Chapter 2: Sparring with the Devil
The morning sun hit the cracked earth of the training grounds, turning the dew to steam. The familiar scents of pine, dirt, and old sweat usually centered Willow. Today, they were just background noise to the pulse thrumming in her own veins. She rolled her shoulders, the memory of his thumb a brand against her thigh.
“So, how does this work?” Lilly asked, settling on a low wooden bench at the ring’s edge. She looked oddly elegant amidst the rustic setting, like a jewel dropped in the mud.
“Usually, it’s just drills. Sparring. Conditioning,” Logan said, pulling off his shirt and tossing it aside. His bare torso was a map of lean muscle and old, familiar scars from their childhood mishaps. He began to stretch, his movements fluid. “We keep it sharp.”
“It sounds dreadfully sweaty,” Lilly laughed, but her eyes were keen, watching everything.
Jabari stood apart, his arms crossed. He’d removed his own shirt, revealing the full tapestry of his history. The tattoos were one thing—intricate patterns of knots and blades. The scars were another. Long, vicious claws marks across his ribs. A puckered puncture low on his abdomen. A silver-burned slash along his collarbone that spoke of a poisoned blade. Each one a story of survival that felt like a challenge. His gaze was fixed on Willow as she methodically tightened the laces on her training gloves.
“Let’s make it interesting,” Logan said, clapping his hands together. “A friendly exhibition. Two-minute rounds. No full shifts, obviously. First to three clean strikes or a submission.” He looked between Willow and Jabari. “Who’s up first?”
“I am.” Jabari’s voice cut the morning air. He didn’t look at Logan. His gold-flecked eyes held Willow’s. “And I pick my opponent.”
The silence that followed was thick. Logan’s easy posture stiffened. Lilly leaned forward, her smile curious.
“Willow,” Jabari said, her name a deliberate echo of his breakfast-table pronouncement.
She met his stare. Refusal was not an option. It would look like fear, and fear was a luxury she’d never allowed herself. She gave a single, curt nod. “Fine.”
They stepped into the center of the ring. The dirt was packed hard from generations of use. The pack members who’d been going through their own routines slowly stopped, gathering at the perimeter. A future Alpha fighting an allied pack’s Alpha was spectacle enough. But everyone knew Willow’s reputation. The latent who could outfight anyone in skin. The mismatch was intriguing.
“Remember, friendly,” Logan called, but his voice held an edge of warning. He took a spot beside Lilly, his body tense, ready to spring.
Jabari circled her, a predator assessing. He moved with a loose-limbed grace that belied his solid build. Willow settled into her stance, knees bent, weight balanced on the balls of her feet. Her world narrowed to the space between them, to the shift of his shoulders, the placement of his feet.
He struck first. A testing jab, fast. She deflected it with her forearm, the impact vibrating up her bone. He followed with a low kick. She pivoted, letting it whistle past her thigh. They moved in a sudden, blurring exchange—block, parry, feint. The smack of leather gloves against skin, the grunt of expelled air. It was formal, technical. A display.
But his eyes told a different story.
Every time she got close, his nostrils would flare. Every time she blocked him, a flicker of that dark satisfaction would touch his mouth. He was letting her dance. He was reading her.
“Very good,” he murmured as she ducked under a hook and came up inside his guard, landing a sharp, glancing blow to his ribs. It was a point. The small crowd murmured approval.
He didn’t seem to feel it. “Your form is impeccable. Like a beautiful, closed circuit.”
He came at her again, but this time his style changed. The technical precision bled away, replaced by something far more brutal and efficient. He wasn’t fighting to score points. He was fighting to conquer. He took a hit to his shoulder to grab her wrist. His grip was iron, crushing. He used her own momentum to spin her, slamming his body against her back, pinning her arm high between her shoulder blades.
The air left her lungs in a rush. He was everywhere, a wall of scarred, hot muscle. The scent of smoke and honey was overwhelming, mixed with the clean sweat of the fight. His chest pressed into her spine, his hips flush against the curve of her backside.
“First submission,” Logan announced, his voice strained.
