Please Tell Me it’s Not Us

Kalani POV

“Again” I call out again across the field as I run drills. I’ve been running training since I was 15. Even though my brother is the heir of the pack I’m my father’s prodigy. I may not have shifted but I’m still the best warrior my pack has ever seen. People stopped waiting for me to shift years ago. Winning made them stop asking questions. “Okay Cory you’re up” I say to one of the younger warriors. “Aw come on Kalani I'm still recovering from last week” He says groaning and laughs break out across the training grounds. “ And this is how you get better step in the circle” I say.

I step into the ring, dust rising around me as we both drop into our fighting stances. I hold back and wait for him to commit first, exactly like last week. He lunges for my arm but I slip sideways out of reach without effort. "You're fighting lazy," I say, keeping my tone even. He swings wide and I drive a solid hit into his ribs. He stumbles, breath hissing out, then steadies himself. Another swing comes close but I snap a jab back at him, catching him clean. He charges hard and I read it coming, hooking his legs out from under him so he crashes into the dirt with a heavy thud. I keep circling, watching every twitch as he shoves up to his knees and glares, already shifting for the next rush while I stay light on my feet.

The dust hangs thick between us, a fine golden haze catching the late afternoon light. He’s up on his knees now, palms flat against the dirt, chest heaving. I circle wide, keeping the distance I’ve earned, every muscle loose and ready. He spits dirt from his lips and glares up at me not defeat in his eyes, but hunger. Good. That’s what I wanted.

He surges to his feet in one motion. His fists come up higher this time, elbows tighter, shoulders rolled forward like a bull trying to shrink its target. He’s learning. I shift my weight back, baiting him with an open stance. He doesn’t take it. Instead, he feints, a quick snap of his lead hand toward my face, then a hard shin kick aimed at my thigh. I pivot just enough that it lands off the outside of my quad, a sting that wakes me up.

"Better," I say, voice flat. "But you're still telegraphing the kick."

He bares his teeth and steps in again. This time he comes with a combo—jab, cross, low kick—but the rhythm is off, the cross looping wide. I slip inside the cross, letting his arm slide over my shoulder, and drive my knee into his solar plexus. The gust of air leaving his lungs is satisfying. He doubles over, arms wrapping around his midsection, and I let him stagger back a few steps.

"You're leaving your ribs open after every combination. Fix it."

He straightens slowly, rolling his shoulders, shaking out his arms. Sweat drips from his jaw into the dust. His eyes are harder now, focused. He moves forward again, but instead of rushing, he prowls. Circle left, circle right, testing my reactions. I match him step for step, keeping the center of the ring. The only sounds are the crunch of grit under sneakers and the ragged rhythm of his breathing.

Then he changes tempo. A sudden explosion of motion—he drops low, sweeping for my ankles. I hop over it, but he’s already rising into a spinning back fist that catches me across the cheekbone. Pain lights up my face, sharp and bright, and I taste copper. He finally landed one. I take a half step back, touching the split skin with my tongue.

He doesn’t press the advantage. He’s waiting, chest still heaving, a thin grin on his face. "Not so lazy now, am I?"

I wipe the blood with the back of my hand and smile. "One lucky shot."

He comes again, faster this time, a flurry of punches and kicks that I weave through like smoke. Each miss makes him wilder his technique unravels as frustration mounts. I see the opening he overextends on a roundhouse, leaving his groin and chin exposed. I step inside the kick, catch his leg against my hip, and shove him off-balance. As he stumbles, I hook his ankle with my foot and drive a straight palm into his sternum. He goes down hard, flat on his back, the wind knocked clean out of him.

Dust settles over his prone form. He lies there, staring up at the sky, arms spread, chest rising and falling in sharp gasps. I walk over and stand above him, boots framing his shoulders.

"You got greedy. You saw blood and forgot the basics."

He laughs a breathless, broken sound. "Yeah… I got greedy." He admits

He pushes up onto his elbows, then sits up slow, rubbing his ribs where I landed that first solid hit. The skin is already bruising purple. He looks at me, and there’s something new in his face respect, maybe, or the beginning of understanding.

"Again," he says, already getting to his feet just as a link comes in from my father. “Lani the Alpha’s are here please go get ready” He says.

“Yes daddy” I link back. “Okay everyone training is over, same time tomorrow” I say before turning and walking towards the pack house. We all heard the stories about the Black twins who killed their mate. Hell every male in their family did. To think they are on a search for their second chance. Good luck to the next she-wolf mated to them because that’s not a gift it’s a death sentence.

People talk about them like tragedies. Like monsters. Depends who you ask.

Personally, I think being somebody’s second chance sounds insulting.

Imagine surviving fate just to become someone’s replacement.

“what if they are nice?” Astra my wolf says. Although I didn’t shift when I turned 18, I’ve been able to talk to Astra since I was 11, she said it’s because we are special.

Astra always says things like that like she forgot wolves aren’t the ones that have to live with consequences.

“Nice won’t matter if you’re dead” I say to her as I walk into my room. Besides, I already know what I want.

Medical school.

My own clinic someday.

A chance to prove that not having a wolf doesn’t make me less than everyone else.

A mate was never part of the plan.

Especially not one that came with a death sentence attached. I get in the shower and wash my hair. When I step into my closet Astra starts pacing in my head.

Not excited pacing.

Nervous pacing.

Astra doesn’t get nervous.

Not before fights.

Not before rogue attacks.

Not even when I broke my arm at thirteen and thought the bone sticking out was the coolest thing I'd ever seen.

No.

“Please tell me it’s not us” I say to her.

“I don’t know just go down” She whimpers.

Her voice sounds softer than usual.

That scares me more than if she said yes.

I throw on a pair of pink shorts and a white halter top. I diffuse my hair quickly and fluff my curls. My curls finally settle around my shoulders and I give myself a quick once-over in the mirror. I may not be trying to be their mate but I still want to look good.

Looking good and wanting attention aren’t the same thing. My mama raised me better than to look scared in my own house.

The moment I open my room door the smell hits me instantly fresh brewed coffee and freshly baked cinnamon rolls.

Strong. Way stronger than I expected. Strong enough that for half a second my feet stop moving.

People always talk about finding your mate like it feels magical. Nobody ever talks about the part where your body recognizes danger before your brain This must be a sick joke Selene. Destined to die by the hands of the men made to love me unconditionally.

And the worst part?

For one stupid second before the fear hit… I felt the happiness of finding my mate.