Mitch pressed in behind me. I swung my elbow up before he completely overpowered me, connecting with his jaw. He swore, but didn’t move. Instead, his hand wound around my neck and he mashed my face into the mat like he was putting out a cigarette. “How does that feel?” he growled. “Looks like you’re down now.”
With every ounce of strength I had, I forced my head up, arching my neck and shoulders. I managed to gain a little space between me and the mat. His hand was like iron, unforgiving and hard, but I was leaking fluids. I used the slipperiness to my advantage, and in the small space I’d won, I twisted my body to the side in his grasp, but just barely. I brought my leg up and pressed it into his shoulder, and with gargantuan effort, pushed him back less than an inch.
It was all I needed.
“You’re not getting away,” Mitch snarled. “I’ve waited to do this for too many years. I’m not letting you bring our race down, Daughter of Cain. It’s time for you to go back to your Maker.” He grabbed a fistful of my hair, which had come loose from its bindings, and yanked. My head wrenched to the side at an impossible angle—vanity payback for keeping my hair long when I should’ve cut it “No help is coming for you now, Jessica, so it looks like I win.”
“And,” I gurgled out of my distorted throat, “it looks like you have…my heel”—I smashed the back of my perfectly positioned foot into his face as hard as I could—“in your f**king eye.”
A satisfying crack sounded and Mitch sprang back, staggering away from me, cupping the wound, blood flowing freely between his fingers. “Goddammit!”
I gulped in a few breaths, compensating for the lost oxygen. Sticky blood streamed down my back in hot rivulets, but I couldn’t let it distract me. I had to find a way to erase it from my mind—and taunting Mitch sounded like the best place to start. “What’s the matter? Did that hurt?”
Mitch snarled fiercely.
I scuttled back out of his reach. Even though I’d likely shattered both his frontal and maxillary bones, it would take him only a few moments to recover. Stupid werewolf healing. And even though he was a wolf, he still felt pain, which always worked in my favor.
After a moment, Mitch dropped his hand, fury roiling across his features in churning waves of hate. Blood coated his face, red leaking slowly out of the still-healing wound, dripping onto his formerly white T-shirt, making it look like a horror-soaked tie-dye. As I watched, the fractured bones began to set themselves in real time. It was completely unnerving, even though I’d seen live-action healing many times before. It was straight out of a sci-fi movie on the FX Channel—only this was the real thing. Mitchy was going to be good as new in less than a minute.
A low-level growl sounded from outside the ring as Josh nudged himself closer to the ropes, his agitation clear, his eyes sparking more than a little yellow. Shit. Betas, overall, had never given me as much trouble as alpha-born wolves, but they were still stronger than I was. If the fight moved along at a quick pace, Josh should keep to himself. Instinct would demand he let his superior-status brother, and Pack mate, have the kill. If Mitch went down, Josh could feasibly jump in. But fighting two wolves was not on the agenda tonight, so I had to make sure that didn’t happen. Lucky for me, Mitch was ready to play again.
“You’re about to hurt.” A slow smile crept over Mitch’s bloodied lips. He dove for me, his sharp nails latching on to my arms before I could get clear, and with one fierce tug I was airborne. I spun, crashing into the corner headfirst. I fell into the mat, a long gash above my hairline, fresh blood rushing into my eyes. I’d lost my advantage—or rather my perceived advantage—and had to think fast.
I dug deep into my arsenal of survival skills while I was down, my brain flipping at warp speed through tactics. There was only one real option left, so I stilled my breath completely, relaxed all my muscles, and lolled my head to the side.
I played dead.
Wolves could scent a lie. They could hear your heart beating in your chest. Mitch would know I wasn’t completely dead, but hopefully—especially since he was fueled by a hefty dose of male arrogance—he would assume I was well on my way. Fortunately for me, the bias all macho wolves shared was: Females were weak. It should work in my favor. Killing me in cold blood should be next to impossible for him, his instinct demanding a chase and a fight, though he was so riled at this point I couldn’t exactly rule it out. But I had no choice. I needed more time.
“Get up,” Mitch spat. The floor bounced as he stalked toward me. “I know you’re not dead. Stop playing with me. I’ve had enough of your bullshit to last me multiple lifetimes.”
I didn’t move. My heartbeat slowed considerably with each breath.
“I said get up.” He kicked me in the side. Hard.
Air whooshed out of my lungs, but my eyelids didn’t waver. My body rolled like a rag doll. I knew I’d have only a millisecond to react once I decided to make a move, and I had to time it just right.
“I mean it.” Mitch pressed his heel into my abdomen and jerked my body. “Get the hell up and—”
I sprang, wrapping one arm tightly around the foot prodding me, using it as a pendulum to swing myself around, bringing the palm of my other hand forward as hard as I could straight into his kneecap. Several small bones in my hand snapped on contact, but there was a satisfying crunch as Mitch’s patella shattered under the force of the blow. He went down on his injured knee with a yowl. I used my other hand, the unbroken one, to grab his other ankle. I jumped up and dropped my weight onto it until I heard another snap. “This up enough for you?” I panted as I staggered back a few steps, trying to find my equilibrium. My head rang as I impatiently swiped at the blood still leaking down my face.
He would heal quickly again, but if I was lucky, I’d get a minute or two before the next round.
Mitch snarled, clasping on to my leg in the next breath.
I’d stayed too damn close. He whipped his arm out and I landed flat on my back, the pain of my wounds blinding me as I hit the mat. His nails embedded deeply in my flesh. He pulled me closer, ripping my skin as he went. He wasn’t letting his prey go this time. “I don’t care if they kill me for this. It’s worth it,” he spat. “I will die knowing I put an end to you.”
“That doesn’t sound good to me. How about I kill you instead?” I arched myself up, bending at the waist and twisting my fist like a sledgehammer, pounding it into his trachea.
Mitch sputtered, but didn’t let go. Rage fueled him, which was so not in my favor. Instead, he rolled on me from the side, crushing the air from my lungs, his ankle and knee already fully healed. Without letting up, he sank his teeth into my thigh. Pain exploded behind my eyelids. “You are not…going to…win.” He lifted his head, blood dripping from his teeth, his voice ragged through his injured windpipe. “I’m a f**king wolf…and you’re nothing.”
The pain in my leg blinded me to almost everything else. It burned like a terrible, hissing fire, threatening to derail me. For the first time since I’d entered the ring, a twinge of regret raced through me. I wasn’t a wolf. I wasn’t as strong as a wolf. And I’d never engaged one on this level. It was foolhardy in every way, but dammit, I had to change things. I had no other choice. No wolf had ever challenged me, because if they had, my father would’ve killed them. Before today, it had kept the balance on the Compound in check. Fighting Mitch in the arena was a defiant move—a move to mark myself, to prove to Pack I was ready to defend myself and stop living in the shadows. It hadn’t taken much to convince Mitch to come here, his fear and anger clouding his judgment—if he’d had any to start with. But if I died at Mitch’s hands right now, then it would defeat everything I was trying to achieve, and all would be for nothing.
Pack would win and I would be gone.
I couldn’t let that happen.
I wriggled one of my arms out from under him and grabbed the thing closest to me, which was a wad of his blond locks, twisting them around my fist once for good measure. I yanked as hard as I could, wrenching his head away from me. Vanity’s clearly a bitch for any sex.