Chapter 85: Claim Denied

Lucien tears across the arena.

Braska’s instincts kick in a half-second late, bracing just in time as Lucien closes the distance in a blur, and Braska blurs too, meeting him head-on.

The two connect in a single, thunderous impact that sends a wall of sand rippling outward in every direction. Fist against fist, jaw against jaw, both blows landing clean and full at the exact same instant.

Braska stumbles back first, wiping his mouth with the back of one paw. It comes away red.

Lucien just stares at him. Wordless. Breathing ragged. Eyes glinting with something that isn’t quite sanity anymore, the look of a predator sizing up prey that made the mistake of hitting back.

Braska roars and leaps in anyway.

They collide again, and again, a full flurry of fists and claws tearing into each other with no pause between exchanges, blood spraying across the sand with every connect, the crowd’s roar rising and falling with each exchanged blow like a tide nobody can control. Braska huffs for breath, muscles straining under the effort, his shadow fur guttering thinner with every second that passes, the black flame along his arms flickering low like a candle fighting a draft.

Lucien only gets faster.

Every wound that opens across his skin knits shut again moments later, fur weaving the damage closed almost before it registers as pain, and the more damage he takes, the harder he seems to hit back.

Braska drives an uppercut deep into his gut.

Lucien tanks it, grinning wide and wild through the impact, and grabs the chief’s arm before he can retract it. He loads back a haymaker and drives it clean through Braska’s jaw, launching him like a bullet across the arena.

Braska rolls, tumbles, slams into the far wall hard enough to crack the stone behind it, chunks of masonry raining down around him, breath punched clean out of his lungs along with the last of his shadow fur, which blasts off his body in a final wave and leaves a scorched crater around where he lands.

He slumps to the ground, coughing blood into the dirt.

The crowd falls silent.

Braska raises one shaking hand in surrender, but Lucien is already looming over him, closing the last of the distance before the gesture even finishes. He grabs the chief by the throat and hauls him clean off his feet with both hands, and Braska chokes, gasping, slapping weakly at Lucien’s forearms as the life drains slowly out of him.

“Lucien, STOP!” Kamiko screams from the stands. “You’re going to kill our client!”

He doesn’t hear her. Doesn’t hear anything. Every scrap of him is narrowed down to one single, burning need, destroy the man who tried to claim what’s his.

Brina sees the terror flooding Kamiko’s face and doesn’t think twice. She vaults the rail and drops into the ring, sprinting hard across the sand.

She skids to a halt right beside him just as Braska’s body goes fully limp, grabbing hold of his belt with both hands.

“Stop!” she begs, voice cracking. “He’s had enough! Please! Lucien!”

Lucien blinks at the sound of her voice.

He looks down, actually down, now, her small frame dwarfed entirely beneath the shadow of his own, a mountain of muscle and fur looming over her. She gulps, bites her lip, and holds her ground through every ounce of composure she has left, refusing to let herself crumble under the weight of his presence.

He drops Braska.

The chief hits the sand in a heap, forgotten entirely, limbs sprawled loose and boneless in the fresh crater. Lucien turns fully toward Brina instead, his attention pivoting like a compass needle finding true north. She yelps as he grabs her arm and lifts her clean off the ground, bringing her close, sniffing at her with wide, glinting eyes.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she whimpers, going rigid in his grip.

He opens his jaws, and gives one long, unhurried lick straight up the side of her face.

She freezes entirely. Eyes wide. Then the blush hits, spreading from the tips of her ears all the way down to her tail, followed almost instantly by fury.

She hauls back with her free hand and slaps him across the face with everything she’s got.

He doesn’t flinch. Just tilts his head, confused, like a scolded puppy that genuinely doesn’t understand what it did wrong.

“I’m not ready!” she shouts at him, mortified.

Lucien blinks, shakes his head slowly, and opens his mouth to apologize, but what comes out instead is a booming, resonant growl, deep enough that Brina’s eyes roll straight back in her head before she goes limp in his hand.

Her eyes flicker open a while later to find herself propped up on a cot beside a heavily bandaged Braska, who offers her a quick, awkward nod before firmly averting his gaze, ears pinned back like a man trying very hard to forget the last twenty minutes of his own life.

Across the ring, Lucien, battered, bruised, and still bleeding from half a dozen places, though back to something closer to his usual size, sits in the sand getting fussed over by Kamiko and an entire pack of admiring wolf-kin women, all of them swooning openly over his ruined, heroic state, one already dabbing at a cut above his eye with entirely too much enthusiasm.

He spots Brina stirring and gasps, shooing the women away without ceremony, and limps over to kneel beside her, bowing his head low.

“I owe you a genuine apology,” he says. “I was a little drunk on bloodlust, and, well. There’s no excuse, really, for treating a woman the way I did.” He looks up at her, uncharacteristically solemn. “I hope you can forgive me. I’d hate for it to spoil what’s been a genuinely lovely friendship.”

Brina flushes red from her ears to her collarbone, words failing her entirely.

“It’s fine,” she manages, giving a small, stuttering nod.

Lucien clutches at his own chest, sighing dramatically. “That means the world to hear, honestly.” He helps her carefully to her feet, then turns toward Braska with a fresh, easy grin, all traces of solemnity gone. “So. Interested in that glass of wine now?”

Braska snorts a laugh, wincing hard and clutching at his own ribs. “It’s the least you’ve earned here today.”

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