Chapter 1

Sophia Hope

Getting punched in the face is never a fun experience.

I can feel the sharp pain in my left cheekbone as my head swivels back from the force of the blow.

Had I been human, the punch would have shattered the bone entirely. But being a wolf shifter has its perks. I can take a beating without sustaining long-lasting injuries.

The sound of the spectators' frenzied cheers as they lust after the violence taking place in the cage spurs me on. I'm used to these howls and screams for more savagery, more blood. I watch my opponent circle me, trying to read my next move. Sweat is glistening on both our bodies, glaring bruises a testament to how viciously we have fought. My face feels hot under the mask, trails of perspiration dripping down my neck to stain the dark tank top I'm wearing.

As inconvenient as the mask is, it is the only way to hide my identity from the world.

My opponent darts toward me, and I step to the side, my movement fluid. He has left himself vulnerable; I wrap my arm around his elbow, ready to dislocate his shoulder and throw him to the ground, when my eyes land on the man standing at the back of the room, in the shadows. He shakes his head at me, and I sigh internally before loosening my grip. That's all my opponent needs to kick me in the stomach and make me go reeling. My back slams against the steel cage, and my opponent—a nasty piece of work—roars in triumph as the crowd howls at his apparent victory.

Idiot.

Scoffing under my mask, I pretend to be dazed as the fool thumps his chest like a gorilla, letting the fanatic audience pump him up.

I wish I could say arrogance is a human affliction, but I know firsthand that wolf shifters are no different. If I didn't have to drag out this match, I would have knocked this annoying jerk out cold four minutes ago when we started. But I'm supposed to let him rough me up plenty, so that the crowd goes wild—and then, in a fit of rage, I can knock him out and win.

The Wily Vixen is known for her sudden victories, the flares of wrath; that's why she's such a favorite in this illegal, underground cage fighting ring. Whenever I'm scheduled to be in the cage, there's an uptick in ticket sales. And that's why Mathew Rivers sets matches for me two to three times a week. My presence is like sweet honey to the gamblers who wander this way when I'm fighting. I'm almost always a sure bet. Except for the days when I'm told to lose a match.

My eyes flick to the timer above us.

Two more minutes.

I have to drag this out for two more minutes.

Who said match fixing was easy?

Today's opponent, a hulking beast whose nickname is Mountain Man, is not an easy opponent, mostly because he likes to bite. It's a signature move of his. He packs a punch, but he has a tendency to bite his opponents. "Claim them," as he so eloquently puts it.

It's like fighting with an oversized toddler. I'm half tempted to break his teeth in.

While I pretend to use the cage to get to my feet, he turns to look at me, baring those brutish, yellow teeth. My resolve hardens.

I'll shatter them to bits.

He runs toward me with a howl, like an oversized toddler.

Another glance at the timer tells me I've got one minute left. It's my turn now.

I see him gnash his teeth, probably planning to bite me while I, the helpless female, struggle to stand. I wait until he gets close to me and can't stop his own momentum. I spin away, and the crowd jeers and boos as he crashes into the steel cage. Unlike his mask, mine covers my entire face, so nobody sees the grin I'm wearing as I turn around.

I look out over the crowd as I normally do to gauge their reaction. This time, though, a pair of cerulean blue eyes stand out to me. For a heartbeat, I find myself meeting the gaze of a tall man with his hair tied at the base of his neck. He's all the way at the other end of the arena, but even with the distance between us, I can sense that there is something incredibly dangerous about him. My wolf prowls within the cage of my mind, anxious, intrigued.

For a few seconds, I forget how to breathe.

He's staring straight at me. It feels like he's not watching the fight; he's watching me.

Why is my heart beating so fast?

Why can't I tear my gaze away from him?

I don't detect the movement on my right till it's too late. Mountain Man's punch hits me in the stomach, making me groan as I stumble back. I can see him gearing up for a second punch, but I don't give him time. I've been fighting in these cages for five years now; I may have gotten distracted, but that doesn't mean I'm going to let this bully of a man land another blow.

Ten seconds left. One of us must go down.

I move quickly, darting aside and sweeping my leg with such force that my opponent falls flat on his face. As he tries to get up, I jump on his back and slam my foot on the back of his head, pinning it against the concrete. Years of practice have taught me just how much pressure I can apply to make sure he's knocked out and not dead.

He goes limp.

A hush falls over the crowd at this sudden turn of events. Mathew, a round man with a long mustache that can only be described as villainous, enters the cage, grabs my hand, and holds it up in the air. "The Wily Vixen has done it again!"

