Chapter One
For the hundredth time today, a fist was aimed at my head, rocketing toward me with enough power behind it to knock me into next week. That was, if it hit me, which considering the luck I had today, was entirely likely. Managing to duck the fist coming for my face at the last second, I scrambled to the side before swinging up and returning the favor, landing it in his not-so-soft middle. Honestly, it was like I was bare-knuckle punching a brick wall.
I only got to enjoy the pained “oof” for a second, though, because another fist or a leg or an elbow was coming, and if any of the above hit me, I’d be a mushy stain on the floor. My opponent was much better than me on every level—except for the magic one—but I cared too much about the opinion of his pack to fight dirty. Plus, he had a set of sharp fangs he could use to level the playing field at any moment.
A leg came out of nowhere and swept mine out from under me. I landed on a hip—the pain of the bone meeting mat knocking the breath out of me. But I learned early on that staying still was just about the worst thing I could do. Scrambling so I wasn’t on the receiving end of the haymaker aimed my way, I managed to dodge another fist.
“I swear to the Fates, Marcus, if you let her get a black eye today of all days, I will hurt you in ways you can only dream about.” Barrett’s voice echoed through the gym.
A strangled wheeze made it past my lips which only pissed Barrett off more.
“And not in a good way,” he added, the threat hanging in the air.
Barrett really was the nicest. I should send him a fruit basket or something.
Marcus, Barrett’s mate, periodically took time out of his busy schedule to beat me into something more than the weak, combat-challenged hot mess I’d been for the last four hundred years. And when he thought I actually learned something, he set members of his pack loose on me while he critiqued my technique.
Kinda like right now.
Finnegan Lorenson was a beast of a man, and as his name suggested, practically a Viking. With his white-blond hair, bulging muscles, and can-do attitude, he was one of the larger men I’d fought today. Oh, and by “can-do,” I meant more like a “I’m gonna fuck shit up and eat your entrails for breakfast” attitude. The majority of Marcus’ pack were of the happy, family oriented, inclusive sort. Not all of them were wolves, not all of them were able to shift, but all of them were included, taught, and protected. It was what I would imagine the Weasley’s would be like if they were a pack.
But not Finn.
He didn’t like fighting me. Hell, it would be more accurate to say he was offended to be fighting someone like me. I couldn’t figure out if it was because I was a woman, a witch, or because I was half-demon. Maybe it was all of the above. Either way, it didn’t feel like Finn was sparring—or after that last hit, not anymore.
I ached everywhere, from the tips of my toes all the way up to my scalp, and I was about done with my “no magic” self-inflicted edict. There wasn’t a way on this earth I could beat Finn without a little magical backup.
What happens if you can’t use magic, Maxima? What are you gonna do then? Aidan’s voice ran on an auto-loop in my head every single time I sparred. This used to be his job—teaching me how not to be a weakling—but I’d distanced myself from him over the last six months. I wanted to think it wasn’t me being petty, but since his brother, Ian, kicked me to the curb, it was more than likely.
The rejection still stung, the pain of it fading slowly like the pink of a brand-new scar. It wasn’t going away anytime soon, and the reminder would always be there. I wasn’t the kind of woman he wanted. Those latent wraith traits of his made him need to protect the “little lady” when I was anything but. I didn’t need for him to tell me what to do or how to do it. I didn’t need him to protect me.
All I’d needed was a partner. And that was something he didn’t know how to be.
Honestly, I wasn’t sure I was the right woman for anyone, but damn if it wasn’t lonely.
The musings over my joke of a love life stole my concentration, and I landed on the mat once again, the breath that I so desperately needed whooshing out of me in a single pained gust. But then Finn aimed a kick while I was still down, and I realized I’d had about enough.
Served me right for mentally whining over Ian.
Before his foot could connect, I wheezed out a command in Latin. Subsisto. Snapping my fingers, Finn froze, his foot reared back to strike, malice on his face. No, Finn wasn’t playing at all.
Gingerly, I rolled away from his stationary foot before heaving my body to standing. The world spun for a second, but I managed not to upchuck or pass out. And then I noticed Finn’s foot inching toward completion, my stopping spell barely holding him. No, that just wouldn’t do.
Gathering myself, I decided to give the spell a little more oomph. Instead of snapping my fingers, I whispered my commands on the palms of my hands before stretching my arms wide and then brought my hands together. The clap that echoed through the room not only made Finn stop, it knocked him on his ass, his body sliding across the canvas from the momentum of it.
The pack of wolves on the risers watching Finn and I “spar” snickered like children as their packmate slid across the room like a big, blond hockey puck. I looked up just in time to see Barrett’s face turn an alarming shade of crimson.
“It’s not my fault she was holding back,” Marcus grumbled, not expecting Barrett to hear him.
Barrett and Marcus held seats on the Ethereal Council. Barrett maintained the seat for all the witches in North America, and Marcus for all the shifters. When I first met them, I had no idea they’d already been mated for several centuries. Now that I knew, their bickering made so much more sense. It was even kind of cute.
They wanted me to take the demon seat, but I’d been on the fence about it. Until six months ago, I’d been a Rogue. Putting me in a seat of authority seemed to be a bigger leap than I was ready for.
“It’s your fault if I say it’s your fault,” Barrett scolded his husband. “Spar means light touch to no touch, not tear each other to shreds.”
Wolves could heal a hell of a lot faster than I could, so their definition of “sparring” was more along the lines of fighting for my life. And while I would heal, a black eye would put a cherry on the shit pie I was about to eat.
