Page 4 of Storm
Disgraced name. Elite blood. Still one of them, I remind myself.
Alongside him is the biggest asshole I’ve ever seen, his fellow pack member, Jonathan Kingsley. At almost twenty, he carried himself with the entitlement that only came from a lifetime of privilege.
I've seen him on television with his family before. They were all smiles while donating to a beta charity, playing the role of world saviors for the camera. What a joke. You don't have to flaunt your generosity on national TV, you can donate privately. But not the Kingsley’s. They had to make a spectacle of their supposed goodness. I wouldn't be surprised if they spent more on their outfits for those photo ops than they actually donated.
My palms are sweating, my heart is racing, and I can’t stop fidgeting. I want to leave this spot so badly, but I can’t. Rook needs me to not interfere. But this time it’s different. This time he’s up against an elite.
I watch as they announce the fight, and I can’t breathe. Reed Howard vs Rook Holloway. The crowd cheers and I feel sick to my stomach.
Rook has gone up against a heap of alphas in the past and both won and lost. But he’s never been up against an elite. I should have known. The pay day is bigger if you're up against an elite. Rook didn’t tell me because he knew I would have told him no. We would find another way to make money.
Reed Howard has never lost a fight. Not once. At nineteen, he was already legendary in these underground fights.
I want Rook to turn it down. Walk away. I’ve seen what Reed does to alphas in the ring. He taunts them, toys with them before delivering a knockout punch that leaves them unconscious on the floor. I can’t let him do that to Rook.
Reed Howard is not just some alpha looking for a challenge in the ring. He’s an elite alpha with pure blood running through his veins and a chip on his shoulder.
Ugh, why does an asshole have to have a face and body like that? To lure in his victims, I suspect.
I try my best to focus on Rook as he enters the ring, but my eyes keep darting back to Reed, who seems calm and collected as always. I’ve never liked him, even before knowing who he was or what family he came from. He just exudes arrogance and entitlement wherever he goes.
But as much as I hate him, a small part of me admires him, too. Because even after everything that happened with his family falling from grace, he still stands tall and confident while carrying himself like royalty amongst us beta-born. Still, he’s a dick.
The referee signals for the beginning of the fight and both men move towards each other slowly, their eyes locked in an intense stare down.
My heart is pounding so loud I'm sure everyone around me can hear it. Rook is good—no, he's great—but Reed is something else entirely. The way he moves, it's like he's calculating every step, every breath. Like the fight is already over in his mind and he's just going through the motions.
I grip Rook's t-shirt in my hands so tightly my knuckles turn white. His scent—strawberries and cream—wraps around me, but it does nothing to calm the panic rising in my chest.
The crowd roars as the two circle each other. Reed's face is expressionless, those stormy blue eyes cold and calculating. Jonathan Kingsley stands at the edge of the ring in his tailored suit, arms crossed over his broad chest and a smirk playing on his lips, like he's already counting his winnings. Like they need the money. The guy’s family owns half the city.
Rook makes the first move—quick and calculated, just like he taught me. I hold my breath as his fist connects with Reed's jaw, a solid hit that would have sent most alphas staggering.
Reed barely flinches.
The crowd goes wild, their cheers pulsing through the underground venue. I push forward, trying to get a better view, ignoring Rook's earlier command to stay put. Some burly alpha shoves me back with a growl, but I bare my teeth at him. Beta or not, I've never been one to back down.
"That all you got, beta trash?" Reed's voice carries over the noise, low and taunting.
Rook's dark eyes flash with something dangerous. I've seen that look before—the look he gets when someone's pushed him too far. My stomach twists with dread.
"Not even close, elite," Rook snarls back, his voice rough with barely contained rage.
He lunges again, this time with a feint that even I didn't see coming. Reed dodges the obvious attack but walks right into Rook's real target—a vicious uppercut that catches Reed under the chin. The elite's head snaps back, and for a split second, I think maybe, just maybe, Rook has a chance.
Then Reed smiles. It's not a nice smile. It's the kind that makes your blood run cold.
"Better," he says, and there's something almost approving in his tone that makes me want to scream.
What happens next is too fast for me to follow. Reed moves like water, flowing around Rook's defenses with a grace that doesn't belong in this grimy underground ring. One moment Rook is standing, the next he's on one knee, blood trickling from a split in his eyebrow.
The crowd's roar becomes a dull hum in my ears. I push forward again, this time elbowing my way through the mass of bodies. I don't care about Rook's warning anymore. I need to be closer.
Reed circles Rook like a predator, giving him time to stand. It's not mercy—it's arrogance. He wants to prolong this, to put on a show for his elite friend watching from the sidelines.
"Please Rook," I whisper, my voice lost in the noise. "Get up and leave."
As if he hears me, Rook rises to his feet, shaking his head to clear it. Blood drips down the side of his face from a cut in his brow, but his eyes find mine in the crowd. For a split second, something passes between us—determination or desperation, maybe both.
