Page 68 of Defiant
I need him to expose his liver, which hides under the ribs on the right side toward the back. A good solid hit or kick there will take him out. Men can pass out in a matter of seconds from a hit to the liver. And I don’t plan to hit. I plan to stab.
In our monstrous forms, our claws are stronger than our feet, so claws it is. But that means I’ll have to let the bastard in close. He’ll probably get in his own hit. I have to ensure it’s not a deadly one.
If I make him think he’s going for a kill shot, for the neck, I can duck and get myself the access to his side I need. I just have to play this exactly right. I need him to think I’m far more hurt than I am.
I let my claw gently fall from my neck and slowly slather the blood from my palm against my white fur. I know from experience that my wounds can look much more prominent because of my coloring. The blood can turn my snow-white fur a grisly, murky red.
Gasps go up from the Lobo side of the bleachers, helping sell my injury for me. My elites step right up to the fence, their hands gripping the chain link, their tension making the air thick with worry and anticipation.
Perfect.
I let my steps turn into a shuffle. I start to let my head bob unsteadily on my neck, but pain lashes out and makes me gasp so I change tactics and allow my torso to sway instead. Every heartbeat screams in my ears, “Faster! Faster!”
I need to end this fight so that I can heal. I’ve survived worse, but only by knocking my opponent out with a single lucky blow. My body is begging me to change from this energy-draining monster form back into my replenishing wolf so it can mend itself.
But I can’t. I need to beat Stone first. And this is a fishing expedition. I’m luring Stone into complacency so I can hook him. I can’t go faster.
I absolutely need Stone to believe that I’m vulnerable. I move toward him, scuffing the dirt, putting a hand up halfway as if I’m going to protect my neck, but then I clench my fist and let it fall half an inch as if it hurts too much to raise.
His shifters rise to their feet, screaming for my head. Their yells pound through my ears in time with my pulse. My breathing starts to rattle. That isn’t something I fake. It’s my body’s warning. I’m not putting pressure on my wound, which means the sand in my hourglass is steadily drifting down.
Come on, Cooper Stone. Come and get me.
I need to amp it up. I’m not doing enough. My next move comes to me as memories start to fly before my eyes. I start to blink too much, something I saw an alpha do during a fight in my twenties, just before he blacked out.
That’s when Stone grins. And I know I’ve caught him.
Thank fuck.
I step quickly toward Stone’s right and feint a clumsy hit. Stone goes for it, thinking I’m so out of it that I can’t possibly be deceptive any longer.
He goes for the jugular, just like I expected.
His muzzle opens, teeth gleaming, and I duck down so quickly that it makes me lightheaded. There, underneath the mat of his fur are his ribs.
My vision is blurred by more red at the edges—by either blood loss or glee, I’m not certain which—as I take my left claw and dig in under his ribs, deep and hard. I feel my long fingers slide beneath his skin and into something soft and slimy even as his claws rake my back. I crush my hands together, obliterating whatever organ I hold.
Then I throw my shoulder into his gut and stand, even though lifting him makes me nearly pass out. A wave of nausea battles with an adrenaline high as I straighten and stare out at the crowd.
The Dark Nights are silent. Some of their mouths gape. Some of their hands are frozen mid-clap.
Meanwhile, the Lobos howl. They cheer. They’re dancing on the stands. My elite shake the gates so hard that I worry the makeshift fighting cage is going to collapse on top of me.
With a roar that burns my throat, I toss Stone over my back, withdrawing my claw.
There’s athudas his body hits and a second dullthunk—like someone dropped a cantaloupe—when Stone’s head hits the packed dirt. I know that thump. I’ve cracked enough skulls to recognize it. If crushing his liver didn’t kill him, then he’s certainly dead now. Or else well on his way.
My wolf gives a victory howl inside my head.
But I don’t celebrate yet. I turn because I have to be sure … but Stone’s chest is already still. The light is already fading from his wolfish eyes while the dirt underneath him grows dark. Death laps up his soul as he stares at me, realizing this is his final moment.
I could say something sarcastic. Or something memorable like I did when I defeated Prime all those years ago. I’d stood over him and declared that the Lobos had entered a new era, a better one. “Today I give you freedom!” I’d yelled.
Somehow, despite the rush of adrenaline pulsing through me, I can’t bring myself to defame Stone the same way.
He was an arrogant asshole, but so am I, and as opponents go, he was a worthy one. If he’d gotten his claws any deeper into my neck, it could be me lying there.
I was strategic, yeah. But I was also lucky. And spitting on Stone in front of his people—who are now my people—would start me off on the wrong foot.
