She didn't see the hilt coming until it smashed into her face. The blow nearly knocked her down, but she managed to keep her balance and quickly got back into a defensive stance. Blood dripped from her cheekbone; she wiped it away with the back of her hand. To hell with this, she thought. She slashed with her sword and blocked her opponent's strike with her dagger.
They exchanged blows again and again, neither gaining the upper hand. But Alex couldn't focus—her stomach was still twisted from Michael's touch. She saw the way his eyes had looked at her, with a different kind of interest...
She heard the blade whistle past her ear and barely deflected the strike. It grazed her thigh, slicing through her flesh. With a growl, she leapt back. Shaking her head—as if to fling water from her hair—she forced Michael from her thoughts and focused on the man before her, already charging again.
The blows rained down fast, and she struggled to parry them. She was clearly in trouble. She feinted and backed off to catch her breath, narrowing her eyes and drawing in deeply. She emptied her mind and focused only on Snake's movements.
The fight resumed like a deadly dance. Now she was fully present—the tiger had taken over—and her trained body moved in harmony, anticipating and intercepting his strikes. She began to spot openings in his attacks, and with a well-aimed lunge, she struck his side. He retreated, but she gave him no respite and pressed the advantage. With a rapid flurry of strikes, she crossed blades with him and disarmed him. His sword spun through the air and landed a couple of meters away. But he still had the other one.
She engaged his sword with hers and cut him with her dagger. But she was starting to tire—the wound in her leg was slowing her down. Adrenaline dulled the pain, but blood loss was weakening her. She attacked with renewed fury and finally managed to disarm him.
He raised his hands in surrender.
"Hu wins!" The voice echoed through the warehouse.
Without a word, she lowered her weapons and disappeared into the crowd.
Ronald intercepted her before she reached the corridor and handed her the envelope with her payment. She counted the bills, nodded, and limped toward the locker room.
She looked at her reflection in the cracked mirror on the locker door. The left side of her face was already swollen, and the dried blood formed dark streaks. Alex glanced down at her thigh—her pant leg was soaked in blood. If she hadn't been so exhausted, she'd be furious with herself. How the hell did I let myself get distracted in the middle of a fight? And over a guy, no less!
She couldn't believe it. Since when did her hormones override her brain? But she was too drained to be properly angry.
---
When she finally reached 7 Lennon Street, she let out a sigh of relief. Driving had been torture with the wound burning her leg.
She parked the bike with effort and began fumbling with the gate lock. Nearby, a large black dog sniffed the pavement with intent. Its yellow eyes studied her intelligently, then it turned and disappeared into the shadows.
---
"What the hell happened to you?"
The words struck like a sudden thunderclap. Alex froze on the doorstep. Michael had risen from the bed where he'd been reading and was walking toward her. Michael... She hadn't thought about that detail. Oh God. I can't deal with him right now, she thought, eyes squeezed shut, hoping he'd vanish when she opened them.
Instead, his touch made her eyes snap open. He'd grabbed her shoulder and bent down to meet her face. His left hand brushed gently against her cut cheek. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion.
Alex took a step back, and time snapped back to normal.
"I'm fine," she said, raising her hands to push him away. Limping as fast as she could, she tried to escape to the bathroom.
"Yeah, right! Jesus, your face looks like a blood mask!" Michael said, blocking her path.
She looked at him coldly, and her voice was cutting.
"Let me through."
"You need a doctor."
She arched an eyebrow.
"I don't think so," she replied without breaking eye contact.
"Then let me help you."
"I don't need help."
"Mmhmm." Michael bit back the frustration her stubbornness stirred in him. He exhaled to calm himself and tried a different approach. He stepped aside and let her pass—but followed right behind, preventing her from locking the door.
He grabbed a clean towel, wet it, and moved to wipe her face. But she flinched, snatched it from his hand, and began cleaning the blood off herself.
When she reached for the suture kit to stitch up her leg wound, his hands stopped her.
"Let me do it."
"It's not necessary. I can handle it myself." She gestured toward the door.
He clenched his jaw, locked eyes with her, and power radiated from his body.
"Sleep," he said, brushing his palm over her forehead.
Alex blinked—and collapsed into his arms.
He caught her and carried her into the living room, gently laying her on the couch. Then he cut through her pant leg and examined the wound. It was deep—almost a palm wide—but fortunately hadn't severed any arteries. Still, she'd lost a lot of blood. He stitched the wound and covered her with a blanket.
Returning to the sofa, he sat and watched her. He regretted having to use his ability—but she hadn't let him help, and she clearly wasn't able to care for herself that night. And he hadn't hurt her.
Among his kind, the alpha and beta males—besides being gifted with the charisma and strength needed to compete for the leadership of the pack—also possessed mental abilities. They couldn't impose their will or command actions, but they could induce trances and, most importantly, alter or erase recent memories. This was often how witnesses were cleansed after contact with werewolves—without needing to be silenced by force.
Still, it didn't exactly make him feel noble to have used that power to knock Alex out. But seeing her battered face had silenced his scruples.
He wondered what had really happened to her. No bar brawl could leave such injuries—or maybe it could. But he'd noticed the sword and dagger were missing from the wall. Where had she been? What was she doing besides bouncing?
That girl was a mystery—a mystery he very much wanted to solve.
He looked at her face—still pale, but no longer strained the way it had been when she came home. The sleep he'd forced on her would help her recover.
And he would keep watch.