The underground arena bursts into loud cheers while those who bet against me make frustrated sounds. Mathew meets my gaze, greed and pride glittering in his expression. I look away from him to the spot where the man with the blue eyes was standing. He's gone.

I don't know why I feel so disappointed. Maybe it's just the adrenaline pumping through my blood. Of course that man was staring at me. I was in the middle of a fight. Where else was he supposed to look? The ceiling?

Shaking my head at my temporary lack of functioning brain cells, I say to Mathew, my voice low, "No second round then?"

He's smiling, but his voice is hard. "I told you not to knock him out. We could have gone three more rounds."

"He would have bitten me, and I would've gotten exposed," I mutter. "You know shifters aren't allowed to take part in these things."

He does not reply to that, and as I exit the cage, he begins introducing the next two fighters. The cage has multiple exits: one for each opponent, and one that leads into the back of the massive basement. There are two corridors, both of which are restricted to everyone but employees. The only other way into the back is through the door that opens directly from the audience area; the only ones with the key to it are Mathew and me.

I make my way to my dressing room and lock the door behind me. Leaning against it, I rip off the red fox mask.

I bought it five years ago right before I first took part in a cage fight. I needed to make some money, and cage fighting sounded like an easy way to do that. The fox mask was the first one I saw in the costume shop, and I grabbed it. I never thought it would end up becoming my identity for five whole years.

Tossing the mask on the dressing table, I walk over to the small, attached bathroom and wash up. My face is flushed red from the heat under that stifling mask. The cold water feels good on my skin. I crank up the air conditioning and strip off my tank top to take a survey of my injuries. It's not that I'm immune to pain or wounds; it's just that I can take kicks and punches and not go down as a result of them.

Mountain Man has certainly done a number on my ribs. My skin is all black and blue, and I wince as I gently poke the area.

"This is going to take a day or two at the very least," I mutter.

I put on a loose-fitting, white shirt and a pair of black jeans before sitting on the small stool in front of the dressing table and starting the long process of undoing my hair. The intricate braids along my scalp are always concealed under my mask. My ash-colored hair is long and sleek, which makes it easy to braid. But it is also a key identifying feature of mine. And in a place as small as Oakrest Town, I would surely be recognized, considering I work at the local bar.

I did think of cutting it once, a couple of years ago, but for some reason, I simply couldn't go through with it. After combing my fingers through my hair, I run my brush through the tresses before wrapping it all up in a tight bun on the top of my head.

There is a knock on my door, and my head swivels toward it in alarm. I calm down when I realize it's Mathew on the other side. I hurry over and unlock it. He enters the room and closes the door behind him.

"Here."

He hands me a fat envelope. I make one grand per fight. It might seem like a lot of money, considering I usually take part in two or three fights every week. But the money isn't even a drop in the ocean compared to the amount I actually need.

"Sorry about that." Mathew tucks his hands in his pockets and looks at me. "I forgot that Mountain Man likes to bite his opponents. Anyway, I set a match for you for Wednesday. Same time. I'm going to make sure the back entrance is clear so you can leave from there."

"Thanks." I tuck the envelope into the small backpack on the couch.

"Is it just me or did you lose concentration for a minute there during the match?" Mathew's brown eyes are pinned on mine.

"I did," I admit, ashamed. "I don't know what happened. But that was all the time Mountain Man needed to sucker punch me. I'll be more careful next time."

The older man sighs. "You should be, Sophia. Even if you are a wolf shifter, it doesn't mean you can't get badly hurt."

I feel flustered. "I didn't mean to worry you."

Mathew has looked out for me for years. With his graying hair, kind brown eyes, and rounded belly, he has a grandfatherly look to him. Nobody would ever think that he's running a successful cage fighting ring right under his boxing gym, or that he's been fixing matches for years with my help. What he's doing is wrong and illegal, but I learned very early on that life isn't fair or kind to the innocent. Those who hold power thrive. Those who hold power also abuse it.

My beliefs are set. I haven't taken up a life of crime by any means, but I know that sitting on my hands and simply existing in this town—as I was ordered to nine years ago—will never help me escape the hell that is the wolf pack I was born into. To get my freedom, I'm willing to do anything. That's why it was so easy to accept Mathew's offer to make money cage fighting.

Mathew turns around to leave, but before he does, he looks over his shoulder at me and says, "I got some takeout for you. Steak and meatballs. I know your opponent did a number on you, even if you don't want to admit it. You need to heal; the meat will help."

