FIFTY-TWO

X-Wolf

SHE WANTS TO LICK ALL THE BLOOD OFF.

Such a viciously perfect mate we have.

I look down at her, and she lifts her snout up, a wicked smile spreads across her lips, baring her bright, sharp teeth. The cool breeze blows through the white fur of her chest, fluffing it up, and her black-tipped pointed ears are rotating around in all directions, hearing far more than any other shifters here. Her glowing green-and-white eyes stare into mine with unwavering confidence in my skill and determination to win this battle, bolstering me, assuring me that we are making the right decision. Then I see her drop her mask, becoming the little fighter she is, as she sets her gaze across the circle, at my opponent. I follow her lead, calming my mind, controlling my breath, and readying my muscles for action.

Hogan's wolf made a big show of entering The Circle first, prowling and pacing in his so-called corner, showing that he's not just ready for the match but foaming at the mouth for it. I meet his glowing ochre eyes narrowed into slits. He pulls his upper lip back into a snarl far enough to show the pink of his gums. A low chuffing growl beats out of him. A taunting laugh. A ploy to have me act rashly, to react to him instead of being an alpha unto myself.

Assessing him, I know he's strong. His body is big and wide and covered in thick dark-blond fur. He's far stronger than my father in alpha power, promising a good fight. But he doesn't realize the mistake he's already made. He doesn't see the reason why I'll win this fight and not him. Because like my father, he's an alpha for himself. He's in this for his own agenda, to build upon the power he has and to continue the lies he and the other leaders have spread.

The cool night wind picks up, whipping through my fur, swirling through my mouth and nostrils, bringing with it the scents of lemony pine, earthy moss, fresh water from the rivers, and the smell of damp wood and leaf litter. Home. The scent of home surrounds me, infiltrates me, and I suck it down. My paws tingle as my claws protract, digging into the forest floor. My forest floor. This is my home. Throwing my head back, I let out a calling howl. It spirals through the cold air and upward to the stars adorning our sky. A howl to the heavens to the divine. A howl to the wolves of the pack. A howl to the wolves who are here, the wolves who I'm doing this for. The wolves who call these woods and mountains their home.

My howl is answered by echoing waves of excitement and support.

The harvest moon seems to answer us, shining brighter, and the wind whirls even more as if it is capturing our howls and barks, letting us ride on their currents. The magic of us, of shifters, of our connection to this world that no human would ever understand, flows through me. It's the power of the divine, a power I need to share with my wolves.

I stay just outside of the circle, purposefully not entering. Instead, I move through the gathered wolves, letting them see me, sense me. Feel me. I let their wolves understand we are doing this for them; we are all part of this pack. I may have the power to link us together, but without them, without their wolves, there'd be nothing and no one to link with. And all of that power, all that we are, comes from the divine, from the sacred. Our leaders have been trying to erase that connection, to undermine the sacred like it's just doctrine and not the magic that flows through our very veins.

I weave through the wolves, human and wolf alike, leaping from ledge to ledge, playing with the pups, nuzzling the seniors, knocking shoulders with adults, and ignoring those who snarl or turn away from me. Follow me or don't. Be part of our pack or don't. I'm an alpha, as is Xander. We will protect, provide stability, and help our pack flourish, but it's their choice to be in our pack.

We feel those who want us, feel them reaching for us, reaching for us as their alpha—and I connect with them. And it fills me. It fills us. It gives us a greater sense of purpose and hope. My trot speeds to a canter as I round the circle a second time, and a third time, I release my howls. More and more join me, choosing me—choosing to trust that we will take care of them.

I give a little to each as if I'm giving their souls, their shifters, a bit of soil, a few seeds, some rays of sun in a glass jar, and a cup of water—just enough to help them stabilize and have a fresh start and hope of new growth, mental and spiritual.

And they roar.

They roar and howl, and I continue to race around the circle, my paws feeling the ground, noticing where weak points may lie, where there's slickness, loose rubble, or sharp declines. I keep one eye on my opponent, who is no longer pacing and drooling with a desire for battle. No. He stands motionless on all fours, large and powerful in body, but silent. Silently observing, his eyes skitter around, and I gleefully watch the kernel of doubt begin to sprout within him. I watch him wonder how steep of an incline he'll have to climb if he should win. I watch him wonder—wonder if he can, wonder if it will be worth it. Because he has another pack, one that's been left unattended, one that has a strong alpha. But what good is his strength if he's absent all the time?

I take those thoughts, and I make them images, and I attach those doubtful, fearful feelings to those images, and then from the highest point on the rocks, I take the leap. I leap into the wind, and it cools my underside, billowing around my body on the way down. I land with a vibrating thud on the hard-packed ground. Little clouds of dust puff out around my paws, announcing my arrival to the battle. With my back to our luna, I immediately send those stored images and feelings out on my alpha waves to Hogan and his wolf. Because alpha's battles aren't just about teeth and claw—they're about power.