Jabari’s mouth dropped to her ear. His breath was scalding. “This is where you break, little warrior,” he whispered, the words raw silk and threat. “I’m going to take you right here, in the dirt you love so much. I’m going to make you scream so loud they’ll hear it in my territory.” His free hand slid from her pinned arm, down over her hip, gripping the front of her thigh with intimate, bruising possession. “You’ll come on my cock begging for it.”
A violent, traitorous shudder wracked her. It was fury. It was also a white-hot lance of desire that speared through her core, molten and humiliating. Her wolf didn’t howl this time. It purred, a low, rolling thrum of anticipation deep in her belly.
With a snarl of pure rage—at him, at herself—she exploded. She threw her weight forward, then jackknifed back, her head snapping toward his face. He anticipated the headbutt, jerking back, but his grip loosened a fraction. It was all she needed. She drove her elbow into the soft tissue under his ribcage, a move that would have shattered a human’s spleen.
He grunted, his body instinctively curling. She twisted like an eel, wrenching her wrist free, spinning out of his grasp. They faced each other, breathing hard. A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose where her braids had whipped across his face. The hunger in his eyes had ignited into a conflagration.
She didn’t wait. She attacked. All technique was gone now, burned away by the need to wipe that look off his face, to silence the wolf and the whisper inside her. It was just violence. A flurry of fists and knees. He met her, blow for blow, his blocks like stone, his strikes like falling timber. The crowd was silent, the friendly exhibition forgotten.
He caught a kick, yanking her off balance. She hit the dirt on her back, the impact stunning her. He was on her in an instant, his knees pinning her thighs, his hands catching her wrists, slamming them into the earth above her head. His weight settled over her, crushing, complete. The morning sky was a blue prison behind his head.
She struggled, bucking, but he was immovable. His blood dripped from his nose, a single, hot splatter landing on her cheekbone. He lowered his head, his mouth a breath from hers. The promise in his eyes was devastating.
“Two,” Logan called out, the word choked.
“Tell me you want it,” Jabari breathed against her lips. His hips pressed down, and she felt the hard, undeniable evidence of his arousal against her. A whimper, small and broken, clawed its way up her throat. His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Tell me, and I’ll make the world disappear.”
For a heartbeat, she was lost. The ache between her legs was a pounding, unanimous vote. Her body arched, seeking more of the pressure.
Then she saw Logan’s face over Jabari’s shoulder. His amber eyes were wide, confused, hurt. The sight was a bucket of ice water.
With a scream that was all fury, she brought her knees up with every ounce of her strength, breaking his balance. She wrenched a hand free and swung. Her gloved fist connected with his jaw with a crack that echoed off the surrounding trees.
He reeled back, off of her. She scrambled to her feet, chest heaving, dirt and blood smeared across her face and neck.
“Three,” Logan said, the relief in his voice palpable. “Match to Willow.”
The pack erupted in cheers and respectful claps. Lilly was standing, applauding with a bright, puzzled smile. “That was incredible! So fierce!”
Jabari slowly pushed himself to his feet. He worked his jaw side to side, a slow, considering motion. He didn’t look angry. He looked… pleased. Deeply, profoundly pleased. He swiped the back of his hand under his nose, smearing the blood. His eyes never left hers. The hunger hadn’t dimmed. It had been validated.
He walked toward her, closing the distance as the crowd’s noise subsided. He stopped too close, as always. He reached out. She flinched, but his fingers merely brushed the splatter of his own blood from her cheekbone. The touch was startlingly gentle.
“You fight like it’s a dying art,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear. The gravel in it had softened. “You’re magnificent.”
He leaned in, his next words a secret for her alone, stripping away the violent promise for something infinitely more dangerous. “That wasn’t you winning, Willow. That was you choosing him. For now.” He stepped back, giving her a nod that was almost respectful. “I can be patient.”
He turned and walked away, collecting his shirt without a backward glance. Lilly was already chattering to Logan about the techniques, pulling his attention away.
Willow stood rooted in the center of the ring, the taste of copper in her mouth, the ghost of his weight still pressing her into the earth. Her body hummed, alive in ways she’d never felt. Her wolf was silent, but its presence was a quiet, thrumming constant now, a beast finally stretching in its cage.
