy's approach for this match is all about saving energy, being patient, evading, and waiting for his opening.

Checking out DuFraine, I snidely snort to myself. The guy is spending way too much energy on dramatics, hopping all around, jerking back and forth, and when he does throw a punch, it's hella sloppy. Clearly, he'd never have reached this level if he weren't a shifter.

Rounds may only last three minutes, but with the amount of concentration required and the adrenaline ripping through your veins, they never feel like three minutes—more like thirty. Jimmy finally throws a hook that makes it through DuFraine's peekaboo guard, landing solidly on his upper jaw. DuFraine's head snaps sideways, and he tumbles to the mat. I don't believe for a moment that this is over, and within a matter of seconds, he's already pushed up to standing with blood trickling from his mouth. Before the round can go further, the bell rings.

Micky and I quickly set up for the one-minute rest. I'm focused on getting water into Jimmy so he can slosh it around in his mouth, only to spit it out into the pail I've set on his lap. My other hand wipes the sweat from his head, face, and neck with a towel, while Micky talks to him about strategy and massages his shoulders. Without warning, there's a sharp yank on my power, and it feels like someone's trying to tug my intestines out of my gut. My hand holding the towel flies to my stomach, and I bend over gasping in pain.

Jimmy spits into the pail. "Everything okay, Billie?" He pants, staring down at me with wide eyes.

Forcing myself to stand upright, I meet his concerned gaze with a crooked grin that's probably close to a grimace and do what I do best: evade. "Yeah, just... man, I swear those nose hairs are getting longer and longer, Jimmy."

He quirks a brow at me before relaxing and puffing out a short laugh. "Told ya, dreadlocks."

I glance over my shoulder to check out the opponent's corner. There's definitely something happening. The older man, who has the most pathetic attempt at a beard I've ever seen, has his hands on his fighter's head, brows creased in concentration. His eyes are closed, maybe because they're glowing ' cause he's a freakin' shifter! His jaw clenches, then his cheeks round out with a large exhale of air. Pulling his palms away from DuFraine's head, he opens his eyes and looks at his hands, clenching and unclenching them before shooting a scowl behind me. I whip my head around and spot Xander mirroring a similar look of focused concentration as the old man, except looking way freakin' hotter. Obviously. Mindlessly plucking the pail from Jimmy's lap and swiping the towel one more time across his forehead, I hurry my ass—which is feeling rather breezy in these damn booty shorts — out of the ring.

There's a knock on the link.

X-Wolf here. Wilhelmina, are you okay? I felt your pain and your power,

There's a pause and a groan.

Hit me by surprise, it's vaster, and more... unique compared to Ethan's and Jax's. Over.

Little Fox here. Aaahhh, you say the sweetest things! Just taken aback. How did it go? Did it work? Over.

X-Wolf here. Learning still. One minute isn't much time to pull and apply. Can you tell me about how Alessandro did it? Over.

Little Fox here. Um, he twined our energies into an energetic rope of sorts, then wove it across the waves Alpha Knight was deploying. Like, if his were vertical, ours were horizontal. He did it several times until the alpha waves broke apart. That's all I got. Over.

Blondie here. Maybe we only do it when it's really needed? Also, Little Fox pull your damn shorts down, your ass cheeks are hanging out. Over.

Heat flushes my face.

X-Wolf here. Yes, TO BOTH. And Little Fox, don't let me pull too much. I'm not used to the...

Another pause. Weird Is my shifter power way different from his?

...concentration yours seems to have. Don't sacrifice yourself. If you're hurting, you NEED to tell me. Otherwise, I won't do this again. Over and out.

Opening my eyes, I face the ring and slip my fingers behind me to tug the bottom of my shorts down as much as I can. Not very far. Hey, my glutes are important muscles for soccer, and they need to be strong.

Xander's last statement irks me. I know he's referring to the soreness I had this morning that was a result of my choice to ignore my own discomfort last night, so he can shove it. But yeah, that demanding tone of his fires me up in a... different way. Knowing I need to clear my head so I can fully focus on Jimmy, I envision all those thoughts and feelings written on an imaginary rolling chalkboard and then flip the board over to a clean slate, enabling me to put all my attention on what's happening in the ring.

Watching round 3, it's apparent Jimmy's getting frustrated with the current approach of waiting it out and saving energy. Welcome to how I normally have to box. Sucks, don't it?

"It's workin,' Jimmy, it's workin'," Micky affirms while I squirt a stream of water into Jimmy's panting, open mouth. He gurgles and spits it out.

Jimmy doesn't respond because he may not want to hear it, but he knows Micky's right. So Jimmy, being Jimmy, doesn't agree or disagree. He just shakes his head and grunts.

Bending over, I stare into his squinted eyes and say, "Listen, I know you're getting a little tetchy and just wanna wail on the annoying weasel. He's hopping around all over the place, throwing lame-ass combos and shit. I get it. Reminds me of that kid, Stilwell, in A League of Their Own . Not that I'm suggesting hitting kids that act out, whine, and complain is appropriate, cause it's definitely not. Don't be Madonna, Jimmy." Jimmy huffs a short laugh, and I give him a slanted grin. "But Micky's right. Sending him to his corner won't work. A KO will. Wait for the opening." Jimmy sighs and nods his head.