“Come on, Max. Wipe yourself up off that mat. You’ve got a big day ahead of you.”
Barrett didn’t have to remind me. I knew exactly what was in store for me later tonight. The presentation to the Fates. Only the “p” in presentation was a capital and came with a laundry list of rules and regulations that chafed against me like sandpaper.
I really hated rules. Especially when I had no choice but to obey them.
Groaning, I blew a wayward strand of blue hair from my face. Half my hair was falling out of the messy bun—messy meaning it took me thirty minutes to make that shit look cute—the sweaty tendrils plastered themselves against my neck and the side of my face like I’d glued them there. Which totally explained why Barrett gave me a bitchy tongue-cluck of derision.
“You had to pick a fight today of all days?”
Of course I did. If I was going to walk into a room full of Ethereal upper crust and let them look me over like a slab of beef, then I was getting all my rage out now. Really, it was safer for everyone that way.
“What? You don’t think you can make me presentable in the twelve hours we have to get ready? Some fairy godmother you are.”
Barrett’s lips parted to answer me just as I felt a frisson of magic rake across my skin. I wasn’t supposed to be able to feel magic being spent. I wasn’t supposed to be able to see the motes and hex lines or catch the way each spell’s scent differed from the other. I perceived all parts of magic —how it looked, how it smelled, how it felt. Everything.
The sensation of a wolf jumping to his other form had a very specific composition. It was part moonlight and part the breeze flowing through a thatch of trees. It was wildness and blood and freedom.
And death. Lots and lots of death.
It wasn’t like in the movies where the human side of a wolf would bend and shape into another form, cracking bones and growing hair. No, that was movie magic and a load of crap. Real wolves were two parts of the same soul, fighting for dominance and dominion on which side of the Ethereal coin would fall. Or at least that was how Marcus explained it. Not that it made any sense or explained where the hell the human side went when the wolf appeared in a puff of magic smoke.
But that didn’t matter much right now. All that really mattered was that there was a wolf in the room.
Not that it was technically a problem right this second, and not that it was my job to deal with it if it actually became a problem. Or at least that was what I told myself so I didn’t start some shit in the Alpha’s house. I wasn’t in charge here, and as far as wolf politics went, I knew exactly dick. Yeah, I’d been fighting wolves all day, but that was at the Alpha’s behest.
I knew without looking at Marcus that this phase was not sanctioned, and judging by his growl, it wasn’t welcomed, either. I slid my gaze to Marcus, giving him a little head shake to signal I would handle it on my own. He grinned, likely remembering the time I nearly exploded the high court room with a snap of my fingers.
Turning slowly as to not agitate the apex predator, I surveyed the animal before me. Pure white fur from the tips of his ears to his toes made him seem cuddly at first, the texture soft and plush like a puppy. But letting my guard down even a little would be a huge mistake on my part.
Especially since this particular wolf was closer to three hundred pounds rather than two, and the top of his head probably reached my chin. Not that I’d let him get close enough to measure. Only one of Marcus’ men had hair that color, or eyes that shade of ice. And only one I’d just knocked on his ass.
Finn.
I’d only managed to subdue him with a stasis spell that barely succeeded in holding his human form. Something told me that same spell wouldn’t work so well on his wolf—if it worked at all. My only real hope here was if I didn’t have to fight him in the first place. An evil smile stretched across my lips as it finally came to me.
“And who’s a pretty puppy?” I used the exact same voice I’d use when I came across any old dog.
Denver was super dog friendly. They weren’t allowed in my tattoo shop because of cross-contamination rules—but coffee shops, restaurants, and libraries? Puppers were everywhere. And while I shouldn’t let my guard down for even a millisecond, teasing Finn seemed like the best course of action.
“Look at you all floofy and beautiful. You are a big old ball of gorgeous, aren’t you?”
Hoots and hollers erupted from the risers along with a few belly laughs, signaling my cue to keep going despite Finn’s vibrating growl.
“Now, Finn, are you going to bite my arms off if I pet you? Because that would be rude.”
Finn’s growl got louder as he showed me his teeth—razor-sharp canines dripping saliva.
“Finny-boy, if you don’t play nice, you won’t get a treat,” I said in a singsong voice, breaking away from Marcus and Barrett and slowly circling back into the room in a wide arc.
I wasn’t giving my back to this wolf, and I sure as hell wasn’t letting Barrett take the brunt if Finn decided to charge me. Marcus would kill him for letting his wolf go free, and for some reason that seemed like a waste.
Finn’s claws dug into the mat, ripping the plasticized fabric, yellowish mat innards spilling out around the sharp talons.
I opened my mouth to make another verbal jab, but old Finn wasn’t having it. He charged, coming at me straight-on like a man instead of how a wolf would. Wolves were pack hunters: sneaky, skillful. Finn was all brute strength and zero finesse. He fought like a man in wolf’s clothing rather than ceding to his animal.
He barreled toward me, refusing to heed Marcus’ bellowed shout, ignoring his pack’s yells to stop. But I knew better than to flinch.
Finn was playing chicken. I’d bet on it. Granted, I didn’t want to be munched on by a three-hundred-pound wolf, but since my other option was to be presented like a show pony to the bougie Ethereal upper crust, it was really shit or diarrhea at this point. And while I couldn’t help my galloping heart, or the flash fire of adrenaline racing across my skin, a part of my brain—the one with a little bit of a death wish—only whispered a single word.
Fun.
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