Page 1 of Mated Exile

One

Delilah

Something sparks inside me. It awakens like a slumbering giant and unfolds its dormant limbs. Warmth grows in my center and unfurls towards my fingertips and toes.

In front of me, the wolf I'm about to battle is frozen in time. His paws hover above the ground, face twisted in a terrifying snarl, spittle flying around him, while my heart pauses between beats and my awareness narrows to this single moment.

My bones shift first, creaking and snapping under unprepared muscles and skin. They shove towards the surface, their movements painless yet uncomfortable. My lips part as new teeth burst from my jaws.

The muscles that hold my body together shift quickly after. So does my skin, a thousand moments of itching constricted to the single ripple of fur from my body. All my limbs are liquid and unformed for a moment, frozen between human and wolf.

Then it all snaps into place. My ears, now at the top of my head, pin back against my dome-shaped skull as my lips peel back into a snarl that shows my long fangs. Paws digging into the ground, I revel at the long claws at the end of each toe, which give me purchase and support. A large chest holds powerful lungs and a slow, steady heart, while behind me, nearly forgotten, my tail twitches against the ground.

Time takes up its normal pace again, and the wolf comes barreling at me. He doesn't stop or slow for a single moment at my transformation. Of course, he wouldn't—unlike me, he isn't surprised that I've managed to turn into a wolf.

I'd love nothing more than to throw myself a party and celebrate this achievement. But I don't have the luxury of time on my side. I barely even get the chance to adjust to having what were oncehandsturn intopawsthat now support a good deal of my weight. The werewolf launches himself at me, and I have to throw my body to the ground and roll beneath his razor-sharp claws to avoid getting eviscerated.

I get up as fast as I went down, feeling the urgency of the moment. With a snap of my back legs and a twist of my spine, I move away from him and seek to put space between us. Overhead I hear the chants and cheers of bloodlust-hungry vampires, but I tune them out, focusing on the wolf before me.

The large, half-mad wolf with glowing red eyes and sleek dark fur that does nothing to hide the scars criss-crossing his insanely powerful and muscular body.

He turns as soon as his feet hit the ground, advancing on me at a slow, predatory pace. I inhale deeply and catch his scent: crushed red berries, a tang of lemon, and beneath it all, the overpowering scent of mint. But something else also comes through, an emotion of some sort that I can't quite place—though I'm sure someone with a nose as legendary as Finn would be able to.

As he prowls towards me, I assess the wolf a second time. He's big and leggy, his form nothing but muscle and sinew, without a single ounce of fat on him. His dark brown fur is sleek from head to tail, shifting in the sunlight from black-brown to red-tan and back again.

It's those red eyes, though, that I find hardest to face. They're a color I've never seen on a werewolf before. Most of us have different eye colors as wolves—often blue or yellow, though silver, gold, and even a dark green-black like Roarke's aren't uncommon. But red like blood is ominous somehow.

A snarl bursts from the other wolf's chest, and it's the only warning I get before he races towards my left side. Twisting, I snap in that direction in anticipation, only for him to swerve, feint, and attack me from the right instead.

A burst of pain follows the brush of sharp claws against my flank. Outraged, I leap at him and catch a glancing blow across his muzzle before he slips away like he was never even there.

The pain only increases as I breathe in, trying to settle my unsteady heartbeat. Craning my head, I'm able to see the splatter of red blood, but not so much that it worries me. I also catch sight of my fur color: a shiny silvery white, much like Lance's wolf, though without the black-tipped tail.

Facing the other wolf again, I stalk towards him this time, instead of waiting for him to come to me. Clearly I need to muster some kind of offense—though what kind, I have no idea. It isn't obvious what the vampires want from me, but surely a death-match isn't their intention. If they wanted me dead they could've done that already. So hopefully, they'll put a stop to this thingbeforeit goes too far.

Unless they're waiting for something to happen.

Ambrosia and Demetri seemed to suggest there was something they wanted to test. Something about me, and that strange word he used to describe me:magkos.I've never heard the word before, but it seemed significant to him when he said it, his nose testing my scent in the air. Ambrosia seemed to care a lot about the taste of my blood, too.

Maybe it's just a word for female werewolf. They haven't tasted many of those these days. The curse in my father's pack, the Glass Pack, has killed so many that the vampires now only have male werewolves to feast on, or children if they're so inclined. The same curse seemed to drive my father to put a chip in my neck to prevent me from shifting, as well as have me rejected by my mate on my fourteenth birthday and exile me from my home forever.

None of that explains why my blood would be so tasty to a bunch of rotting bloodsuckers. That time away from my wolf has only made me weaker, and I feel it as I crouch, the four-legged body unfamiliar and unwieldy to me. If they were hoping to make me stronger before they eat me, well, the vampires have another think coming—because I intend to get out of this arena and eat a few of them alive.

Just as soon as I figure out how to subdue the rabid werewolf I'm facing.

As I gather my powerful muscles beneath me, the wolf stalks the arena opposite me, his lips pulled back and teeth on display in their full glory. He doesn't seem to even blink or tense as I push up from my crouch and barrel towards him at full speed.

The wolf doesn't even cower when I gather my legs beneath me and leap towards him, claws extended.

I land on him—and am abruptly thrown. He takes my blow and rolls me over his shoulders somehow, using my momentum to shake me off. I go flying and hit the wall of the arena, sliding down and struggling to get my feet beneath me again.

The sleek brown wolf advances on me, and I swear my ears pick up the echo of achuckleleaving his mouth. He barely even bothers to tense or pick up speed before he leaps on me again, a lazy swipe of his claws opening up my back legs. I bite back a whine and leap away from him, feeling hot shame course down me as I tuck tail and run.

The crowd above us senses my fear and weakness as well, and there's a chorus ofbooooosand hisses. Well, fuck them. I didn't expect my first time shifting into wolf form to also be my first timefightingin wolf form.

There's something in me that bursts with angry warmth as I twist around to face the wolf again. He's going easy on me now, and he's not even hiding it, practicallypreeningfor the crowd as he lazily stalks towards me. Blood drips down his claws and leaves marks on the gouged stone ground beneath him,myblood, the dark red paw prints stark proof of my weakness.

But when my foster mother Cat found me and took me in, she taught me that there's more than one way to be weak, just like there are many ways to be strong. The other werewolf has size, strength, and experience on his side—there's no denying that. I have something else: the clever grit of a werewolf exile who had to make it on her own.

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