She had won the match. But as she watched Jabari’s retreating back, the scars gleaming in the sun, she felt with terrifying certainty that she had just begun to lose everything else.
But as she watched Jabari’s retreating back, the scars gleaming in the sun, she felt with terrifying certainty that she had just begun to lose everything else.
The applause faded into the regular sounds of the grounds. Logan approached, his hand extended to help her from the ring. She ignored it, pushing herself up on trembling legs.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice low. His eyes searched her face, seeing the blood, the wildness she couldn’t hide.
“Fine. Just need to clean up.” Her words came out clipped. She couldn’t meet his gaze, afraid he’d see the shameful heat still flooding her system. She turned and walked toward the pack house, each step feeling uncoordinated, foreign.
Lilly’s voice carried, bright and oblivious. “Logan, darling, show me that move she used to break his hold! It was so swift.”
Willow didn’t look back. The phantom pressure of Jabari’s body, the stark imprint of his arousal, the filthy poetry of his promises—they all moved with her, a second skin more intimate than sweat. She took the back entrance, avoiding the main halls, her boots silent on the stone.
The communal shower room was empty, echoing with the drip of a distant faucet. Steam from an earlier user still hazed the air. She leaned against the cool tile wall, braiding her composure back together strand by fractured strand. It was a futile effort. Her gloves hit the bench with a dull thud.
She peeled off her soiled clothes, the fabric clinging to her damp skin. The water she turned on was scalding, a punishment and a purge. She stepped under the brutal spray, tilting her face up, letting it beat against her closed eyelids. She scrubbed at the smear of his blood on her cheek until her skin stung.
The sound of the lock clicking shut was soft, metallic, and final.
Her eyes flew open. Water streamed into them, blurring the figure by the door. He was just a shape through the steam, but she knew the silhouette, the breadth of him. He’d already dropped the towel from his waist. It puddled on the wet floor. He was fully, unapologetically naked.
Her breath seized. “What are you doing? Why is the door locked?”
He didn’t answer. He just walked toward her, the water beading on his skin, highlighting every scar, every cord of muscle. She backed up instinctively, her wet shoulders hitting the cold tile. He closed the distance, caging her in with his arms, his body not yet touching hers but surrounding her completely under the rushing spray.
“Jabari—”
He lifted a hand. His thumb stroked a slow, agonizing path from her temple to her jaw, pushing through the wet streams. “You are so unbelievably beautiful,” he murmured, his voice raw, almost wondering. His gaze fixed on her mouth. His own lips were parted.
He leaned in, stopping a whisper away. His scent, that damned smoke and honey, filled the steam. “Stop me,” he said, the command a low vibration in the space between them. “Say no. Push me away. Do it now.”
Her mind screamed a dozen reasons. Logan. Loyalty. The alliance. Her own crumbling control. Her body, humming from the fight, from his touch, from the wolf howling a chorus of yes inside her, was utterly, devastatingly silent. She couldn’t make her hands lift. She couldn’t form the word.
The absence of her refusal was his answer.
He closed the last fragment of space. His mouth captured hers, not with the brutal force she expected, but with a devastating, consuming thoroughness. It was deep, claiming, and starving. A groan ripped from his chest. One hand gripped her ass, pulling her flush against him, letting her feel every hard, unforgiving inch of his desire. The other tangled in her braids, tilting her head to take more.
She was lost. A sound, half-sob, half-surrender, escaped her throat. Her hands, traitors, flew to his shoulders, her fingers digging into the hard planes of his back, feeling the ridges of old scars under her palms. She kissed him back with a frantic hunger that mirrored his own, her tongue meeting his, her body arching into the solid heat of him.
The water pounded down on them, a cocoon of sound and steam. He kissed her like he was dying for it, his hands roaming her slick skin—her waist, the curve of her hip, the swell of her breast. His touch was rough, worshipful, and utterly possessive. She gasped into his mouth, her own hands sliding over the fascinating, brutal landscape of his shoulders, his chest.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. His gold-flecked eyes were black with need. Without a word, he sank to his knees on the wet floor. His hands pushed her thighs apart, his grip firm, insistent. He held her there, open before him, under the cascade of water.
