The startling comment stole away any immediate response. Jillian stared, confused. Why shouldn’t she bear witness to the fight that would decide her future husband? “I’ve seen you fight before.”
“Not like this.” A new grief stole into his eyes. “This is going to be scary and brutal and cruel. I’ll be skin but I have to become my beast.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you to see me be cruel, Jillian.”
She stepped as close as she dared, wanting to touch him. To hug him and show him he wasn’t alone, no matter what happened at dawn. “Nothing you do tomorrow will change the way I look at you, Bishop McQueen. Nothing.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Yes, I can.”
“How?”
She placed a palm over her heart. “Because I see you with this. With every day that passes, I see you more clearly.”
He swallowed hard. “I see you, too.”
Something warm and wonderful and a lot like love filled her heart—all for this man. A man still hurting so terribly he probably didn’t remember how to feel joy. “I see you, Bishop. I see you being so strong for everyone else that you haven’t even grieved for your father.”
Bishop backed up a single, long step, his handsome face going blank. “I held his hand while he died. I’ve grieved.”
“That night in your office, you held me while I fell apart. You didn’t shed a single tear.”
“I was comforting you.”
“Have you cried?”
“I’ve grieved. There’s a difference.” Behind his attempt at calm, anger was rising. She knew him well enough to see it.
“You’re keeping it all inside. Why?”
“Because I need it.” He stalked a good dozen feet away, then pivoted, hands splayed. “I need it, okay? I need the anger and the hate.” His pain flirted with the anger, creating a terrible mask. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
He was battling her, trying to make her back down.
He should have known better than to issue such a challenge.
“Why do you need the anger and hate?” she asked. “All it does is sink in deep and turn your soul black. Is that what you want?”
“I want to win tomorrow!” He exhaled hard, nostrils flaring.
Her heart ached for her mate. He was so upside down with his emotions he couldn’t see that the thing he wanted to fuel him was only going to hurt him in the end. She had to make him see it, too. “You told me once that you taught Rook and Knight how to fight, right?”
The offside question seemed to throw him. “Yes, I did.”
“What did you teach them about attacking in anger?”
“That it was foolish and it could get you killed. Anger clouds your judgment.” He narrowed his eyes. “This is different.”
“No, it’s not. If you go after Colin tomorrow out of anger and spite, you’ll lose. You’re better than that.”
His lips curled back in a sneer. “I thought you had faith in my ability to win.”
“I do, when you’re clearheaded and thinking straight. You need every advantage, and anger isn’t one of them no matter what you think right now.”
“This from a hand-to-hand combat expert?”
She ignored the sarcasm, not allowing him to bait her into anger. “I learned how to fight, too, and I was taught to use my head and my gut. Neither of those things can be clouded with hate.”
“I don’t hate Colin.”
“Maybe not, but you have to kill him and you know it. You can’t kill Fiona because Knight did. You can’t kill Victoria because your father did. You can’t kill the other two hybrids because we haven’t found them yet. Don’t put yourself into a position to take your pain out on Colin, or you will lose. Maybe you won’t lose the battle, Bishop, but you’ll lose yourself. You may be alive, but we’ll all have lost you.”
She saw the moment he accepted her words as truth. Something inside of him snapped and he sank to his knees, shoulders shaking. She knelt behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest. Pressed her forehead against the back of his neck. He trembled, chest seizing, and then he let go.
Jillian had cried the last of her tears, so she fed Bishop all of the strength she had while he wept in her arms.
A small part of Bishop wanted to resent Jillian for pushing him into letting go of the grief and rage he’d collected over the last few days. The rest of him was grateful. Grateful that she cared and grateful that she had persisted. He’d slept soundly for three hours and awoken feeling more alert than he had all week long. Everything had settled into place, thanks to her.
The morning sky was still dark, but the house was a hub of activity already, most of it downstairs. He didn’t bother showering or shaving. Those things didn’t matter today. He chose his best-fitting jeans—loose in the legs and tight at the waist—for movement, and he cut off the pockets and belt loops. No sense in giving Colin too many handholds. With that went a basic black t-shirt that hugged his chest and arms. His hair was fairly short, but thick, so he escaped to the bathroom and used the electric shaver to cut his hair into something like a military high and tight. It looked strange, but it would serve him better this morning.
