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“Solas,” Flynn muttered, rubbing his jaw in sympathy.
Tharion dug his nails into his palms, drawing blood.
He couldn’t watch this. Couldn’t let this happen. Not for his sake—not even for his freedom.
Sigrid slashed again, and Ithan rolled to the side, narrowly missing her wrath. But Sigrid was on him in an instant, and Holstrom’s roar of pain as her claws connected with his thigh had Flynn lunging for the ring.
Tharion grabbed the Fae lord, fingers grappling into hard muscle. “Easy,” he murmured. “He’s fine.”
Total fucking lie. Neither Ithan nor Sigrid were fine. Not even close.
Flynn struggled, thrashing out of Tharion’s grip and whirling on the Viper Queen. “This ends now.”
“It ends,” the ruler of the Meat Market drawled from the stands, “when I give the order.”
Tharion stilled. “It ends at a knockout.”
“It ends with one of them on their way to the Bone Quarter,” the Viper Queen said, taking out her phone and snapping a photo of the bloodied wolves squaring off in the ring.
A fight to the death. Tharion choked out, “Holstrom won’t—”
“We’ll see,” the Viper Queen said, and a grunt from Ithan had Tharion spinning back to the fight. From the rage flickering in Ithan’s eyes as he dodged another onslaught of blows from Sigrid, the wolf had heard everything.
“Please,” Tharion said to the Vipe. “Let me swap in for the Fendyr heir—”
“Enough, fish,” the Viper Queen said, pocketing her phone in her gold jumpsuit.
Tharion might have begged, had Ithan not panted from the ring, “It’s done, Tharion.” Holstrom was already back on his feet, circling Sigrid, leaking blood everywhere. He’d barely touched her.
He wouldn’t touch her, Tharion knew. To harm this female who’d faced such misery … Holstrom would never do it.
Tharion couldn’t get a breath down, his anger a violent sea churning through his body, drowning him. He’d fucking kill the Viper Queen for putting his friends through this. Even if he only needed to look in the mirror to find the person at fault for this mess.
Sigrid slashed her claws again, and Ithan ducked low with athletic grace.
Sigrid launched an offensive then, powerful and steady in a way that told Tharion it was pure instinct. Swipe, punch, duck—
She wasn’t just an heir to the Fendyr line. She was the Fendyr line, at its most potent.
It was clearly all Ithan could do to keep ahead of each blow. Blood coated his mouth, his teeth. His brown eyes shone bright and furious. Not at the wolf attacking him, but at the female who’d led them to this.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Flynn chanted, pulling at his hair.
Ithan’s back hit the ropes, and there was nowhere to go, absolutely nowhere at all, as Sigrid slammed her fist toward his face.
Tharion’s stomach flipped. This was all for him, and he was the biggest fucking loser on the planet—
Ithan had been waiting, though. He ducked—and punched his claws into the Fendyr heir’s gut.
Sigrid screamed, staggering back, collapsing to her knees.
Ithan halted, panting hard. His face was empty as he walked toward the female clutching her bleeding stomach. It had been a hard blow—but not a fatal one. Claws glinted at his fingertips.
Tharion couldn’t breathe as Ithan raised his hand to make the final blow.
* * *
Silene’s voice remained as steady, unmoved, as it had been throughout. A bored immortal, blandly reciting a history of others’ suffering.
