Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 763(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 763(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
They ran at me, their four legs closing the distance at lightning speed. It was too many for me to handle on my own and Weston stood still now, his nose nearly to the ground.
I didn’t call out to him. In the end, this wasn’t really his problem—I wasn’t really his problem. I didn’t have time to linger with the feelings of disappointment or hurt.
The wolves quickly circled me and I lashed out, slicing through the flank of one and spinning, sticking another in the side. The first bayed and the second dropped. I stepped toward another, but they were onto me now. They gave me space, dashing around me, faster than I was. And then he was there, materializing like some sort of phantom, walking on two legs through the melee. His eyes were sparkling, manic, his grin pulled wide into a sickly smile.
Alexander.
“Hello Aurelia,” he said, eyeing my knives as he approached. “Long time, no see. I’ve missed you. Plan to put up a fight?”
“I’m not defenseless now, you piece of shit. Come at me.”
He laughed. “With pleasure.”
His people were fast but he was like lightning. He dodged my strike and swung. I bent back just in time, only one of his knuckles glancing across my face. I struck forward with my right and then quickly my left, knowing he’d jerk away from the first but wouldn’t expect me to be as fluid with my non-dominant hand. The blade sank into his shoulder.
He sucked in a breath through his teeth but didn’t stop, slapping that hand away and connecting with a right hook. I twisted to evade the hit but my world exploded in stars, the pain not registering but the blurry vision with black splotches was unavoidable. That eye would swell shut quickly. I had to keep him from doing the same to the other.
He yanked the knife out of his shoulder and tossed it away. I used the time to feint and stick, feint and stick, finding purchase in his other bicep and then connecting with a nice deep slice in his thigh.
“Fuck! You bitch,” he hissed, a vicious punch landing against my ribs. “Who the fuck taught you to work a knife?”
“The idea . . . of sticking a pointy end . . . into soft bits . . . doesn’t require much . . . brain power,” I panted as I kept working, ignoring the throbbing pain in my ribs. It was his favorite spot to go after. I needed to keep him from doing it again or the fight would be over.
But he was already closing in, a punch landing against my cheek and another into my stomach.
I bent, trying to keep from doubling over, and slashed.
He dodged, smacked my wrist away, making me drop the knife, and grabbed at me. His hands spun me around, his arms closed around me, and then he started to drag me, wrestling me out of the clearing.
“No,” I yelled, fighting for all I was worth.
He paused for a moment to bash two quick fists into the side of my head. My thoughts got hazy and my world swam but I didn’t stop. The trick to fight or flight was the commitment. Choose one or the other but keep doing it until you couldn’t physically do it anymore . . . and then wake up and try again. My nails raked skin off his arms. My teeth ripped out a chunk of foul-tasting flesh. When he stopped to strike me again, I took advantage of the opportunity and twisted in his grip, freeing an arm. I reached over my head, poking a finger into his eye. When he pulled his head back and roared in agony, I hooked my finger into his open mouth and pulled until his cheek tore. It was something.
His swear made me feel better. He stopped to get a better purchase, ready to deliver a blow to knock me clean out, and I angled my body away from the blow I knew was coming. I had the benefit of already knowing all his tricks. He wasn’t very creative when it came to administering pain, probably because no one was ever allowed to fight back.
I connected a knee to his ball sack while I jammed the heel of my hand into his nose.
The battle around us slowed. The wolves gradually stopped fighting.
Fear consumed me that his people were able to take Weston’s down.
The fear turned into adrenaline.
“Fuck!” I punched his throat. “You!”
His fist arced . . . but then went wide as he turned, looking around us. In a moment his arms were gone, his body torn away.
I staggered, doing a quick glance for the nearest knife and then ducking just in case. No fist came.
He and several others ran from the clearing, all in human form. Wolves around us continued to slow, the enemy dropping to their bellies, a couple I recognized still standing. A handful of others broke away, and I recognized them, too. They ran after Alexander and his people in their human forms, snarling.