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He bristled, then shook his head, like he’d lost some internal debate. “Food and to let you know that I signed you up for round one tomorrow, the opening fight of the night.” The corner of his mouth twitched, and I wondered if that was his tell when he was lying.
“Swear it,” I said, and was up in a flash, my arms around his thigh, the steak knife he’d supplied me with pressed against the thin linen trousers, right at his femoral artery. “Swear you’re not lying.”
“You dirty little…” His green eyes gleamed like emeralds, but there was amusement just behind his anger. “I swear on my honor, I signed you up, with the name you chose.”
I winked and went back into a crouch by the food, tearing into a fried drumstick. “Not swearin’ on the honor of your pack, huh? Glen was going on and on about pack honor.”
“I know better. So should you.” Those eyes went dull, and he turned away.
“Um, how’s Luke?” I asked awkwardly.
Finnick let out a short laugh. “Brand found him after you stabbed him. He patched him up, though you came close to killing him.”
“But he ain’t dying. He’ll live.”
“He’ll live.”
“Good. That’s good,” I said, my gut roiling at the thought of Luke in pain. Or maybe it was just gas. Finnick shook his head at me for some reason. “Glen agreed to bid on me after I win, right?” I called at his back as he turned away. “I only gotta fight once?”
“That’s how it usually works. But you and I both know you could win against almost all of the early fighters.”
I tried not to let the praise affect me, but I felt a tiny swarm of shivers go down my spine. “I don’t care. I’m going to forfeit the second fight. Tell him that, okay?”
“Why?”
“I don’t need to show off. I just need to get out. Who’m I fighting?”
There were a lot of shifters from other packs, so it was unlikely I’d recognize the name. But if it did happen to be someone from my own pack, I’d have a leg up. I may not have been allowed to train, but I’d watched almost every Southern fighter in the training circle or the pack gym at some point. Usually from a supply closet or under a table while I was being hunted by Trevor or some other douche, but it didn’t matter. I had an almost perfect memory for fighting moves, and Del had made sure I knew about the weaknesses of our males.
Finnick hadn’t answered; he was walking off.
“Hey, Cityboy! Who am I up against? Someone from Southern?”
I heard his faint “No,” and then he was gone. I let it go, turning back to the food.
The next morning, I moved my campsite deeper into the forest since the wind had changed a bit. I knew Alpha Callaway still had wolves looking for me, so I stayed low and didn’t light any fires. I didn’t have to, since Finnick had also brought me a few handfuls of jerky and some bread rolls. I ate, slept, bathed in the creek again, and trained all weekend, nervously waiting until it was time to head back.
Finally, around what I hoped was five o’clock, I packed my things and started the long jog to the compound. Thoughts of Luke buzzed through my mind like unwelcome mosquitoes as I made my way. Luke was high-ranked and strong, and the wound I’d given him hadn’t been that bad. It should have healed almost instantly—I’d seen plenty of Enforcers heal from a lot worse. Everything short of amputation or decapitation.
The only mature shifter I’d seen with scars that never healed was Mom. She had explained that only the wounds left by silver, magic, or a true mate...
I stopped, feeling like throwing up. Oh, Mother Moon. It can’t be.
He can’t be.
Mama’s voice echoed in my memory as I stood stock-still, my thoughts humming like a knocked-down wasp’s nest.
“Why’s your face got marks, Mama?”
“That’s what happens when a true mate is bad, honey. I had a true mate, and he didn’t want me. He marked me like this to show everyone what he thought. To make me not beautiful.”
“It didn’t work. You’re still so pretty.”
It was true. My mama had dark hair that spilled over her shoulders in perfect curls, and bright golden eyes that flashed when she was happy. Which wasn’t often. I wanted to make her happy now.
“You’re the prettiest mama ever,” I told her, laying kisses on the scars that ran from her hairline to her chin and jawbone. She’d had those scars my whole life. Del had told me scars were marks of victory, not shameful like everyone else said. That they meant you’d survived and lived to fight another day.
Mama held still while I kissed her scars, but her face was crumpled up like it got before she cried, so I stopped and patted her shoulder instead.“I’ll be the happiest mama ever if you promise me one thing,” she whispered. “If you meet your true mate, and you even think for a second he might lay a hand on you… you run. Never let him get near you.”