The idea of food, especially meat, has me cheering up. "Thanks, Mathew."

He just smiles at me before disappearing into the hallway. I lock the door again and return to gathering up my things.

My bag packed, I put on a long hoodie and sit down at the dressing table, playing with the mask in my hand and feeling tired. Glancing up, I study my reflection, my eyes taking in the bruise blooming on my cheek. I don't know who I inherited these features from. I don't know if it was my father or my mother who had these piercing gray eyes, or whether my parents also had hair the color of ash. I know nothing about myself.

There was a time when my lack of identity bothered me. All I know is that my mother died during childbirth. I once asked Alpha Black for a picture of her. His response was harsh as he glared down at the six-year-old girl requesting nothing more than a memory of her mother. He told me I didn't need a picture of a whore. I never asked him again, but now, as I look at myself in the mirror, I wonder about his words. Was my mother truly a whore?

The Director of the orphanage I grew up in never answered my questions, either. When I persisted, as a child desperate to know where I came from, the response she gave me was equally cruel. She labeled me a murderer. She told me that I had killed my own mother by being born.

That broke my heart. And part of me realized that the more questions I asked, the more horrifying the answers would be.

So, I stopped asking questions.

But ever since I came to this town, ever since I was exiled here, I find myself thinking about my parents. Would my life have turned out differently if they were still alive?

A bitter laugh spills out of my mouth, and I get to my feet. Why am I thinking about all this? I'm so close to my goal. Maybe in another year or two, I will finally be free. I may not be able to buy my freedom directly from the Red Rock Wolf Pack, but I can pay the South Alliance a certain fee to be free from them. It's been done before. Wolf shifters cannot just walk away from their packs. Either they are expelled from the pack or they have to buy their freedom—from the pack or from the Alliance the pack belongs to.

I cannot see Robert Black, the Alpha of the Red Rock Wolf Pack, giving me my freedom. But if I go directly to the Alliance leader, even Alpha Black can't refuse his order.

Letting out a shuddering breath, I get to my feet and stuff my mask into the front pocket of the hoodie. I grab my belongings and lock the door of my dressing room as I head out. Like Mathew promised, there's a large takeout bag on the table in the kitchen. I open it and sniff its contents before smiling gleefully. Sure, Mathew and I have a transactional relationship—I fix his matches for him, and he makes a ton of money off of me—but he's always looking out for me, as well.

After taking out one of the meat rolls, I stuff the remaining food inside my backpack and zip it up. I have just taken a bite of the roll and am about to turn around and leave when I hear loud, thudding footsteps. Alarm fills me. Nobody is supposed to be back here when I'm on my way out; it's the only way to hide my identity. Mathew always makes sure the back entrance is clear when it's time for me to leave.

"Fee fi fo fum, I smell the blood of a bitch."

I recognize the voice as belonging to Mountain Man, my opponent tonight. Annoyed, I curse silently under my breath. Who let that idiot back here? He's coming this way, and he clearly knows I'm here.

Shoving the meat roll inside my pocket, I grab my mask and pull it over my head before I turn it around…just in time to be grabbed by the front of my sweatshirt and shoved against the refrigerator.

The man before me has the kind of face only a mother could love. He is bald, with ugly scars and a nose that was never set properly after being broken one too many times. He's not wearing his mask, but it doesn't matter; I already know the true identity of Mountain Man.

Roger Clark.

I've seen him around. He's staying at the motel across the street from the Dancing Bear, the bar where I work. The man likes his drink. He also likes to harass the female staff. Even with his mask on, I always knew who he was. A man that size isn't easily confused with any other.

There is a large bruise on his forehead, and I feel a surge of satisfaction that I'm the one who put it there.

"Did you really think you could humiliate me and get away with it?" Roger spits. "Do you know who I am? It's about time someone put a bitch like you in her place."

I hear the fabric of my hoodie tear as he uses both hands, and fury fills me. Without hesitation, I knee him in the balls. However, he doesn't so much as flinch, and I belatedly realize that my knee came into contact with something solid.

A grotesque smile forms upon his face. "Do you think you're the first woman to try that trick? All you women are the same. You think if you go for a man's junk, you can incapacitate him. Unfortunately for you, I'm always a step ahead. I wear a metal cup to stop bitches like you from attempting to go for a man's weakness."

He wears a what?

I stare at him.

If he has a metal cup covering his dick, how does he…?

My mind is wandering in all the wrong directions when I should be focusing on the problem before me. This asshole has torn my hoodie, and his hands are now going for my shirt.

I shove him using all my strength, and he slams into the table.

