Page 50 of Fated Wolf's Redemption

I circle him, blade loose in one hand, eyes on his every shift. He moves with caution—tight, coiled. Like something inside him is too close to the edge. I see it in the way his jaw sets, the way his shoulders twitch. That same pressure behind my ribs answers his tension, something wild and old, begging to be unchained.

He strikes first. Fast, clean. I block it with a twist, step inside, and aim for his shoulder. He pivots, slams into my hip, and I hit the ground. Hard. But I roll into a crouch, eyes locked on him.

I lunge. He ducks. We trade blows—elbow, wrist, knee, blade. My guard rattles with each hit. His knuckles split against it. My boot catches his ribs.

Then I see the opening. I step through his stance and drop him with a spin that knocks the air from his lungs. Knee to his chest. Blade to his throat.

He grins up at me, panting. “I yield.”

My smile is slow. Dangerous. “I know.”

But we both feel it—this isn’t just about the fight. It’s everything we haven’t said. Everything we’re becoming.

I don’t move the blade. His chest rises and falls under me, steady but fast. A thin line of blood trickles from where I caught him last. It’s not deep, but it marks him. I don’t look away. Neither does he.

He said ‘yield,’ but I see it in his eyes—he hasn’t given up. He’s given something else. Something quieter. Trust.

I lean in, just enough that my breath brushes his lips. “You fight like you’re trying to silence a war.”

He gives a low grunt, something between a laugh and a sigh. “And you fight like you’re trying to start one.”

“Maybe I am.”

He lifts a hand, slow, and brushes my hair back from my face. There’s a crack in him tonight. Not one I made with a blade. Something deeper. Older than pain. Sharper than fear.

I sheath my knife and crawl off him. My knees sting. My hands ache. There’s a scrape on my ribs where I hit the post. I don’t care. He watches me like I’m the only thing holding him together as I turn toward the lodge.

He stands slowly. Brushes off his hands. Reaches for mine.

I don’t resist.

We don’t speak. We don’t need to.

He leads me to his room. It’s much larger than the guest room I’ve been in. Grander. The attached bath is enormous. The shower could host an orgy—I try not to ask myself if it ever has.

The tile is cold under my feet. The water, scalding. Steam coils around us, thick and ghostly, hiding everything but each other. He steps into the spray, slow. Blood still clings to his jawline. His knuckles are raw. He doesn’t look at me right away. Just stands under the water, eyes closed, arms slack. Heavy. Haunted.

I move toward him, every step measured. I trail my fingers over his chest, then his side—skin warm and bruising beneath my touch. I press a kiss to the darkening spot. Look into his face.

“Don’t hold back with me.”

His eyes open. Wild, golden, and too bright. “I don’t know how to be soft with you,” he says, voice low and rough.

“Then don’t be soft,” I whisper. “Just be here.”

I take his hand and guide it to my hip. His thumb brushes the curve of my waist, tentative. I lead him higher, along my ribs. My grip tightens as I press his hand beneath my breast—clear. Demanding.

He follows.

His mouth moves from my collarbone to my jaw, slow and reverent. I push him against the tile wall, pin his wrists above his head. He doesn’t fight it. Just watches me, eyes narrowed slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“This is what you want?” he murmurs.

“I want all of you,” I say, voice steady. “But this... this is mine.”

He exhales like he’s letting go of something buried deep. “Then take.”

And I do.

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