Page 28 of Mated to the Human: Volume One

Going back to the guest room, Jake carefully examined the pillows. There. He pulled a single dark red hair from one of the pillowcases. Heading to the kitchen table, he grabbed his map of the city and spread it out over the table’s surface. Moonlight poured in through the window over the sink, turning the room silver.

Taking a deep breath, Jake held out his hand holding Cane’s hair, palm facing the ceiling. He started the spell, words he’d mastered long ago falling from his lips. The hair floated up from his hand and lit, burning up in a second of white-hot flame. The ashes floated down, swirling and slithering over the map before spinning in a circle and landing on a spot across the city.

Bending over the map, Jake looked at the circle the ashes made. “What the hell are you doing over there?” He didn’t know the area well, but he thought it was mostly old warehouses and office buildings that weren’t in use.

Without a second thought, he ran back to his bedroom, threw on some clothes, and grabbed his keys. He didn’t know what his mate was up to, but he knew he needed to be there. He could feel it.

* * *

The fight crowd was rabid tonight. Cane watched as they booed the fighter sprawled out on his back in the middle of the cage. It was really a dog kennel that could be folded up and moved and not anything like a real MMA fight cage. They didn’t even set it up on top of mats. Just the cold, hard concrete of this old parking garage to break a person’s fall.

Normally at this time, he was getting amped up and ready for his time in the cage. Tonight was different. He’d lain in Jake’s guest bed, stared at the ceiling, and wondered why he was planning to sneak off to fight when he should have been marching down the hall and crawling into bed with his seriously sexy mate. A mate who had clearly wanted to take him to bed, but let his too-polite manners dictate his actions instead of his dick.

Which was a shame, honestly.

Taking a deep breath, Cane bounced on the balls of his feet. The rough, cracked concrete of this old garage had certainly seen better days. He didn’t particularly relish moving on it in his bare feet, but rules were rules. No shoes, no gloves, no shirt. Those were pretty much the only rules and kept the crazier contenders from sneaking in a weapon. Mostly. A guy had pulled a knife right out of his shorts and tried to stab Cane once.

“You ready, Red?” Pinch, the guy who ran the fights, asked. He was a middle-aged, crusty fucker who was smart enough to hire muscle to keep the crowd in line. They didn’t use real names, ever. Pinch had called him Red since the first time they’d met. Sometimes the way Pinch looked at him made Cane think the man knew exactly who he was, but he’d never been able to confirm it.

Cane nodded and slipped his mouth guard in. Two of the bouncers were dragging the unconscious man out of the cage. He’d left a trail of blood behind so the same two bouncers dropped his arms and went to the cage, lifting it and moving it to another spot of unstained and undamaged concrete. The audience shifted with the metal, leaving the beaten fighter laying alone.

Cane swallowed hard. In all the time he’d been doing this, he’d never lost. Never been the one left lying in his own blood, but he knew it was inevitable. Everyone lost. Everyone. He also knew he’d do everything in his power to stave off that loss as long as possible. He needed this. Needed the thrill of it. Needed the adrenaline to remind him he was alive and that no one—not even his mother—could truly hold him down. He was a fighter, and he belonged in the cage.

Pinch motioned him over to the cage. He went, stepping inside. It was a rectangle and not a very large one. The top was only a few inches taller than Cane’s own six feet. He didn’t bother to count the rust spots or jagged edges where it’d been bent and reshaped after so many fights.

He walked to the far wall and turned, facing the door. His opponent came through a moment later. He was bigger than Cane with impressively muscular arms and a bit of a pot belly hanging over the waist of his shorts. Cane didn’t know his name and didn’t particularly care to.

The man stayed on that side of the cage. Pinch slammed the door, the sound of the latch catching strong in Cane’s ears. It was the last sound he heard before the world narrowed to the man across from him. He tuned out everything—the crowd, his own harsh breathing—and let his focus boil down to the singular point of his opponent.

Then, he lunged. The man was quick, dodging out of the way before Cane’s fist could meet his face. Instead, Cane hit the cage, fist first. He barely felt his knuckles split.

Spinning, he brought his hands up, dancing on the balls of his feet as they circled each other. The man was already breathing hard. Cane smiled to himself. He made cardio one of his top priorities because running out of gas mid-fight wasn’t an option. Not here.

The man threw a sloppy superman punch, counting on his superior arm strength to win this fight for him. It might have if he could connect. Cane slipped under and jabbed the man in the side.

One arm dropping to his ribs, the man backed off, getting out of Cane’s reach. His face turned a mottled red, anger and fatigue making him glassy-eyed and desperate. He snarled and ran at Cane.

Cane dropped into a lunge, caught the man’s hips with his shoulder, and grabbed both his legs. He pushed through and lifted up, driving the man into a double-leg takedown. The thud when the man’s back hit the concrete, thrummed through Cane. He scrambled up, straddling the man’s waist and punching him repeatedly.

A moment later, someone pulled him off, but before they could raise his arm, more men poured into the cage. One of them pushed Pinch out of the way, sending him stumbling through the cage’s open door.

Cane went on the defensive, mind scrambling to keep up with what was happening after the rush of endorphins from winning the fight. He lashed out as two of the men tried to grab him, but they were strong and obviously knew how to evade an attack.

They got ahold of his arms, each of them pinning him against the side of the cage. Sound came roaring back into his ears. Outside the cage was chaos. The bouncers were fighting off two or three men a piece, all of them masked the same as the ones holding him. All he could see of their faces was their eyes.

A third man got in his face. “Humans shouldn’t marry freaks,” the masked man said before he drew back and punched Cane in the face.

Pain lanced through him, jarring his whole head and scattering his thoughts. Fuck, that hurt. He bucked, kicking out at the man in front of him. They were ready for that, though. One of the men holding his arms, kneed him in the stomach hard enough to double him over and send bile racing up his throat.

The sound outside the cage intensified, and sirens sounded in the distance.

“Shit!” One of the men holding him yelled, dropping his arm and ducking down with his own arms covering his head.

The man who’d punched him spun around to see what his comrade was freaking out about.

Cane looked, too, still struggling to get his breath and not throw up everywhere.

It was Jake. His mate stood some twenty feet away, one hand held out as his mouth formed words Cane couldn’t hear. Beside the cage, a chunk of the concrete floor exploded. There was no other word for it. Pieces of concrete rained down on them, but somehow not a single piece hit Cane.

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