At the sight of that, all that my brain registered was the need for vengeance. It wasn’t like Rowan was a member of my pack, but my more feral alpha brain knew he was important to my omega. Therefore he was important to me. He was in danger and I was going to stop it, one way or another.
In an instant, every single bit of fighting prowess that had laid dormant for years returned to me like a day hadn’t gone by without me using it. All my techniques, my tactics, poised and locked and loaded, ready to fucking execute these two numbskulls.
The following eight minutes were a blur of pain and alpha rage. The only moment I remembered with any sort of clarity was being choked from behind, and Rowan running toward me to head butt my captor from over my shoulder.
Reality returned with the gong of the bell and I stood there with Rowan, my knuckles sore and bloody, my lungs burning through oxygen, my skin glistening with sweat, and the Angelina Boys scowling at us while they cradled broken limbs and breathed out bubbles of blood from between their teeth.
We had won.
Clumsily, and swaying like we were walking around on an unsteady sailboat, we took the stairs up and away from the octagon, leaving our blood and sweat behind as an offering. We pushed through the crowd until we reached the bar.
The bartender’s hair was so pale even I could tell. The overhead lights from the many, many fixtures seemed to make it shift in tones and hues. Of course for me that was all just shades of green and– oh look, blue! Back to green.
She looked from me, to Rowan, and back, then she seemed to look almost past us, to the beyond.
“Whisky, neat.” I ordered. I needed something hard.
In seconds I had a ginger beer with a rock candy swizzle stick in front of me.
“I ordered a whisky,” I said.
“I know.” she nodded. “You get this.”
She busied herself some more, before sliding a hot toddy to Rowan.
“You know, you two could have just fucked.” She placed a plate of small pretzels between us. “Instead you chose to go all alpha and fight about it.”
I picked a pretzel from the complimentary bowl. “I don’t fuck guys.” I crunched the snack between my teeth.
“Makes no difference to me.”
“Am I gonna get my whisky?” I asked.
“Nope. I know a designated driver when I see one.”
I rolled my eyes and snorted. The service in this place sucked.
Next to me, Rowan had already finished his drink, and asked the lady behind the bar for another.
On shaky legs and with Rowan’s bruised belly full of drinks, we hobbled back to the Jeep. Rowan pitched forward and braced himself on my car before he spewed out foamy liquor, enough to drown the painted line marking the boundaries of our parking space. Vomit splattered out like paint and crawled like some sort of alien across the barely noticeably slanted ground, towards a storm drain.
He heaved again and I rubbed his back. He winced, recoiling from my touch.
“Hurts?” I asked.
Rowan’s clumsy hands lifted his shirt and I saw the bruises blossoming all up and down his back. We won, but we paid for it.
“Oh, man.” I reached out to touch a particularly prominent bruise that splashed across two ribs. Rowan sucked in a breath.
“Sorry,”
“No,” Rowan said. “Do it again.”
I’m not a timid, unsure guy, but I had to be told twice before I did as Rowan asked. I pressed three fingers into the bruise and Rowan let out a choking sound. His breath froze in his lungs and his aura flared as if ready to defend from an attacker. His grip on my car went pale.
“Harder,” he gasped.
And I did, twisting my fingers in the hollow space between two ribs to aggravate and torture and coax out the agony.
