Chapter 7
Jericho
“We’re going to fight. To the death.”
I stare at her. Then I understand what she just said.
She’s serious.
The absurdity of it hits me first. This woman—maybe five-ten at best, exhausted, injured, running on fumes—wants to fight me. Hand to hand. To the death.
I’m six-six. I have eighty pounds on her, two centuries of combat training, and dragon bone density that makes me effectively bulletproof even without my fire.
And she’s wolf. Fast, yes. Dangerous in a pack. But in a one-on-one fight against a dragon?
It’s not even a contest.
I study her stance anyway. Not because I’m worried, but because I’m trying to understand the strategy. Weight slightly forward—aggressive posture. Shoulders tight with fatigue she’s trying to hide. The shallow quality of her breathing that suggests bruised ribs.
She’s offering me a fight she cannot possibly win.
The question isn’t whether I’ll survive this. It’s what kind of death she’s trying to buy herself. She just doesn’t know it.
“A fight,” I repeat, letting the words settle. “You and me.”
“Yes.”
“To the death.”
“Yes.”
I blink. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Her eyes flare as she reaches for something at her hip. Produces a key. Crosses the space between us with quick, angry strides. Steps in front of me.
Her fingers work the suppression cuffs. The runes flicker, die. Metal falls away and heat floods back into my system—not dragonfire yet, just the return of natural temperature that’s been dampened for hours.
She stands. Backs away three paces. Pulls a combat knife from her belt and throws it. The blade embeds in the dirt floor near my feet.
“Pick it up,” she says.
I look at the knife. At her. Back to the knife.
“Fair terms,” she continues. Her voice is hard, controlled. “No shifting. Blades only. First one down doesn’t get up.”
The laugh escapes before I can stop it. Not cruel. Just… genuine disbelief.
She thinks this is fair. She actually believes that giving me a weapon and fighting me on even terms—no fire, no shifting—somehow levels a playing field that has never been level. That two hundred years of killing experience can be matched by youth and rage and whatever training Aurora gave her.
“You cannot be serious,” I say, shaking my head.
Her eyes flare.
“This is your plan?” I gesture between us. “You drag me into a shelter, give me a blade, and hope you’re good enough to—what? Kill me in single combat?”
“Stop talking.”
“I don’t think you understand the—”
“I said stop talking.” The fury in her voice finally registers. Not calculated. Just raw.
She’s not trying to win. She’s trying to survive what she’s feeling.
The realization should change something. Should make me stop. Should trigger some basic decency that says you don’t mock someone’s desperate attempt at justice, however futile.
But the absurdity is still too much.
I shake my head. “You don’t stand a chance against me. You must know that.”
“I know you’re still talking when I told you to stop.”
“This isn’t arrogance. It’s—”
“Shut. Up.”
“—basic reality. I’ve been training since before your grandmother was—”
She attacks. No warning. No stance shift. Just pure explosive violence that closes the distance before my brain catches up to my eyes.
The blade arcs toward my throat. I twist. Too slow. The edge catches my shoulder—shallow, but enough to draw blood. Pain flares hot and immediate.
She’s already moving. Inside my guard. Elbow driving toward my face. I block. Barely. The impact sends shock up my forearm.
She’s fast. Faster than any wolf I’ve fought. Faster than she should be with exhaustion dragging at her.
And she’s not fighting to win.
She’s fighting to hurt.
Every strike is personal. Brutal. Her knife comes at me again, and I deflect—steel screaming against steel—but she’s already transitioning. Knee toward my ribs. I block with my forearm. The force rocks me back.
The hatred coming off her is gut-deep. Not the cold calculation of a professional. Not even the hot rage of someone seeking revenge.
This is something deeper. Something that’s been living inside her, feeding on itself, growing teeth and claws and the kind of fury that doesn’t burn out—it just burns.
And it unsettles me.
I’ve faced plenty of people who wanted me dead. Occupational hazard. But this—
This is different.
I catch her wrist as she strikes again. Twist. She doesn’t resist the momentum—uses it, spins into me, and suddenly we’re too close. Her free hand rakes toward my eyes. I grab it. Lock both her wrists.
For a second, we’re frozen. Straining against each other. Her face inches from mine, teeth bared, eyes burning.
“What did I do to you?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
She doesn’t answer. Just wrenches free with a move that shouldn’t work but does because she’s willing to dislocate her own shoulder to make it happen.
The blade flashes. I lean back. Edge whispers past my throat close enough to feel. We separate. Circle. Both breathing hard now.
Her technique is Aurora standard—efficient, brutal, designed to end fights fast. But she’s layering something else over it.
Street fighting. Pack mentality translated to human form.
The kind of viciousness that comes from knowing your opponent is stronger and deciding you don’t care. You’ll take them apart anyway.
She comes at me again.
This time, I’m ready. Block. Counter. She deflects. We trade strikes—blade work so fast it’s almost too quick to track. Steel rings against steel. Each impact jolts up my arm.
