Chapter 15 – The Spar

Kieran

I don’t just stalk out of the armory. I flee.

My boots slam against the stone floor, the sound echoing in the corridor, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the ringing in my ears. ‘Did that little Blackthorn Omega break your heart that badly?’

His voice. That low, amused, knowing rumble, laced with a pity that feels like acid. He saw it. He saw the crack in the polished armor, the raw, humiliating wound I’ve kept hidden from everyone else. He didn’t just guess, he put his finger right on the bruise and pressed.

My father’s court, for all its cruelty, was a place of masks. You learned to fight with words, with smiles that carried poison, with a perfectly placed insinuation. No one ever just... asked. No one ever just saw.

Eli... Eli was a game of wits, a light flirtation I’d been foolish enough to mistake for something deeper.

A silly, one-sided crush that left my ego battered when he inevitably chose to stay with the raw, undeniable power of an Alpha like Ronan Vale. It was a stupid, naive mistake, and I buried the embarrassment deep.

Until Alexei Basov dug it up with all the subtlety of a grave robber.

He saw my flinch. He saw my vulnerability. And now he’s walking around my keep, holding that knowledge like a weapon.

On top of that, Vorlag is whispering treason in the halls, my warriors are soft, and Brannagh is probing the borders. I’m suffocating under the weight of it, and all I can think about is the insufferable, arrogant, perceptive Redmaw wolf who just flayed me open in the armory.

My blood is humming. It’s a frantic, angry energy that has nowhere to go. I need to hit something. I need to bleed off this rage, this humiliation, this unwanted, suffocating attraction before it chokes me.

I need to regain control. And I can only think of one way to do that. I pivot on my heel and stride toward the training yard.

The yard is buzzing, the air sharp with the scent of sweat and cold earth. My warriors are sparring in pairs, their movements precise, practiced... and utterly lacking in ferocity. It’s the "form" my father always prized.

And in the center of it all, like he owns the place, is Alexei.

He’s shirtless in the cold. His new leather pants fitting him like a glove, his skin gleaming with a light sweat. He’s demonstrating a move to Tarek. The very wolf he’d humiliated. And Tarek is watching him with a look of grudging, terrified awe. Alexei moves with a fluid power that’s all predator, his laughter ringing out as he easily deflects a clumsy jab.

The entire pack stops when they see me. The sparring falters, the whispers die. The air goes still.

Alexei turns, his grin still in place, though it tightens just a fraction when he sees my face. He slowly, deliberately, wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm.

“Alpha,” he greets, his voice still holding that infuriating, flirtatious rumble. “Come to critique my form?”

I walk straight into the center ring, my boots silent on the packed dirt. I stop a few feet from him, glaring with all the fury that’s roiling inside me. The pack holds its breath.

“You talk too much, Basov,” I say, my voice cold and clear, cutting through the silence. “You think you’re better than my men?” I unbutton the cuffs of my tunic and begin to roll them up with deliberate, precise movements. “Prove it against me.”

Alexei’s grin widens, all teeth and arrogance. He glances down at my rolled-up sleeves, then back to my face, his green eyes dancing with a light that’s both entertained and dangerous.

“Are you sure, Alpha?” he asks, his voice dropping. “I wouldn’t want to muss your perfect hair.” He pauses, his gaze lingering. “Actually, scrap that. I really would.”

The pack inhales as one. It’s a blatant, public challenge to my authority. To my control.

I feel a slow, cold smile curve my own lips. It’s powered by anger and adrenaline alone. I have no business challenging Alexei with the six weeks of proper training by Jace that I have under my belt.

“Just try,” I grind out anyway, because apparently all my senses are on a leave of absence.

Alexei laughs, a full, throaty sound, and settles into a brawler's stance. “As you command.”

I don’t give him time to settle. I move.

Speed is my only advantage. He’s a mountain of muscle, built for absorbing blows and breaking bones. I’m built for precision. I’m faster than he is, and I use it, moving in a blur, a sharp jab to his ribs, a feint, a snapping kick aimed at his knee.

He grunts, surprised by the speed, and blocks the kick, but my jab lands. “Impressive,” he admits, his grin still in place.

“Keep talking,” I pant, already moving again, a flurry of strikes designed to keep him off balance.

He takes two more hits, letting me, learning me. Then, on my next lunge, he moves. He doesn’t block. He catches my strike in mid-air. His hand, impossibly fast, clamps around my fist, stopping me dead.

“You fight like a dancer, prince,” he taunts, his grip like a steel trap. He yanks me forward, off balance, and swings a heavy fist at my face.

I have to drop and roll, a move that’s more acrobatics than brawling, and I come up panting, my heart hammering. The pack is dead silent. They’re not watching a spar. They’re watching a fight for dominance.

And gods, I feel alive.

For the first time in weeks, I’m not thinking about ledgers, or Vorlag, or my father, or even Eli. I’m thinking about the man in front of me, about the heat in his eyes, about the way his muscles shift under his skin. The physical clash, the raw impact of fist on muscle, it’s a release so potent it’s almost sexual.

I lunge again, faster this time, a flurry of kicks and punches. He’s a brawler, all power, and I’m a fencer, all precision. It’s a terrible, beautiful match. He swings, I duck. I jab, he blocks. He feints, I see it and counter, landing a solid kick to his thigh that makes him grunt in genuine annoyance.

“Not bad, princeling!” he calls out.

“I’m just getting started!” I call back.

I hate how good this feels. I hate the way my body thrums with energy, the way I’m enjoying this. It feels too much like play. I’m the Alpha, I’m supposed to be above this, supposed to be in control. I’m not supposed to be having a knock-down, drag-out brawl with a rogue wolf in front of my entire pack just to blow off steam.

It feels reckless. It feels young. It feels like everything I’ve been missing.

Fueled by a desperate, pent-up energy, I go for broke. I feint high with a punch, then drop into a sweeping kick aimed at his legs. It’s a showy, complicated move.

And Alexei, the practical, brutal brawler, doesn’t even try to block it. He just steps into it, taking the blow on his thigh, and tackles me mid-spin.

His shoulder connects with my ribs like a battering ram. The air explodes from my lungs. We hit the packed earth in a tangle of limbs, my head smacking the ground hard enough to make my vision flash.

Before I can even process the impact, Alexei’s weight is on me. He’s heavy, solid as the mountain itself, and he smells of something wild and male that floods my senses.

I struggle, but he’s already bracketing my body with his knees, his hands pinning my wrists to the dirt above my head. I’m trapped. Completely and utterly overpowered.

The pack is silent. I can hear Tarek let out a shaky breath.

Alexei looms over me, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his chin onto my face. His green eyes are blazing, not just with the thrill of the fight, but with something possessive and dangerously hot. He’s not even looking at me like an opponent anymore. He’s looking at me like an object of desire.

My heart is a trapped bird against my ribs. I’m furious, humiliated, and my body, my traitorous, stupid body, is reacting to the proximity. To the weight of another Alpha pinning me down. A hot, unwelcome flush creeps up my neck.

Of course he sees it. His grin, the one I want to punch off his face, returns, slow and predatory.

He leans down, his face inches from mine, his voice a low, rumbling purr that vibrates right through my sternum.

“Yield.”