He followed the scent of pancakes, ham, and coffee into the dining room, which was already full of guests and residents chowing down on Mrs. Troost’s breakfast spread. No one was speaking, except to offer greetings, and Bishop had no desire to break the silence. He nodded at Rook and Brynn, noting Jillian hadn’t come down yet.
Colin stood off to the side, sipping from a coffee mug. The blond loup looked terrified, and he was doing a poor job of hiding it. Bishop knocked back any sympathy that tried to escape. For the next few hours, Colin was the enemy. Period.
Bishop took a single pancake and slice of ham, wanting the fuel but unwilling to risk an upset stomach. He scarfed down the food, then followed it with a big glass of water.
Jillian joined them a little after six a.m., dressed in her familiar outfit of jeans and a t-shirt. The spectators of the challenge had no dress code that he was aware of, even though the three Alphas all wore suits. Weatherly had on his navy blue, just like Brynn’s vision.
The sun rose around six-thirty in early September, give or take a few minutes. At six-fifteen, Alpha Montgomery stood from the table and said, “We should go.”
Three simple words began a procession of people toward the front door in no real order. The three Alphas led the way. Mrs. Troost waited by the front door, her lined face further creased with worry. Bishop paused to hug her, grateful for the woman who’d looked after his family for more than twenty years.
“You fight like your daddy taught you,” she whispered. “You take the role you were born to have.”
“Thank you.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you at lunch.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Devlin, Luke, and Tanner joined them on the street, falling into line. They’d worked out a patrol schedule that kept constant watch on the town’s borders. With the bulk of the population focused on the fight, it would be the perfect time for a sneak attack by their enemies, and Bishop wasn’t taking any chances.
All around them, Cornerstone was coming awake under the slowly lightening sky. Bishop took in every building, every tree and familiar face as he walked, finding strength and comfort in his surroundings. A crowd had already gathered on the Chesterfield property, surrounding the barn. They parted to allow their processional to enter the old building. Both sets of doors and the old hayloft door had been thrown open to allow in light.
Alpha Weatherly shooed Rook, Brynn, Jillian, Luke, Tanner, and Devlin into one corner of the barn where a few old stalls still stood. Dr. Mike joined them a moment later, his mobile kit in his hands. Shay and Knight were the only faces Bishop regretted not seeing there.
Bishop joined Colin in the center of the barn floor. Colin’s jaw was set, his eyes narrowed, but Bishop saw the fear. Bishop didn’t want to die today; he didn’t fear it, either. He only feared for his town if he failed.
“Colin Corman of Rockpoint has come today to challenge Bishop McQueen for position of Alpha of the Cornerstone run,” Weatherly said, his deep voice booming off the rafters. “A challenge to the death via hand-to-hand combat has been issued and accepted. Are both participants prepared to begin?”
“Yes, Alpha,” Bishop said, his own voice strong and clear.
Colin swallowed. “Yes, Alpha.”
“At my word, then.”
The Alphas joined the other onlookers. Bishop ignored them. He shut out the curious faces watching from the doors, the cracks in the walls, anyplace they could get a visual. Nothing mattered except the man in front of him who’d dared to try and take his run away.
His beast roared, eager for the fight to begin. Eager to claim what was rightfully his.
“Begin!”
***
Jillian’s heart slammed into her ribs with the force of Weatherly’s shout. She planted her feet firmly on the ground, arms straight by her sides, forcing herself to stay still when every part of her wanted to race forward and defend her mate.
Bishop backed away from Colin, walking a slow circle around the other man, who watched with clenched fists. Neither attacked yet. Tension blanketed the barn, thicker and heavier with each passing second. Bishop was using his head, making his enemy come at him. Strike the first blow. Make the first mistake.
No one watching spoke. No one moved except to breathe.
