Page 21 of Reformed Wolf

Merlin went down on his knees with a burbling gasp, hands to his throat in a futile attempt to staunch the flow.

“No!” Dylan choked out, his voice ragged with disbelief.

The tiger shifter kicked Merlin’s chest and shoved him to the ground. Then, as he stood over the man bleeding out on the mat, he pressed his foot under his chin, forcing his head back to keep the wound from healing.

Dylan let go of my hand and rushed forward. “Please!” he yelled, slapping the cage. “Azar, I said please! Stop!”

But Azar just sneered. “This is how we know the match is won.”

Not far from us, another man was shouting. A hyena shifter wearing an expensive suit, sweat slicking his forehead, eyes lit with panic. Merlin’s dad. “Do something! Joe, stop him! Stop the fight!” he begged, looking to Dylan’s father where he surveyed from his stage.

Mr. Caruso just stared with an impossible-to-read expression. “You knew the risk, Avi.”

“No, NO!” he roared, running for the gate. He pulled at the padlock, tendons straining at the pressure he exerted, even managing to bend the metal before the guards pulled him off and forced him to his knees.

The noise from the crowd dropped low, until all that could be heard was Merlin’s final gurling gasps and his father’s desperate sobs. Merlin Cant was dead.

“N-no,” Avi stuttered. Then louder, his eyes flaring. “No! This is all your fault!” He stood and reached inside his jacket, pulling out a gun.

I acted without thinking. As Avi swiveled and aimed his gun at Mr. Caruso, I brought my arm up in an arc, knocking his arm, and the gun, high. With an ear-splitting bang and flash of light, the gun erupted, the bullet punching into the ceiling over Mr. Caruso’s head. He ducked as plaster rained down, but there was no need. Three guards tackled him, taking him down to the floor. One of them produced zip ties from the inside pocket of his jacket, and with quick movements, Merlin’s father was restrained at wrists and ankles.

“I will kill you, Joe!” he vowed as he was dragged out. “You’re fucking dead!”

As a stunned silence blanketed the room, Joe Caruso stood and casually brushed off his suit as if shit like this happened all the time. “Well, this evening certainly ended with a bang,” he said, seemingly unruffled and looking to turn the assassination attempt into a joke. He stepped down from the stage and headed through the hushed crowd to stand in front of me.

“That was quick work, Mr. Tate. You may have saved my life,” he admitted grudgingly, narrowing his eyes at me. It was hard for him to deny it in front of all these people, though he must’ve been tempted to try. “I suppose I’d better invite you to stay for dinner.”

I felt Dylan relax in relief, the scent of his hormones sweetening. I would do anything to spend more time in his presence, even subject myself to dinner with my future father-in-law. It seemed awfully late for a meal, but I found myself saying, “Sounds swell, thanks.” Besides, all I’d eaten today was cold pizza.

Grabbing my t-shirt off the ground, I followed behind him, Dylan’s hand back in mine. We passed Azar, reeking of blood rage. His chest was heaving, drool dripping from his chin. Tomorrow, I would find myself locked in the cage with that monster, and I had no idea if I would make it out alive. So, I decided I’d better make the most of today.

I blew Azar a kiss and headed upstairs with my mate.

Chapter 10

Dylan

I’d always resented living in my father’s house. It was lavish and impersonal. Now, though, with my mate within its walls, I found I had a whole new appreciation for it. His scent would forever linger in these hallways, the air he breathed seeping into the carpets and draperies. Now I would always get to keep a piece of him here with me—even in the worst-case scenario, that I wouldn’t get to keep all of him for myself. With his hand in mine, he felt so real, so solid, like being apart was an impossibility.

My father strode ahead at a quick pace, shoulders back. “Cilla, please add a place setting to the table. We have a guest this evening,” my father said to the simpering young woman in an all-black uniform, standing in the hall with her head bowed. Without a word, she dropped a curtsy and scurried back to the kitchen to let them know.

Cilla was a fieldmouse shifter. My father preferred to hire docile prey shifters for the domestic roles because he felt they posed less of a security risk. Working in the kitchen were three deer, one rabbit, and a gazelle.

My steps faltered as I felt Tristan’s hand tighten around mine. When I looked up at him, I saw his eyes widen, his head angled to take in the chandelier high above. His awestruck look made me reassess my home through his eyes. What did he see? Marble and crystal and pottery and paintings. There was no doubt we were wealthy, while judging by his clothes, his experience was likely far different than mine. What had his childhood been like? What kinds of things had he seen? He probably thought I was pampered and spoiled, and in a way, he was right. I’d never wanted for anything in my life, never gone hungry, never worried about where I would sleep at night. But I’d also never truly lived. I would give all this up for a chance at a future with Tristan, somewhere far away from here.

“Hungry?” I asked, bringing his attention back to me, those blue eyes as cool and clear as ice.

“I could eat,” he said, his voice raspy as his gaze flicked down my body.

His smirk dropped, though, as soon as we rounded the corner and entered the dining room. It was brightly lit, the long dining room table draped in a white tablecloth, flickering candlelight reflected off polished silver, crystal glasses, and expensive china. It was already being prepared with a third spot for Tristan.

Tristan froze in the archway, and when I tried to tug him forward, he shook his head. “I-I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’m not dressed for this.”

Father turned, his eyes briefly darting down to where I was still clinging to him, before pretending he didn’t care. He understood all too well the pull of a fated mate. He couldn’t possibly expect me to keep from touching him when he was this close. “I promise we’re not snobs,” Father said, not unkindly. “If it would make you feel better, I’ll ditch the tie.” He forced a smile and chuckled tightly, before sighing. It wasn’t just the rags Tristan was wearing; he reeked of sweat and blood. “Fine. Dylan, why don’t you take him upstairs and show him where he can wash up, and give him something of yours to wear.”

“Of course, Father.” I tried not to appear too eager, but really, inside I was squealing in childish glee. I was desperate to be alone with my mate, even just for a minute. “Come with me, Tristan.”

Father narrowed his eyes on me. “Don’t take too long. Wouldn’t want the food to get cold.” That was code for “I’ll be watching.”

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