Page 10 of Fighting the Alpha

I can smell him. Linen and sun, threaded with a territorial edge that immediately draws my focus to the opposite corner.

Levi is already there, leaning back against the turnbuckle with that effortless, infuriating arrogance. When our eyes meet, his jaw tightens, his green eyes gleaming under the bright canopy of the lights and the corners of his lips twitching into a smug smile. He looks like he thinks he’s already won, and it makes an uneasy mixture of fury and heat clash in the pit of my stomach.

“Focus,” Marcus rumbles in my ear before I step fully into the ring, picking up the spike in my scent as he slips the robe off my shoulders. “Do what you know how to do. You’re in control. You’ve got this.”

He’s right. I didn’t train this hard for this long just to get thrown by a fuckingsmirkat the last second. I’m better than that. I blink away the distraction and shake out my limbs.

I wait as long as I can to step within earshot of him, not giving him the opportunity to hit me with one of his smart-ass comments.

The bell rings, and the world shrinks down to the space between us.

The opening rounds are a brutal, high-speed chess match. Levi’s speed is as lethal as ever, but my nine months of torturous conditioning have paid off. At one point I slip his left hook, countering with a heavy body shot that makes him grunt, the force of the impact vibrating right up my arm. He’s forcedto reset, his heels skimming the canvas as he circles me, his breathing shallower than usual.

By the eighth round, the air inside the ropes is thick, choked with our clashing pheromones. My heavy caramel scent is dense and aggressive, while his clean linen pheromones lash back, trying to crowd my senses and force me into a mistake. But I refuse to let it. My muscles are screaming, the intensity of the fight keeping me teetering on the brink of my capacity.

Then, during a tight exchange in the corner, Levi slips inside my guard. His lithe limbs are shining with sweat, the faint dusting of hair on his chest damp as he moves closer, getting in my face as his lips curl into his trademark smirk. The one that I’m beginning to realise does things to me that it absolutely shouldn’t.

"Getting tired,gros?" he whispers, a panting rasp that nearly makes me shiver, my mind jumping back to having that same voice in my ear and his weight at my back. "Better save some energy for later."

The words trigger a terrifying wave of memory. My inner alpha recoils and surges all at once, and for a fraction of a second, my guard falters. A compulsive, seductive thought creeps into the back of my mind, a wild impulse that makes me feel sick—I could throw the match. It would be so easy. One slow reaction, and I could be back on my knees in a locked room, giving up control to him. No questions asked, no explanations necessary.

The thought is obscene. Unthinkable. And yet, for one horrifying second, I want it.

Levi sees the split-second hesitation in my eyes, and launches a vicious right hook to capitalize on my distraction.

But the grueling hours at The Foundry have wired my body to react beyond my thoughts. My left hand snaps up instinctively,blocking the blow, and my hips pivot, driving a devastating right cross directly into his jaw.

The hit is sharp and clean. Levi’s head snaps back, his legs buckling as he stumbles backward into the turnbuckle. He doesn't go down, but his fists drop to his sides, his balance off-kilter as he fumbles against the ropes for support. He tries to haul himself upright, but exhaustion wins out over the determination still burning in his eyes.

The referee puts a hand out, shooing me back to my corner and halting the fight. He waits a few agonizing seconds to see if Levi is going to find his footing or go down. My breath sticks in my lungs as Jed wipes the sweat from my brow, muttering words that I don’t hear.

The referee raises a hand. “It’s over! The winner, by technical knockout… is Dylan Long!”

The arena explodes, but I barely hear it. I stand in the center of the ring, my chest heaving, my alpha roaring triumphantly beneath my skin, but something deeper than instinct settling into my bones. Levi’s team is already helping him up, and when he’s steady on his feet again the referee drags us into the center of the ring for the official hand-rise.

Levi leans close, his voice a rough whisper, his breathing still uneven. "Room 517," he murmurs. "Your turn."

It takes over an hour to shake off The Foundry crew, even after the post-fight interviews, which are as painful as always. They’re in high spirits, animatedly rehashing the fight all the way back to my hotel room, Max and Jed arguing over the exact moment Levi lost his nerve.

“It was over by the fifth round, I swear,” Jed chatters, swinging open the minibar and pulling out four miniature bottles of whiskey. “Bastien knew it. I could see it in his eyes.”

“No you fucking couldn’t, dude,” Max laughs, shaking his head. “It was over when Dyl smashed the guy’s face in.”

“His fight was gonewaybefore that, I’m telling you,” Jed insists, pouring the bottles into glasses and pushing one into my hand, before grabbing my head in both his hands and kissing the top of my head theatrically. “Dyl was on fire tonight, and everyone fucking knew it.”

“No arguments there,” Max concedes, taking a swig from his own drink. I just grin quietly as he ruffles my hair, and swirl the amber liquid in my glass. I take a large sip, enjoying the way it burns down my throat and settles in my stomach, taking the edge off the nerves still twisting my gut.

“You alright, bud?” Marcus asks when he catches me staring into my glass.

“Fine,” I say, maybe a little too curtly. “I am, really. Just wiped. I’m dead on my feet.”

“But we’ve got so much celebrating to do!” Jed says.

“Leave the kid alone,” Marcus mumbles, clinking my glass with a wink.

“I’ll do all the celebrating you want when I’ve had a good night’s sleep,” I say, finishing the whiskey and setting the glass on the bedside cabinet.

Jed aims some fingerguns at me. “I’m holding you to that. Saturday night. It’s fucking on, boys.”