Colin lurched forward and threw the first punch, a right-handed jab that Bishop avoided with ease. He used Colin’s unbalanced position to deliver two solid punches to Colin’s gut, then a third to the face that sent Colin staggering backward. Colin recovered fast with a hard kick that connected with Bishop’s stomach. He grunted and backpedaled.
Jillian growled softly, hating Colin for hurting her mate, proud of Bishop for facing this challenge. Angry at herself for not being able to help him. Beside her, Rook was coiled tight, probably feeling similar things over his inability to defend his brother.
Bishop darted in for a quick jab at Colin, who avoided the blow. Colin lashed out, his punch knocking Bishop sideways. Bishop rolled with it, his expression oddly blank—and then it hit Jillian. Bishop was testing Colin’s fighting style, studying his opponent, while Colin was simply battling.
Colin was also impatient. He snarled as he charged, his shoulder catching Bishop in the stomach, and the pair tumbled to the hard-packed earth. The hard thump of fists on flesh filled Jillian’s ears, accompanied by grunts and growls. Finesse was lost as they rolled and hit. Colin seemed determined to keep Bishop on his back, but Bishop wasn’t having it. He tossed Colin twice, only to be knocked over again with random punches and kicks. Colin was fighting dirty, not smart.
Bishop tossed Colin a third time, and Colin rolled up onto his knees, blood streaming from his nose and a cut on his chin. Bishop’s lower lip was bleeding, and he had a cut below his left eye. Jillian’s temper roared at the sight of that blood.
“You came here to challenge me,” Bishop said. “Give me a challenge!”
Colin growled. He charged. Bishop anticipated the collision, sidestepped, and used Colin’s momentum to send him headfirst into a support beam. Colin tumbled to the ground. Bishop reached for him. Colin lashed out with his leg, foot slamming into Bishop’s knee. Bishop shouted as he fell on his hip. Colin delivered a second kick to his face, knocking Bishop flat on his back.
The action paused for a fraction of time, and then both men scrambled to their feet. Colin got up a hair faster, kneed Bishop in the gut twice. Hard.
Jillian’s stomach ached.
Colin wrapped one hand around Bishop’s left wrist, the other around the elbow, then drove Bishop’s left arm against the support post. The bone snap was horrifically clear, as was Bishop’s sharp yelp. Bishop smashed his forehead into Colin’s nose. Another snap. Colin let go and stumbled backward, more blood pouring from an obviously broken nose. Bishop leaned against the post, left arm hugged close to his chest.
“Fucker,” Rook said, low and harsh.
Jillian grunted her agreement. She dared to glance from the fight, down to Brynn, who was watching the action with tears in her eyes.
A threshold had been crossed as the tension in the barn melted into desperation. Both men were wounded, but neither was close to being finished.
***
Agony radiated from Bishop’s hand up into his shoulder. The re-break had been a good move on Colin’s part—not that Bishop planned on congratulating him. Colin had strength, but not a lot of practical battle training. Not the kind Bishop had immersed himself in from his childhood. So he waited for Colin to reengage, using the support post as leverage, hoping to appear more hurt than he was. Pain could be dealt with later. Right now he needed Colin defeated.
Colin wiped blood from his face, breathing hard through his mouth. He circled widely, studying. Thinking. Bishop forced a pained flinch that Colin noticed. He came in swinging. Bishop ducked at the last second, then tucked into a roll. He didn’t miss the thump or the shout as Colin punched the beam. Bishop came up on his knees and cradled his throbbing arm with his free hand. He pushed up, driving his shoulder into Colin’s stomach, sending the pair of them tumbling.
A knee to the gut drove the air from Bishop’s lungs, and for a split second he lost control of his balance. Colin hit him again, then flipped him onto his back hard enough to crack his skull off the ground. The pain in his arm shot through his shoulder and his head, blurring his vision. Colin took advantage, landing blow after blow to his abdomen, making it impossible to breathe. His chest seized, desperate for air. For relief from Colin’s relentless, mindless attack.
His beast roared, furious at his inability to defend himself. At his skin’s weakness.
Colin’s next blow smashed into his broken arm, and Bishop screamed—in agony and in anger. Air rushed into his lungs. His blood surged with bitter fury.
