Page 29 of Double Shot

A deep, throat-stripping roar made me jump and jerked my attention back to the ring up ahead. A huge orc with a shaved head was barrelling his way into the ring and straightening to his full height, enormous hands clenched into fists by his sides. I’d missed what the commentator guy had said over the mic, but this had to be Menoetius.

He looked terrifying.

There was a deep scar running across one cheek, another forming a pale, hairless line across his scalp above his right ear. And, unholy crap, the tip of that ear was gone. It looked like it’d been bitten off by very sharp teeth. Faded tattoos adorned a lot of his sage green skin—along his thickly muscled arms and bulging shoulders, over the planes of his ridiculously wide back. The ink was bleeding blue, making them all appear blurry.

He grinned, wide and feral, revealing a missing tooth in his upper jaw. Lifting his arms into the air, he roared again, causing the crowd to go wild and roar back.

Oh my. I’d grown a little breathless again as I stared at him, waves of aggressive, almost heated energy rolling off him and making my skin tingle.

I was vaguely aware of the commentator announcing Fenrir, but it wasn’t until a hulking figure appeared in my periphery that I actually looked over.

I stared at Fenrir as he prowled his way to the ring, clawed fingers flexing by his sides. He was a werewolf—a huge one, with wide shoulders and enormous pecs and a freaking eight-pack under the short, suede-like fur on his front.

His lupine eyes were a pale, piercing blue—a rarer colour for werewolves—and his fur was jet black but streaked through with silvery-white. He was wearing a pair of—oh Lucifer—grey sweats, and I could see how thick and muscular his thighs were through the fabric.

My belly tightened with a wave of attraction so strong it almost took my breath away. He was glorious. He was magnificent. He was the hottest werewolf I had ever seen in my life, and I’d seen—and banged—a lot of hot werewolves.

Then shock jolted through my whole body.

Because I recognised him.

Chapter 10

Fenrir

Klaus

I’d met him before. I had definitely, one hundred percent met him before.

Because this was B. Were. The hot werewolf wrestler at Goliaths. The one I’d met in that meet and greet and instantly developed a huge crush on, before promptly forgetting all about him when I slept with that stupid shadowperson metal singer.

Unholy crap. Did the guys at Goliaths know B. Were was moonlighting as an underground bare-knuckle fighter? Did he actually fight here? But it was so bloody and violent and wild. Nothing like the slick, professional performances they put on at Goliaths.

Maybe this last match would be more scripted and theatrical than the others, like the wrestling at Goliaths. That would make sense? Maybe?

Ten minutes later, I realised that was very, very wrong. There was nothing slick or professional or scripted about this fight. It was a bloodbath.

Fenrir—B. Were—and Menoetius were beating the shit out of each other without pause, without breaks to catch their breath, without slowing or weakening or even stumbling. Blood was streaking down the fur on Fenrir’s arms from his claws digging into his palms, and Menoetius’ left eye socket was already swelling up, his cheekbone split from B. Were’s knuckles.

Finally, one of them faltered, lurching back and groaning in pain. It was Menoetius, which didn’t surprise me whatsoever. B. Were barely looked winded.

As the orc stumbled back and wiped the blood and sweat off his face, B. Were restlessly paced the length of the ring, seeming to give his opponent a few seconds to cool off before he was snarling, claws flexing by his sides, and lunging at him once again.

I sucked in a tiny breath, my heart pounding hard as I stared at him. I couldn’t look away. He was so big, but he moved so fluidly, almost gracefully, even though he was currently pummelling an orc in the face. And he just… He had so many muscles.

I discreetly fanned my face to try and cool down a little, because I was running hot as I watched B. Were’s huge shoulders and biceps flex as he slammed Menoetius onto the mat.

“Oh my,” I whispered when they began to grapple down there, writhing around in a tangle of muscular limbs, grunting and snarling.

I stared so hard at the waistband of B. Were’s grey sweats when they slipped down a little that my eyeballs started to ache. What if Menoetius accidentally… pulled on them at just the right angle that his tail slipped through the little hole at the back and his pants fell all the way down? That would be very bad. So bad. I hoped it didn’t happen. B. Were might only be wearing a jockstrap under there. So I hoped it didn’t happen. Definitely not.

Menoetius managed to heave B. Were off him with a furious shout, sending the werewolf flying back and skidding across the mat. Before he could jump to his feet, the orc was launching himself forward to straddle the werewolf’s waist.

“Oh my,” I breathed again, clutching lightly at my throat as B. Were’s muscular chest heaved with his panting breaths, his lupine face furious yet laser-focused on his opponent as his hackles rose and he bared his long fangs.

He was sprawled beneath Menoetius, those long legs splayed wide, and his biceps and mouthwatering eight-pack bulged deliciously as he propped himself up on his elbows.

He was just so… big. And rugged. And aggressive.