Alpha Omega 02 - Hunting Ground

was an entirely different thing. There was no intelligence, no science to the way he fought here.
    The other wolves backed away, clearing room for the fight. There were no cheers or raucous comments. The witnesses, like Charles, were quiet, intent, as the battling wolves dug in deep with claws and fangs. This wasn’t a game, and no one treated it as such.
    If the size difference worried Charles at all, Anna couldn’t see it. Once Chastel settled in to battle it wasn’t nearly as one-sided as it had been at first—and it was brutal. Fur made it difficult to tell how badly either was wounded, but they were both bloody. When they broke apart and stood, heads lowered, fangs bared, blood dripped off their bodies and made little puddles on the wooden floor beneath them.
    Chastel dove under Charles and snapped his teeth closed on Charles’s hind leg. Before the French wolf’s grip was sure, Charles jerked the leg forward, twisted like a contortionist at Cirque du Soleil , and set his fangs into Chastel’s nose. Anna could hear the crunch from where she stood.
    Chastel forgot everything but getting Charles off his muzzle—releasing Charles’s back leg, then pulling, pushing, shaking—anything to get the other wolf off. Brother Wolf, who was Charles, held on like a bulldog while the French wolf’s struggles became more and more feeble. Until his eyes closed and his body twitched helplessly.
    Something tried to direct her attention away from Charles. A soft look here, look here from inside her—but Anna was busy trying to see how badly hurt he was.
    Angus stepped forward. “Let him go, Charles.”
    Brother Wolf jerked his head around—bringing Chastel’s massive and limp body with him. He looked Angus in the eyes and growled. Angus paled and backed up half a dozen steps until he bumped into Dana—who was watching the fight, looking far too pleased.
    Cold chills chased up Anna’s spine as she looked at the fae whose job it was to ensure order. Yes, here. Look. Look. She means him harm, whispered Anna’s wolf.
    The intent was written in the fae’s body, not her face, which showed only worry. But her body gave it away, the eager flex of fingers, a shift of weight—she was ready to spring for the kill. A hunt was up and, for the fae, Charles was the star-ruby ring at the end of it.
    Anna’s wolf told her, We will stop her. No one hurts the one who is ours.
    â€œYes,” whispered Anna.
    Dana spoke, “Charles Cornick, you have broken the peace here. Release him.”
    Brother Wolf didn’t even bother to look at her. What had he called her? She-Who-Is-Not-Kin, who thought she ruled him here in the place that belonged to the werewolves. Anna could all but touch his thoughts from his body language. Chastel tried to fight again and her mate sank down lower to increase his leverage. After a moment, the French wolf lay still again.
    Anna had no trouble with Chastel’s death—the consequences for Charles were another matter entirely. If she’d thought Charles would fight the fae, she’d have been less worried. But her mate was, in his heart of hearts, a man of order. If Chastel died because he was trying to terrify Anna, and the fae decided to call it a break of the truce, Charles might just concede the point. She didn’t know what the fae would do to him, and she didn’t intend to find out.
    Anna pulled away from Isaac’s slack hold.
    â€œCharles, let him go,” she said, walking to the middle of the cleared area. She’d almost addressed him as Brother Wolf, but somehow that seemed too intimate, too private to be shared.
    It was certainly Brother Wolf, not Charles, who turned to look at her, his eyes glazed with rage. She tried to open the connection between them wider, but Charles was holding himself apart—trying to protect her from what he was.
    She went to him and tapped him on the nose, ignoring the rage that, finally, made him growl full-throated and angry.
    â€œOpen up.” She hadn’t been afraid, but his growls and the smell of blood and other things made her remember too much. Remember when the blood, the desperation, had been hers.
    Her hands were shaking, and she was breathing through her nose like a racehorse at the end of the Kentucky Derby. But she stuck her thumb in his mouth and pulled, his canine sliding along the edge of her hand and slicing it open.
    As soon as he tasted