Somewhere beyond, Jillian growled long and loud. His mate.
His.
He waited for Colin to lean backward, preparing another hit. With everything in him, Bishop rolled his hips up, legs straining, and in a move he’d only ever managed in sparring practice, locked his ankles across Colin’s throat. Bishop used the momentum to drive Colin backward, off of him, sitting up at the same time like the opposite end of a seesaw. Colin’s head slammed into the ground. Bishop drove his boot into Colin’s throat. Colin went limp, and Bishop used the momentary respite to scramble away from Colin.
The room tilted. Bishop’s ribs and stomach ached. Agony lanced through his arm and sparked at the back of his head. Something warm trickled down his neck from the area. Head wound.
Colin coughed and gagged, unable to breathe through his nose, his throat now spasming from the kick. He curled onto his side, face flushed, sweaty. Bishop struggled to stand, dizzy and unsteady. He could finish this. Finish it and win.
He delivered a swift kick to Colin’s abdomen. Colin croaked out a pained noise. Bishop rolled Colin onto his stomach, pressed one knee into the small of Colin’s back, the other knee on the ground. He looped his right arm around Colin’s throat and raised his head. Colin sputtered and gasped, the position doing nothing for his inability to breathe. Bishop could apply a bit more pressure. Choke him to death.
A horrible way to die for anyone. And he didn’t want to kill Colin. He never had. He’d only ever wanted to defeat him.
His beast snarled and leapt, eager for the death blow.
Bishop ignored that instinct, and instead he reached for mercy. “Do you yield to me, Colin?” he asked, loud enough for everyone to hear him. “Do you yield this challenge?”
Colin didn’t answer. He also didn’t struggle. It occurred to Bishop that Colin knew he’d lost, and that death was better than returning to Rockpoint in defeated shame—an act that may lose him his tail anyway. No one deserved that.
“Yield and you can stay as an ally.” Bishop whispered the promise into Colin’s ear. “You have my word.”
Colin choked, and Bishop released a bit of pressure on his windpipe. “Yield.”
A body moved in his peripheral vision. Weatherly stood in front of them, then squatted down, his broad face scrunched. Confused. “Colin Corman, if you yield this challenge, you cannot challenge him again. The matter is decided, and Bishop McQueen will be declared winner.”
“I yield.”
Weatherly stood up. “The challenge is yielded by Colin. Bishop is the challenge winner.”
The cheers were lost to Bishop. He let go of Colin and fell sideways onto his ass, exhausted and sore and in desperate need of sleep. The fall jolted his arm. Colorful lights danced in his eyes. Jillian’s face filled his fading vision, and he fought a losing battle against passing out.
***
In the moment that Colin gasped out, “I yield,” Jillian was filled to bursting with pride over Bishop’s win. The pride was quickly chased away by concern at his collapse. She cradled his head in her lap, blood smearing her jeans, while he struggled to stay conscious.
“That arm will need to be reset,” Dr. Mike said. He rucked Bishop’s t-shirt up his chest, then ran his hands over the bruising skin. “Don’t think any ribs are broken, but they’ll be sore as hell for a while.”
“What about his head?” Rook asked. He had knelt opposite Dr. Mike, with Brynn hovering just behind him, her face white.
“I’ll do an x-ray when we get him back to the house, check for a fracture.”
Jillian’s gut churned. She carefully stroked his cheek. “You did good,” she whispered. “How’s Colin?” She couldn’t see him for the bodies between them, Luke and Tanner among them.
“Breathing,” Alpha Weatherly said. “Battered, but he’ll live.”
“Devlin,” Rook said, “have someone come around with a pickup so we can get Bishop and Colin over to Dr. Mike’s.”
“On it,” Devlin said from somewhere behind her.
The roar of voices around and in the barn was irritating. Jillian wanted to scream at them all to shut the hell up so she could talk to Bishop. To tell him how proud she was of him and how valiantly he’d fought. To harangue him for nearly making her heart stop several times during the battle.
“My arm,” Bishop said.
“It’s broken again,” Jillian said.