She’s tiring. I can see it in the fractional delays. The way her breathing gets shallower. But she doesn’t stop.
Won’t stop.
Her blade slips past my guard. Cuts across my ribs.
It fucking stings, goddamit.
Enough.
This is ridiculous.
I grab her knife hand. Twist hard. Bones grind beneath my grip. She drops the blade.
Doesn’t matter. She lunges anyway. Bare hands reaching for my throat like she’ll kill me with her fingers if she has to. Like she’ll dig into flesh and bone and tear until there’s nothing left.
We crash together. Grappling now. No more technique. Just heaving bodies and fury and desperate strength. I’m bigger. Stronger. Should be able to end this in seconds. But she fights like something feral. Twisting. Clawing. Using every part of her body as a weapon.
My hand closes around her wrist, spinning her off balance.
We stagger. Hit the wall. Stone digs into my back.
Her weight presses against me. Not striking now.
Just holding position. Fingers wrapped in my jacket.
Face turned up toward mine, eyes burning.
Both breathing too hard. And something shifts.
The air changes. Thickens. Heat that has nothing to do with exertion floods my system.
Her scent hits me. Not the snow and blood and violence I’ve been tracking. Something underneath. Something that bypasses conscious thought and goes straight to hindbrain instinct.
Wild. Female. Want.
My dragon rumbles. Not fire. Not the need to burn. Something else.
Her pupils dilate. Lips part. That silver circle bleeds further into the green of her irises until her eyes are more wolf than human.
And I realize… she’s not looking at me with hatred anymore. The rage is still there. Still burning. But underneath it—
Hunger.
Raw. Undeniable. The kind that has nothing to do with violence and everything to do with need. Her grip tightens on my jacket. Not pulling away. Pulling closer.
The heat between us ratchets up. Fast. Wrong. Overwhelming.
I’m acutely aware of every point of contact. Her hips against mine. The curve of her waist under my palm. The rapid rise and fall of her chest pressing lush breasts against me. The way her breath ghosts across my throat.
Her gaze drops to my mouth.
I’m surrounded by a heady cloud of female pheromones, and my pulse kicks into a rhythm that has nothing to do with combat.
She leans in—
No. Not leaning.
Surging.
Her body presses against mine with enough force to drive the air from my lungs. Not an attack. Something else entirely. Her hands slide from my jacket to my chest, nails scraping through fabric. Her leg hooks behind mine.
The movement is pure instinct. Hungry. Sexual.
The way she looks at me—
It’s not rage anymore. It’s need stripped down to something primal and desperate and completely beyond reason. Like she’s fighting the urge to rip my clothes off with her teeth.
Heat explodes through my system. My fire responds before I can stop it—not to burn, but to match. To answer whatever this is radiating from her in waves.
Every nerve ending lights up. I can feel my control slipping. Feel something shifting in how my body recognizes hers. Closeness stops being closeness and becomes rightness. Becomes the only thing that makes sense in a world that stopped making sense the moment she touched me.
Her nails press into my chest. She grinds forward, rubbing her pussy against where I’m growing suddenly, inexplicably hard.
Her breathing turns ragged.
I freeze. Draw back.
Her eyes lock on mine, and I see it—the exact moment she realizes what’s happening. What she’s doing. What her body is demanding despite all the threats she was hurling at me just minutes ago.
Horror flashes across her face. She tears herself away. Violent. Desperate.
Stumbles backward until she hits the opposite wall. Her hands come up—not defensive. Just… lost. Like she doesn’t know what to do with them when they’re not touching me.
“No,” she gasps. “No, that’s not—”
She doesn’t finish. Just stands there. Chest heaving. Eyes wide. Staring at me like I’m something monstrous.
Or like she is.
I don’t move. Couldn’t if I wanted to. My fire rages beneath my skin. Every instinct screaming at me to close the distance. To press her back against that wall and find out what happens if I don’t pull away.
What the hell just happened?
The question loops through my mind but finds no answer. Just the echoing awareness that thirty seconds ago I was fighting for my life.
And now—
Now I don’t know what this is.
Her breathing stays too fast. Shallow. She presses back against stone like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
Won’t look at me. Just stares at the space between us where both our blades lie abandoned.
Outside, the storm howls. Snow builds against the entrance in drifts that will seal us in.
My shoulder throbs where her blade caught me. Blood seeps slow and warm beneath my jacket. The cut across my ribs stings with each breath.
None of it matters.
All I can feel is the phantom weight of her against me. The memory of heat that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with something I don’t understand. Or maybe I do understand it. I just never expected to encounter it here. Now. With this female, who just vowed to kill me.
She still won’t look at me.
And I realize… whatever just happened terrified her more than any blade could.
We face each other. Both breathing too hard. Neither moving.
Something changed.
Something fundamental.
And there’s no going back.