Chapter 28 No Self-Preservation #2
“Don’t let the size fool you,” his friend laughed. “She’s mean as hell.”
“Mean?” I called out. “I prefer efficient.”
I looked away first, rolled my neck, stepped back from the bag, and took a drink from my water bottle. A moment later he walked over, and the distinct wolf scent hit me before he closed the distance.
He stopped a respectful few feet away, hands on his hips, head slightly tilted.
“Hey,” he said.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Hey.”
“Heard you took down Tom.”
“Heard right.”
A small grin tugged at his mouth. “You got a round in you tonight?”
I studied him. No theatrics, no fake toughness. He just looked like someone who actually knew how to fight. After the encounter with John, that was exactly what I needed. The restlessness and ugly anger were still sitting under my skin, and I wanted to hit something until it burned itself out.
“One round,” I said. “And stay away from my face. I’ve got plans tomorrow.”
Jackson would be pissed if he knew.
“Deal.”
Finn crossed the floor, looking resigned. “Ring’s free in five. Get your wraps on and mouthguards in.”
I set my bottle aside and tightened the wraps around my wrists while he stretched across from me. Up close he looked even bigger, thick through the torso, his hands scarred and callused from years of fighting.
The moment I ducked through the ropes the crowd thickened around the ring. Phones came out almost immediately, people shifting closer for a better view.
“You got a name?” he asked.
“Harper.”
“Wyatt.” He gave a two-finger salute. “Try not to make me look too bad.”
“No promises.”
A low oooh rippled through the guys at the ropes. Wyatt grinned and slipped in his mouthguard. I did the same.
Finn pointed between us. “Keep your egos under control.” Then he stepped back and blew the whistle.
We traded blows for a full five minutes. It was hard, fast, and honest. Wyatt was good. Stronger and sharper than most of the guys I faced here. But I was faster and I wanted it more.
By the time Finn blew the whistle again, I had him backed against the ropes, breathing hard, with a clear decision in my favor.
Wyatt pulled out his mouthguard and shook his head with a laugh.
"Fuck. That no-face rule really screwed me." He was still catching his breath. "Had to pull half my shots."
“Mm.”
“Not making excuses.”
“You sort of are.”
He laughed. “Yeah. A little.” He rolled his shoulder once, a reluctant grin tugging at his mouth. “Rematch sometime? No restrictions?”
“Maybe.”
He offered a fist. I bumped it, then stepped back.
I ducked out from under the ropes before anyone could start a post-match analysis. My ribs lit up the second I straightened. My arm was already its own complaint, and my hip joined in. Tomorrow was going to be ugly under long sleeves.
But the restlessness was finally still.
The next morning, I wore a long-sleeved shirt to hide the bruises on my arms and a pair of black leggings. Only a faint ache remained when I moved, tucked beneath muscle memory, adrenaline, and the lingering satisfaction of beating that overconfident wolf in the ring the night before.
Worth it.
For morning practice I threw on a lightweight jacket over my tank top despite the mild October morning. Nobody questioned it. Everyone was too busy suffering through Coach Miller’s warm-up routine.
Behavioral Analysis was at ten. Jackson took his usual seat beside me and didn’t notice anything. Or if he did, he didn’t say. Sterling lectured for fifty minutes on the architecture of organized versus disorganized offender profiles. I took good notes.
By the time class ended, the hallway outside had filled with students flooding between lectures in loud, restless waves. Jackson walked beside me toward my next class, one hand occasionally brushing the small of my back whenever the crowd thickened.
Then his phone buzzed.
He glanced down at first like it was something he could ignore. Then he stopped walking completely. It was a video. I caught flashes of movement, canvas, and the unmistakable shape of a ring. The audio was low, but the cheer that rose from the speaker was one I recognized from the night before.
Uh-oh.
Jackson stood dead still in the middle of the hallway as the clip played. His jaw tightened slowly.
I didn’t wait. I turned and started walking faster.
I already knew how he felt about the fighting gym. About the bruises. About anything that involved me getting hurt. It was ridiculous and deeply inconvenient. And frankly I was not emotionally prepared for whatever overprotective wolf meltdown was currently brewing behind those gray eyes.
A few seconds later, I heard footsteps behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder. Jackson was cutting through the crowd, his expression making it very clear that a conversation was coming whether I wanted one or not.
“Fuck,” I muttered as I sped up and rounded the corner at the end of the hall. The disabled bathroom was unoccupied, the little slider showing green. I slipped inside, clicked the door shut behind me, and pressed my back against it, holding my breath.
Maybe he’d keep walking. Maybe he’d decide a stupid little sparring match wasn’t worth the chase.
I waited, listening for his footsteps to pass.
I wasn’t hiding from Jackson. I was buying myself a minute. There was a difference.
My cat snorted at the excuse. I ignored her.
Maybe he would walk past. Maybe he hadn’t seen which door I—
The handle moved.
I had a fraction of a second to register that I hadn’t locked it before the door swung inward. I stumbled back to keep my toes from being clipped.
“Shit.”
Jackson filled the doorway the moment he stepped inside, broad shoulders tense beneath his gray shirt, his expression dark enough to make most people reconsider their life choices.
Unfortunately for him, I had very little self-preservation instinct left these days.