Page 2 of Fighting the Alpha

“Always so serious,” he sighs, tilting his head back to look at me through his thick eyelashes. “Just like the old days at Addington. You remember our little arrangement on the varsity mat, yes? When we used to play for keeps?”

My stomach drops. I know exactly what he’s talking about. Back at boarding school, our wrestling rivalry had been so bitter, so relentless, that plastic medals had stopped being enough of a prize. We started making private, degrading wagers before every match. If I won, he had to scrub the mud off my boots or clean my headgear for a week. If he won—which happened more often than I care to admit—I was stuck doing his laundry, forced to carry his sweaty practice gear back to thedorms while he laughed at me. It was juvenile and petty, and the best motivation an alpha can get.

“We aren’t kids anymore,” I growl, stepping closer until our chests almost touch, not wanting Marcus or Max to catch what he’s saying. I can feel the heat radiating off him through my jacket. “And I don’t need you to wash my gym gear.”

“No, we are men now. The stakes should match,” Levi says, his eyes darkening, something dangerous and all too familiar bleeding through his playful demeanor. He leans in closer, his lips nearly brushing the shell of my ear as he whispers, “You remember the last time, yes?”

I hold my breath, because of course I remember last time. I remember the heat of his rigid flesh under my palm, and every tiny rasp of his breath, and exactly how my body reacted to it. I’ve been trying to forget it for the last six years. “Fuckoff,Bastien. I don’t want to talk to you.”

Levi grips the collar of my jacket, looking like I’ve just given him exactly the reaction he wants, and Max and Marcus are at my side in a flash.

“Get your fucking hands off him,” Max growls. “You’re not in the ring yet.”

“Hey, Hoffman,” Marcus shouts to Levi’s trainer, who’s lingering at the edge of the stage, distracted by his phone. “Can’t you keep your dog on its leash?”

Levi pulls his hand away from me, raising his arms defensively as his trainer tugs him away and aiming an infuriating wink in my direction. “I was just saying hello to an old friend,c’est tout.”

“What was that about?” Marcus mutters once he’s out of earshot.

I turn away, stripping down to my boxing shorts. “Nothing. Just shit-talking as always, trying to get in my head. Bringing up stupid shit from school.”

I’ve mentioned in passing that Levi and I used to know each other, but I’ve never divulged the details to Max or Marcus. Or anyone. Just the thought of it makes the tips of my ears hot.

“He’s all talk,” Max says as he takes my jacket, giving Levi a hard stare from across the room. “He won’t be talking so loud when you knock half his teeth out.”

“Damn straight,” I say, with more confidence than I feel, my mind still racing.

But before I can spiral any deeper into the memory of what happened six years ago, an official with a clipboard steps out from behind the curtain. “Long, you’re up. Bastien, on deck.”

Max and Marcus both slap me on the back as I make my way onto the stage, and the bright lights are blinding after the dim lighting of the holding area. A wall of noise washes over us—the clicking of camera shutters, the shouting of local reporters, and the cheers and whoops from supporters from both gyms.

I step onto the digital scale. I freeze, staring straight ahead as the numbers flicker on the LED screen before settling.

“One hundred and ninety-eight pounds!” the official barks into his microphone. “On the weight!”

A roar goes up from Marcus and Max. I blow out a measured breath, not breaking composure. I made weight. Half the battle is already over.

But as I step off the scale, Levi is already climbing the steps. He looks totally at home under the spotlights, flexing his lean torso and bulging biceps for the cameras, and flashing that maddeningly brilliant smile.

He steps onto the platform, completely unbothered.

“One hundred and ninety-six point five pounds!” the official announces. “We have a fight!”

The crowd erupts, but the sound fades to a dull hum as the promoter grabs both of our shoulders, pulling us toward the center of the stage for the traditional face-off.

This is the part the cameras live for.

Levi steps up to me, his chin tilted high, his chest bare. His scent fills my nostrils, my own caramel pheromones fighting back just as intensely, trying to push his right out of the room as anger and aggression twist hotly in my gut.

I stare directly into his eyes, forcing my jaw to stay rigid, keeping my hands locked firmly behind my back so the cameras don't catch my white knuckles.

The promoter steps back, letting the photographers capture the moment between two rival alphas. Flashbulbs burst in rapid succession, painting white spots across my vision and casting Levi’s crooked, arrogant grin in an uncanny strobe. I try not to blink, and Levi leans his head forward just a fraction.

His gaze drops to my lips, then travels back up to my eyes.

“Let’s raise the stakes,” he says, his voice a low growl that easily gets lost under the roar of the crowd, completely inaudible to anyone but me, his lips hidden from the prying cameras. “When you lose tomorrow night, we finish what we started six years ago. Total submission.”

I freeze. It takes everything in my power not to let the shock of what he’s proposing show on my face. “And if I win?”