At that moment, I hear some catcalls and whistles coming from the crowd behind me. I quickly stand up and turn around to find three guys at least two sheets to the wind, ogling my ass. One of them snickers, "Oh, come on, doll. Don't stand up on our account!" I give them the finger and climb through the ropes. Right before the bell rings, I hear three loud growls. I urgently yank my shorts down again .

"Good, Jimmy! Good! That's it! Keep calm! You got it!" Micky yells out, trying to refrain from instructing while we watch DuFraine get more and more aggressive and unhinged as the match goes on. He's practically foaming at the mouth, wanting Jimmy to attack and expend his energy like most of the boxers he's previously beaten. DuFraine throws a wide—and man do I mean wide —high hook, opening up his torso. Jimmy takes the opening. Swiftly squatting down, he snaps a short jab, followed by a shovel hook right below the left side of DuFraine's rib cage.

Cupping my hands around my mouth, I holler "That's right, hit him! Hit him!"

DuFraine bends over, and Jimmy delivers a decimating high-to-low hook to the side of DuFraine's face, knocking him on his ass.

The crowd goes wild.

Micky and I go silent.

We both turn to each other, sharing a look of concern, because we know. We know what Jimmy's heaving chest, tense shoulders, and intent gaze mean. He circles DuFraine's body on the mat. The wolf-shifter takes the full ten seconds to get up and appears shaken. Sure enough, Jimmy, now having the taste of success from sending his opponent to the mat, so close to a KO, wants more. It's like he can smell the knockout cooking and is holding the fork in his hand ready to call him done.

Instead of sticking to the plan, he becomes more aggressive, going after DuFraine. And it seems as though DuFraine's hyped-up energy has rubbed off on Jimmy, making him a little less decisive—which I get. Jimmy had to let this guy lead most of the match, and to an outsider, it could look like Jimmy's the weaker fighter. He's been playing defense the whole match, while DuFraine has been firmly on the offense. Regardless of how skilled Jimmy's evasions, dodges, and blocks have been, the audience probably isn't seeing the skill of it or knowledgeable enough to understand the strategy. There's been some heckling and forceful yelling, telling Jimmy to just do something, for him to box already.

Jimmy throws a hard cross. The technique and form are superb. But the distance? Shit, he needed to be closer. The long stretch leaves Jimmy's side open, giving DuFraine enough time to dodge and space to attack. I watch in terror as DuFraine's brown eyes glow honey, and I barely have time to inhale a sharp gasp before he bobs down, evading Jimmy's cross and punching out one of his own, aiming for Jimmy's ribs.

Not the best placement, and thankfully Jimmy's skilled enough to twist out of the way... somewhat. I cringe watching the blow hit his ribs. Jimmy's face scrunches up in pain. It may not have been a direct hit, but with shifter power, it didn't need to be in order to cause damage. Jimmy quickly backpedals. With his guard back up and a few feet from his opponent, he stands to face DuFraine. The bell rings, and Jimmy walks to our corner with a little stutter-shuffle in his steps. Micky and I quickly set up. Micky's getting out some KT Tape to help with the ribs.

"You gotta let 'em open up," Micky scolds, tearing the tape with his teeth and then stretching out the center before adhering it to Jimmy's ribs. "Stick with the plan. Ya got 'em. You're bettah than 'em."

Jimmy winces as Micky works on smoothing the tape out. Jimmy nods while panting. "Yeah, yeah, Pa. I know, I got amped up." Micky just snorts a grunt.

I give Jimmy some water. My gaze strays to the opposite corner, and my thoughts swash around my head like the water in Jimmy's mouth. Should I tell him? Could I give him a clue about who's actually in the ring with him without exactly exposing shifters? I mean, we're family, how long will I be able to hide this from them? Especially Micky and Jimmy, they both know me so well. Too freakin' well not to recognize when I'm holding something back. If I don't tell him and he gets hurt—like really hurt—how would I feel? I'd feel like shit. A big old pile of poo, gooey with guilt. Gross.

Leaning in close to Jimmy, I tug on my ear and stammer, "Listen... I . . . I know this is gonna sound crazy, but if you, uh, perhaps... maybe... see his eyes glowing, or if they look brighter, then he's about to throw a punch."

Jimmy spits out the water before tilting his head back, assessing me. His eyes focused on my left one. I take the opportunity to wipe some sweat from his brow. "You serious, Demon?"

I hold his stare. "Yes, James Finnegan O'Sullivan, I am."

His brows raise. "Full-name serious, huh?"

I nod. "Full-name serious. You got this Jimmy. No more openings for him. KO the tosser."

He dips his chin and says, "All right then, Wilhelmina Agnes Mahoney." A little bit of the tension currently twisting up my insides eases when I hear my full name in response. He's taking me seriously.

The bell sounds, and Jimmy approaches the center. Looking across the ring, DuFraine's steps are slow, and his head is turned over his shoulder, looking at his corner with a frown pulling at the corner of his lips. When he faces Jimmy, his brows are pinched, and his showboating is nowhere to be found. Is his ship sinking with no one to answer his maydays?