“Wait—” she choked out, but it was a weak protest, consumed by anticipation.
He didn’t wait. He leaned in, and his tongue, hot and masterful, stroked a long, slow path through her folds. Her gasp echoed off the tiles, sharp and shocked. The sensation was electric, a direct, shocking line to her core. Her knees buckled. His hands on her thighs held her upright.
A firm, quick knock rattated the door. “Jabari? Are you in there?” Lilly’s voice, muffled but clear, pierced the steam.
Willow froze, panic dousing the fire for a blinding second. She pushed at his shoulders, a frantic, silent plea. He didn’t release her. Instead, he lapped at her again, a deliberate, slow curl of his tongue that made her vision blur.
“I’m busy,” he called out, his voice remarkably steady, even as his fingers found her entrance and slid deep inside her, filling her utterly. The dual sensation—his tongue, his fingers—drew a ragged, uncontrollable moan from her.
She slapped a hand over her own mouth, eyes wide with terror and unbearable pleasure.
“We need to talk. Soon,” Lilly said from the other side of the door, a note of impatience in her tone.
“I’ll find you,” Jabari replied, his mouth moving against her as he spoke, the vibrations wrecking her. He added, the words dark and clear, “Don’t go far.”
His fingers curled, stroking a spot that made her see white. His tongue focused on her clit, relentless, perfect. The coil in her belly snapped.
Her orgasm tore through her, violent and silent, a seismic wave that clenched around his fingers and stole the air from her lungs. She shook, her hand still clamped over her mouth, a scream trapped behind her teeth, her free hand gripping his shaved head for anchor as the water rained down.
He held her through it, his mouth gentling, drawing out every last shudder. As the pulses subsided, he rose, his body slick and water-sheened. He kissed her, deep and slow, letting her taste herself on his tongue.
“That,” he said against her lips, his voice thick with satisfaction, “was just a tease. You taste like heaven and violence.” He reached past her, turned off the water. The sudden silence was deafening.
He stepped out, picked up his towel, and wrapped it around his waist with a casual flick. He didn’t look back as he unlocked the door and slipped out, leaving it slightly ajar.
Willow slumped against the wall, her legs useless, her entire body trembling with aftershocks. Water dripped from the ends of her braids. The only sound was her own ragged, panting breaths echoing in the sudden, empty quiet. The steam began to thin, revealing the empty room, the puddle on the floor, the profound, irrevocable line she had just let him cross.
The steam began to thin, revealing the empty room, the puddle on the floor, the profound, irrevocable line she had just let him cross. Her legs finally gave out, sliding down the slick tile until she sat in the cooling water, arms wrapped around her knees. The ghost of his mouth, his hands, his tongue, was a phantom imprint burning hotter than the spray had been.
She didn’t know how long she sat there. Time dissolved. Eventually, the chill of the floor seeped into her bones, prodding her to move. She stood on unsteady legs, dried herself with a rough towel, and dressed in clean clothes with mechanical precision. Each movement felt borrowed, like she was piloting a body that no longer fully belonged to her. The reflection in the foggy mirror showed her face, but the eyes were a stranger’s—wide, dark, and humming with a foreign energy.
She avoided everyone for the rest of the day. She claimed a headache, retreating to the small weapons room to sharpen blades that didn’t need it. The metallic shink-shink of the whetstone was a mantra, but it couldn’t drown out the memory of his groan against her skin, the feeling of his fingers inside her, the way her own body had shattered so completely for him. Her wolf was a quiet, satiated presence now, a sleeping beast curled in satisfaction deep in her gut. The ache of its absence was gone, replaced by this terrifying, full awareness.
As dinner time rolled around, the formal summons felt like a walk to a gallows. She made her way to the dining hall, her boots silent on the stone. She was almost to the grand doors when a hand touched her elbow.
“Will.”
She jumped, a flinch she couldn’t hide. Logan stood in an alcove, his amber eyes searching her face with a concern that felt like a physical weight. “Hey,” he said, his voice softer. “You’ve been ghosting all day. What’s up with you?”
“Nothing. Just tired.” The lie was ash in her mouth.