"You know what?" Rage contorts his expression. "I think I want to see your face when I fuck some sense into you."

He charges toward me, his hand reaching for my mask. His words hit me, his intention clear now.

He intends to rape me.

A different emotion takes hold of me. My body moves on its own, and I elbow him in the neck, causing him to stumble backward. Fear is a bitter taste in my mouth.

He thinks he can violate me? I'm going to kill him.

Roger is far from done. He rushes at me again, excitement glittering in his eyes. "Yes! I love it when they fight back! I'm going to teach you a lesson or two. Women belong in the kitchen. They are below men. Inferior. You think just because you managed to land a punch, it makes you better than me? By the time I'm done with you, you'll know who your master is. I'll tear out your fucking insides!"

My body goes cold at his words. The image I'm seeing is flipping between this huge man charging at me and seven teenage boys surrounding me. It is the same sick fear that consumed me when I was sixteen. But not the same helplessness.

I'm not a little girl anymore. I know how to defend myself.

My wolf may be defective—a broken, twisted creature that has never seen the light of day—but I can feel its rage within me. I wait for Roger's fingers to graze the edge of my mask, and as soon as they do, I grab them in my fist and twist them backward. His scream is high-pitched, and I use his distracted state of mind to kick him in the stomach. Next, my fist lands against his nose, breaking it in a shower of blood. He falls back against the table one more time, clutching his broken nose with his good hand and cradling the hand with his injured fingers against his chest.

"You fucking freak! I'm gonna kill you! I was about to go easy on you, but now I'm going to rip out your—"

I don't give him the time to finish his threat. My foot locks against his ankle and yanks. As he goes down, I grab a knife from the block on the kitchen counter. My body is on autopilot.

He's a threat.

That's all I can think of.

Get rid of him. He's a danger to me.

Fear fills those beady eyes of his, and he manages to whack the knife out of my hand.

Fool.

I bare my claws, ready to strip his face off.

But before I can do any such damage, a strong hand grabs my wrist, stopping its descent. I look over my shoulder, my other hand raised to attack the person who has stopped me. But he fends off my attack easily, and I barely manage to land a good scratch on his wrist.

"Enough."

The low, raspy voice and the scent of his blood start to dissipate the red haze clouding my vision.

It's the man who was watching me during the fight, the one with the blue eyes who made me lose focus.

I try to pull my hands away from him, but his grip is like iron.

"You're going to kill him," he warns me, his tone deep and rough, almost a growl.

His strength is greater than mine, and when I look into his eyes, the feral edge to his gaze makes me fearful. He's a wolf shifter. There's no denying it. A human wouldn't have this kind of strength. And if that weren't enough, the scent of his blood oozing from the scratch I gave him is a dead giveaway.

I can't pull away from him using force alone, so I try another tactic. I yank my arms down as I cross them, which causes him to lose his grip. Without a second thought, I jump free of him.

"Wait!" he calls, but I grab my bag and run out the door.

I expect him to give chase, but he doesn't.

I've gotten just a few feet away when I catch two different scents. They're on either side of me, as if zeroing in on my location. I think fast.

If I keep running straight ahead, they're going to give chase and might catch me. They'll expect me to do that, and if this is a preplanned attack on me, there might be others waiting in the forest. The only alternative I can see is up .

There are plenty of trees in Oakrest's forest. The boxing gym has a training track in these woods for those who claim to be serious athletes, and Mathew leads tourist hiking groups through here. Securing my backpack, I quickly leap onto the closest branch and then propel myself off of it to jump to another tree with denser foliage. Using the leaves to camouflage myself, I realize I have no choice but to stay here till they're gone.

A few minutes later, two large wolves burst out of the forest and look around.

They sniff the ground, and I hold my breath, knowing that even the faintest sound will give me away.

They glance at each other and then in the direction of the boxing gym. The man who stopped me from maiming Roger steps out of the building. "Anything?"

The two wolves shift into their human forms, and I see that they're wearing casual outfits. With witch magic on nearly every shifter clothing store out there, my kind no longer has to worry about destroying their clothes with each shift.

I study the two men. I don't recognize them. They're not from here.

"She escaped. Sorry, boss."

The younger of the two steps forward. "Did you see her?"

The blue-eyed shifter nods. "I think it could be her, but I can't say for sure."

His companions exchange a look. "So, what now?"

Their leader purses his lips. "We do know one thing. There is indeed a wolf shifter taking part in these illegal cage fights."

My stomach sinks.

This isn't good.

This isn't good at all.