Page 56 of Broken Pregnant Mate
Together, Ash and I run down the hallway and toward the sound of the party. Except now, it doesn’t sound like a party.
It sounds like a fight.
Women scream, men shout, and there’s the sound of a huge crash—like a million mirrors falling, shattering into a thousand shards of glass. I suck in a breath, picturing Aidan in danger, forcing my legs to move faster.
After all this time, I never thought it would beme,savinghim.
As we turn the corner and barrel toward the ballroom together, I can only hope that we’re not already too late.
Chapter 25 - Aidan
Jerrod Blacklock looks strikingly like Oren.
That same raven-black hair, but Jerrod’s is pushed back over his forehead, held in place with gel, while Oren lets his go loose. Jerrod also sports a clean-shaven jaw, while Oren typically has a shadow of stubble.
Everything about the older man is sharper, almost supernaturally enhanced. Oren is softer-looking. Maybe that’s his youth, but there’s something else about Jerrod, something cutting and strange, almost as though he’s had plastic surgery on his face. It looks wan, pulled back, like all the fat has been sucked from his body.
But when looking at Jerrod, I can clearly see an image of what Oren will look like in ten, twenty years. How time might change him.
Obviously, it’s the other way around—Oren looks like his dad—but I met Oren first. He’s the Blacklock that I’m going to choose to think about, to remember, at the end of all this. Once Jerrod Blacklock is gone, we can stomp on his grave by forgetting him as soon as possible.
Jerrod is every bit the ruthless, snarling alpha leader, with cold eyes and a perpetual sneer. Yet something about him seems off—a slight hesitation in his movements, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze.
“You will die like your whore of a mother,” he hisses, unprompted, and a few of the people standing nearest to us gasp. If that’s surprising to them, they don’t know anything about this man.
Rage burns through me, hot and familiar. I’ve lived with it for so long that it’s become part of me—the driving force behind every decision, every sacrifice. For two years, I’ve thought about this moment.
And I’m not about to fail now.
Jerrod lunges forward with surprising speed, only half-shifting, his hands turning to paws, his clawed hands aiming for my throat. I sidestep, feeling the rush of air as his attack misses me by less than an inch. I counter with a strike of my own, my fist connecting with his ribs. The impact is solid, but he barely flinches, letting out a hollow laugh.
When Emaline and I were kids, someone donated an old gaming console to the home. We played that thing faithfully for years, until the controller was damaged, and everything started to lag. When you told your character to move to the left, it would take a few seconds for them to respond, resulting in your death in most cases.
That’s what Jerrod reminds me of, now.
We exchange blows, testing each other’s defenses. Jerrod fights with brutal efficiency—no wasted movement, no hesitation. Just like Oren said he would. But there’s something mechanical about his attacks, a pattern that becomes increasingly apparent as we circle each other.
Across the room, I glimpse Oren watching intently, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Dorian and Emin stand ready, though they cannot interfere in a formal challenge. The law is clear—this must be settled between Jerrod and me alone.
All the witnesses are here to make sure that happens. Part of the reason nobody’s challenged Jerrod up to this point is likely that they knew he wouldn’t fight fair, involving weapons or other shifters to help him gain the upper hand.
“You fight well,” Jerrod growls, wiping blood from a cut on his lip. “Better than your father did. My father always told me that he begged for mercy, you know. Begged for your mother to be spared.”
The taunt is meant to unbalance me, to make me reckless with anger. Years ago, it would have worked. But Dorian’s training has taught me better—I’ve spent years withstanding verbal abuse from him to prepare for this moment.
“You’re lying,” I say calmly. “My father was worth ten of you. That’s why your father had to kill him in his sleep. And my mother died to save me—which is far more than any Blacklock woman would do for her child.”
Fury flashes across Jerrod’s face.
I’ve managed to turn the tables, messing with his emotions instead of allowing him to mess with mine. And it’s obvious in his ruddy face, the vein throbbing in his neck.
Not only am I here, challenging him on his birthday, but I’m beating him in the verbal game, too. Insulting his family in front of all these people.
When he charges, there’s something different about his movement—a slight stiffness, a fraction of delay between thought and action. I duck under his swing and drive my knee into his stomach, following with an elbow to the back of his neck as he doubles over.
Jerrod staggers but doesn’t fall. He recovers quickly, spinning to face me with a snarl. But I’ve seen it now—the imperfection in his technique, the barely perceptible lag in his responses.
We clash again, exchanging blows at close quarters. His fist grazes my cheek, the force of it snapping my head back.I taste blood but use the momentum to spin away, creating distance between us.