Just as I started with the mental battle, so does Hogan. I bare my teeth as I am bombarded with manufactured images of his own creation. Ones of my mate, Little Fox, running for her life through darkened woods with the frenzied howls of wolves out for blood. Images of them trapping her, cornering her, and tearing into her flesh, mauling her, ripping her tail and ears off until she's near death, her small body a pile of bloody, broken bones. He shows them leaving her there, not killing her. Leaving her deformed and barely alive. But alive enough so she can heal, and they can play their game all over again.

Foolish. Stupid. Alpha. The images he sends are so full of flaws that they lose all the intended power, like a sail ripped apart by the deployment of chain shots, unable to capture the power of the wind. Those woods are not our woods. Those wolves are not our wolves. Those mountains are not our mountains. And those glowing eyes were not her glowing eyes, not the eyes of my mate. Not the eyes of a royal. We are driven above all by instincts, by the nature of who we are. Shifters. We are shifters. Shifters who are drawn to follow the path of the divine. And she is a shifter who holds the power of the divine within her. She is a royal.

I watch him stumble backward, shaking his head, trying to dislodge the images I sent—the ones Xander and I took time to research, create, and paint. I take the opportunity and lunge for him. Leaping through the air with my mouth wide open, I go for his flesh.

The feel of his wiry fur brushing my snout and tickling my gums above my incisors greets me, right before my paws hit the ground. When I feel the hard press of his body against my muzzle, I bite down. My teeth pierce into the thick, loose flesh at the back of his neck. A wail rips from his throat before I even sense the first taste of blood. Pathetic. He quickly turns it into a growl. Too little. Too late. Does he not know how to silence himself? Does he not understand the nature of a wolf? Cries, wails, whimpers—oh how they get us hard for the fight, beckoning us like our own personal song of war. We'll follow that beautiful music to our deaths. Locking my jaw, I torque my midsection and throw him across the circle. His large body slides over the hard-packed surface, and his claws protract, scrapping through the dirt, slowing him down. Only his tail breaks the barrier.

With my head down and teeth bared, I wait. He hits me with another mental image, changing up his tactic, his target, focusing on weakening Xander. It's of Billie being drugged, beaten, and forcefully taken by male pack members—male pack members who are standing around us, watching from their chosen spots, not more than fifty feet from our mate. I've seen their faces twisted in anger and sneering in disgust when they've looked at her.

The assault continues. Xander runs from his truck down the stone front path to the house we're living in, finding her broken body laid out as a welcome home gift on our doorstep, used and abused and close to death. Weeks later, she's looking at him with doubt, no longer believing in the words and promises he's spoken. Finally, he's coming home to a house without our true-mate, feeling not only our hearts shattering but guilt when we see the devastation on the faces of our pack-mates, for they've also lost their true-mate because of the decisions we've made.

It hits Xander hard. The image is far too close to her previous actions and his own fears. I mentally and physically stumble, and it's the opening Hogan's wolf needs. He comes at me from the side, and I have just enough time to shake the images and tuck my neck, protecting my throat. But it's not enough time to fend off his attack.

He's bigger than me, and it seems more experienced when it comes to the fight. He knocks me to the side, and his fangs pierce into my withers and shoulder. The pain is sharp and burning, only intensifying when his jaw snaps shut and his teeth tear through me. I not only feel but hear the ripping of a large section of flesh being torn from the bone. I don't make a sound. Xander and I never make a sound. Silent all those years. I welcome the pain because nothing will ever compare to the fiery hot agony of the blowtorch from a decade ago. When I feel the cool night wind breeze over the oversensitive, raw flesh, I know his hold has loosened.

Whipping my bent head around, I open my jaws and clamp down on his foreleg. I snap my mouth shut, his bones breaking in the clench of my teeth. I relish the feeling of the once-solid bone splintering and cracking like uncooked spaghetti. The flesh around the once-solid frame becomes formless and sagging. I puff out an amused breath. They snapped so easily—like a bird's bone. Hollow. Does he have so little marrow?

His wolf cries out in pain, and my ears hone in on the glorious melody. My shoulder now completely free from his muzzle, the burning stinging sensation of the night air on the raw flesh tells me all I need to know: there's a gaping hole. My fur around the wound tingles with the dripping of my blood leaking from the opening, and the edges prickle with my healing energies already at work.

With his broken foreleg still in my mouth, I dig my paws into the ground and yank backward like a domesticated dog pulling on a rope toy. I yank and yank and yank. He howls again, and this one isn't just in pain—it's got that edge to it, the edge that makes one dig deeper and fight. Good.

I quickly release my hold, and instead of leaping away from him, I bound over him. Then I hit him with more images of his daughter, Daphne, becoming defiant in his absence, exploring the world outside of the pack, becoming curious, fighting against his wishes and the half-bond that I assume he forced on her. I show her fighting against it and succeeding, because what's the purpose of a bond if you're not around to pull on it, to reinforce it? I show images of his mate, Calista, finding out about his relationship with Veronica—of her being distraught and comforted by his betas in his absence. I show images of a new alpha coming into his pack, of how the divine will make things right when needed.

His entire body is shaking with such vigor it looks like he's having a seizure. His mind is being completely taken over by the pictures, feasting on them and then adding his own scenarios, letting them snowball and pick up fears we haven't seen but that support what I've shown him. Did he really not think Xander and I would play the mental game? Did he not think Xander researched him, especially after showing up at the will reading and seeing him with Veronica?

