Page 5 of The Beta's Blind Date

Both sound appealing, and both will bring me satisfaction, especially with the knowledge of what is coming. But if we race and then spar, I’ll get the extra enjoyment of ending my workout with a sparring pin, which at the moment sounds much more exciting than ending with a racing win.

“Run first,” I grumble, and his lips twitch, making that vein in my forehead pulse again. “Last one to finish five miles buys lunch,” I say, taking off before he can respond or get ready.

Too late, I realize my mistake. Too late, I realize I shouldn’t have uttered those words. But it seems I never learn. That, or I am a glutton for punishment. Or both.

Sebastian catches up to me with ease, not breaking a sweat, using a speed I haven’t seen him use in almost fifteen years. The speed he used that day he raced Wesley before Wesley shifted into his lycan almost six months before he should have.

“Goddess, damn it,” I say under my breath, picking up my pace to stay with him.

How did I forget Seb is a master deceiver? That he puts out the barest amount of effort needed for every workout or training or sparring match, but in truth, he is much stronger and more powerful than he lets on?

I know how. Because I am too fucking cocky at times, that’s how.

I try my best to stay with him, but after the third mile, I have to tap out and slow my pace. I’m fuming by the time I finish mile five and join Seb at the water station. It’s my own damn fault, but that doesn’t make me any less mad. It just makes me more mad.

I chug my water, then crush the cup in my fist, enjoying the sound of the crunching paper and the way it feels in my hand as it collapses. My face drips with sweat, a river of it running off the tip of my nose, but Sebastian is fresh as a motherfucking daisy, his forehead barely glistening with moisture.

“Still want to spar?” Sebastian asks, chuckling as he sips his water, his eyes flicking to the crushed cup in my hand.

No.

“Yes,” I say between my teeth as I move to wrap my hands before we spar.

Like I said, we heal quickly, but I prefer to not have bloody, bruised, and broken knuckles all the time.

I won’t win. Not against Seb. Not when he’s giving it his actual best. But I am sure I can get some good hits in, so I can get at least some fulfillment from the feel of my fist meeting his face. Especially since he’s still giving me those smug looks, waiting for me to cave and bring up the bet.

But I won’t. I won’t give in. I won’t give him that satisfaction; give him something else to hold over me. His head doesn’t need to get bigger than it already is. He’s too damn sure of himself in everything he does. Someone needs to knock him down a peg or two.

I wish it could be me.

I shake out my muscles and roll my neck, stalking to the sparring ring with Seb hot on my heels, ducking under the ropes as he hops over, stretching his arms across his chest and behind his back. I yank my shirt over my head and toss it aside. It’s soaked with sweat from my run and will be more of a hindrance while we’re sparring, sticking to my skin and making it easier for Seb to grab me.

Seb crouches into a starting position, and I launch myself at him, not waiting for an acknowledgment that he’s ready. I need to get my hits on him in and let the frustration and annoyance out before he has a chance to take me down.

Of course, once again, I overestimate myself and underestimate Sebastian.

I get one hit in, square on his jaw. But he gets the upper hand on me, getting me in a chokehold in seconds and taking me to the mat. I squirm and fight against him, but there is no point. He has me pinned.

I swear there is smoke coming from my ears as I tap the mat, and he releases me. I hop up to my feet and shake the loss off.

“You’re a little slow today,” Seb says, head cocked to the side.

“I’m still warming up!” I snap, and then I pounce for him again.

Fists fly and hits are blocked, neither of us yielding or getting a hit in. Or not physical hits, anyway.

“Maybe you should put in extra hours at the gym instead of trying to get laid so much,” he says, lips twitching.

“Maybe you should try to get laid instead of making ridiculous bets with everyone all the time.”

His jaw ticks and he frowns, and I take my shot, shouldering him in the gut and tackling him to the floor. It’s a cheap move, but in recent years, the mention of his self-imposed virginity pledge bothers him more than it used to. He doesn’t attempt to get out of my hold, though; he just taps the mat, surrendering right away.

We both jump to our feet and square off for our third round. This time, he doesn’t let me get the jump on him. He goes straight for the knockout. His fists meet my body in precise strikes, hitting specific spots on my body he knows will weaken me. I have no time to react or defend myself because he’s too damn fast, and in a blink, I’m on the mat again, pinned in another chokehold.

“Fuck it, you win!” I say, gasping and wheezing, and he releases me.

I stay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, panting and cursing in my head.

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