“Bull,” he said, stepping closer, lowering his voice. “You’ve been wound tighter than a spring since the fight. More than that. Since they arrived.” He studied her, his head tilted. “Is it Lilly? She’s trying, you know. She wants to be friends.”
“It’s not Lilly.” The words came out too fast. She took a breath, grasping for a shard of truth she could hand him without revealing the catastrophic whole. She looked at the floor, then back at him. “Logan… I felt it. My wolf. I felt it for the first time. Recently.”
His expression shifted instantly, confusion melting into stunned, pure joy. “Willow. That’s… that’s incredible!” He didn’t hesitate. He pulled her into a tight hug, the familiar scent of him—sun-warmed cedar and clean cotton—engulfing her. It was brotherly, safe, a haven. For a second, she clung to it, desperate for the normalcy it represented.
“When? How did it happen?” he asked, pulling back, his hands on her shoulders, his smile brilliant.
“I don’t know. It just… woke up.” The half-truth tasted bitter. “Please. Don’t tell anyone. Not even Lilly. Not until I figure out what it means, or if it… if it stays. I need to process this alone.”
His smile softened into understanding. “Of course. Your secret’s safe with me. Always.” He squeezed her shoulder. “This is a good thing, Will. A great thing.” He looped his arm through hers, a gesture from their childhood. “Come on. Let’s get some food into you. Maybe that’s all you need.”
They walked into the dining hall together. The scene was a mirror of breakfast, but the air was thicker, charged with her new knowledge. Her eyes went immediately to the head table.
Jabari was already there. And just as before, the seat to his right was conspicuously, deliberately vacant. He was watching the entrance, a glass of dark red wine held loosely in his scarred fingers. His gaze locked onto her the moment she appeared, then flicked to Logan’s arm linked through hers. His expression didn’t change, but something in the atmosphere tightened, like the air before a lightning strike.
Logan gave her shoulder a final pat and moved to his place beside Lilly, who smiled warmly at them both. Willow had no choice. She walked toward the empty chair, each step echoing in her ears. She could feel the heat of Jabari’s attention as she slid into the seat beside him. The smoke-and-honey scent wrapped around her, a possessive claim she could no longer deny.
She reached for her water glass, her sleeve pulling back slightly. Logan, leaning over to say something to Lilly, brushed his hand companionably against Willow’s exposed wrist as he settled into his own chair. It was nothing. A fraction of a second of casual contact.
Jabari went rigid.
The change was instant and total. His knuckles around the wine glass turned white. His head snapped toward her wrist, his nostrils flaring violently. A low, almost inaudible rumble vibrated in his chest, a sound that wasn’t human. His gold-flecked eyes, when they lifted to hers, were pure, undiluted fury.
He slammed his utensils down onto his plate with a crack that silenced the table conversations. He stood so abruptly his chair screeched backward.
“I’ve lost my appetite,” he announced, his voice a strained whip of control. His gaze cut between Logan and Willow, a swift, searing look of betrayal and rage. Without another word, he turned and stormed from the dining hall, the heavy doors swinging shut behind him with a thud that shook the silverware.
The silence was absolute, then awkward.
Lilly cleared her throat, a graceful, placating smile on her face. “Please, excuse him. He’s never been good away from our own pack for long. Gets moods.” She waved a dismissive hand, picking up her fork. “He’ll be fine by morning.”
Logan nodded slowly, accepting the excuse, but his eyes were thoughtful as they met Willow’s across the table. She looked down at her plate, her appetite gone.
She sat through the rest of dinner, the food like paste in her mouth. Lilly’s chatter and the resumed clatter of cutlery became a distant drone. Every cell in her body was screaming to run after him, to explain, to confront the wildfire of his jealousy. But she didn’t move. Making a scene would raise questions she couldn’t answer. Following him would be a declaration, a submission to the pull between them that would shatter the careful alliance and betray Logan’s trust.
So she stayed. She sat perfectly still, folding her hands in her lap, hiding the wrist that bore the scent of her oldest friend—a scent that had just provoked her claimed mate into a public rage. The storm had left the room, but it churned inside her, violent and taut, and she knew with cold certainty that his patience, whatever he’d promised, was now definitively over.