I take the frustration and fear that Xander feels and turn them into bloodthirsty rage, transforming what makes us feel weak into strength. I approach him from behind; he's still too caught up in his own doubts and fears, and the manufactured ones in his head, to fight the real battle. Opening my mouth wide, my canines slice through the fatty, soft tissue of his upper hind leg like butter. His blood fills my mouth, and I guzzle it down while continuing to rip and tear through his marbled meat. So fatty. He releases cries and wails that are sharp and guttural, carrying all the pain, the physical and the emotional, he's experiencing. I release my hold right before his teeth can get to my neck.

He tries to send another mental image, but the waves are flimsy and disjointed, allowing me to block it. With burning eyes of focused fury, I meet his glowing ones and stalk him. I snarl and growl, letting my mouth hang open so he can see his blood coating my teeth and dripping from my fur. He growls back, but it's weak like his body. Having lost control over two of his legs, he stumbles and limps back with each stable step I take toward him. Healing takes time.

I keep pushing him backward farther and farther, driving his limping form to the edge of The Circle, where I know there's a dip with loose rubble on the other side. While continuing to back up, he snarls at me, but it's high-pitched and close to a cry.

It's not worth it, Hogan, I think, sending my thoughts to him. You're not going to be able to maintain both packs, not without losing something. None of this was expected, and you're not prepared. There's a hiccup in his growl, and his eyes flicker with the understanding. You just weren't prepared. And how could you have been? I assuage. That's right, it's not about you. It's the situation. I understand.

The tension in his body unfurls as I give him a way out—a way to back off and let go without it being about him lacking the strength or power. His back paws stumble over the small stone barrier of The Circle, and I see them start to lose their footing when he steps backward. Expecting the level terrain, instead he finds a dip in the ground with loose stones and pebbles under his paws, his legs kicking, one of which is broken.

With my head down, I charge him, ramming his chest with the top of my head. This is nothing a wolf in the wild would ever do, but I'm not a wolf. I'm a wolf-shifter. Sure, his teeth scrape across my face, but I just ram him again and again until those back legs are kicking, looking for purchase in the sharp decline of rubble. With a few more rams, I've pushed all four of his paws outside of The Circle. The front legs—or leg flounders—with the effort, trying to keep him from rolling down the small hill. He's so focused on keeping himself from falling he's not even aware of where he is in relation to the boundary. Until he hears them.

The ground shakes with the roaring howls erupting from the surrounding wolves. Only then does he look down at his paws. Through wide eyes, his gaze lifts from his paws, one streaked with the blood dripping from my bite wounds and the smashed bones of his foreleg, to the stone barrier made of rounded granite stones half buried in the ground.

Shock is quickly replaced with determined rage, and he propels his broken body forward, lunging for me. Before he can even make it to the edge of the barrier, he's stopped by the wolves on either side of him. Wolves I've taken under me. Wolves that now stand with me, as I do them. I send my gratitude and howl out my victory to the wolves, letting them share in it, letting them feel this win, this new future.

With my eyes to night sky, my ears filled with the howls of my pack and the vibration of my own vocal cords howling out with them, a feeling like the touch of the divine twirls around me. My fur blows in a whirling wind that I know is felt by me alone. It brushes my fur backward up my spine, causing my skin to bloom with goosebumps under my thick fur coat. I feel the tingle of it enter my nostrils, my eyes become watery, and my vision blurs with swirling light seeping into me, changing me. Power. It is power from the divine and a feeling, a kindling in my body, is set aflame in my chest. Whatever was brought to me on that wind unlocked something inside of me that even I was unaware of. That warmth seeps through my bone and flesh, and every follicle of fur heats, every strand seeming heavier like a cape has just been laid upon my shoulders from within.

The mantle of a true alpha wolf.

When my head comes down from the night's sky, I'm greeted by my Little Fox. She sits on her hind legs, her fluffy tail wrapped around her paws, her small snout lifted high, and her eyes glowing and shining bright with love and pride. Those eyes track over my bloodied face and shoulder, and her small pink tongue darts out between her dark lips. I push aside my interest in the new power still thrumming through me and focus on my mate.

I lay down on my stomach, and she saunters over to me, rolling her hips and swaying her tail. Such a sexy little vixen she is. Our noses meet, rubbing our greeting. She purrs and begins licking and lapping up all of his blood and mine, sending me her feelings of adoration and support through the bond. We keep this to ourselves, between her and me. Xander and Billie willingly stay in the background, letting this be our moment, and hopefully they absorb what we're sharing, feel what we're feeling. The trust in our bond, in us as shifters to know what happened tonight, will only strengthen us.

Unless they choose otherwise.

A little huff blows through her nostrils, feathering up the fur around my ear. I twist my head to her, and she raises her brows as if to say if they choose otherwise, we'll just have to educate them . Oh, how I love mate—love how fierce she is. I nuzzle behind her perky ear with my muzzle in blissful contentment, and she returns to cleaning my wounds.