Harvest Moon (2 page)

Boxing had started as a fitness regimen. I enjoyed training and sparring, but after Adam’s father, our Alpha, died because I couldn’t get him into an operating room to stop his internal bleeding, an unfamiliar fire smoldered in my gut and sparring didn’t relieve the pressure.

In a sick way, I wanted to be pummeled—punished for the blood on my hands. I also wanted to beat the shit out of something. A stupid risk for a doctor to batter his hands in a gladiator’s sport, but ever since one of the guys in the locker room of the club whispered a veiled invitation to me, I couldn’t seem to quit.

“Hey Wolf, need help with your gloves?”

We didn’t have names down here. Not the names on our birth certificates anyway. In the underground fight club world, I was just Wolf. And I liked it.

I glanced up at Marv and nodded. “Sure. Thanks, buddy.”

Marv was a big guy, about my age, but his mild autism always made him seem younger. His older brother, Todd, ran the fight club, and Marv tagged along, helping as much as he could.

I held my hand out while he tugged the gloves on. I had taped it tight, but in spite of the added support, my joints still ached as he pulled the glove over them. I probably should’ve taken some X-rays, but I was too far gone for that. Just forcing myself to sit out a night or two to heal was getting tough.

Even if I found broken bones, I wouldn’t stop fighting. I couldn’t.

This ring was my sanity now. Without it, I’d go crazy with the guilt and frustration that festered inside of me. Here, reality narrowed into a bloodstained twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot boxing ring. Facing opponents, landing punches, and taking them were all actions I controlled. In the ring, I was the master of my own fate. I couldn’t save Malcolm, our Alpha, and now my father’s life hung in the balance. I’d had my fill of feeling useless.

Here, my destiny rested in my own hands, mine to direct. This ring and these fighters gave me that.

“Those tight enough, Wolf?”

I punched my hands together, testing the support around my wrists. “Feels great, Marv.” I rubbed his head with a gloved hand. “Thanks, buddy.”

He grinned, sheepish about the praise. “Good luck tonight. I know you’ll win.”

“That’s the plan.” I started warming up, jogging in place and windmilling my arms to loosen up my sore shoulders. After Malcolm’s death, I’d been fighting once a month, but since Nero attacked my father, I’d been accepting as many matches as I had challengers. The beatings were catching up with me, but sore muscles and joints weren’t going to keep me from my sanctuary in the ring.

The big guy who went by the moniker “Pirate” tumbled to the ground. Roddy, our ref, started the count while Shark backed away, his cold stare on my face. Hunger burned in his eyes. Every fighter here had demons. God only knew what powered this hulk of a man. In spite of fighting an earlier match and now besting Pirate, this big Hispanic guy still had some fire left.

That was good. He’d need a goddamned inferno to best me.

Since the altercation with Kilani, my frustration levels had skyrocketed. I’d been a dick to her, and her only crime had been to help save my father. I hadn’t even remembered her name.

If that wasn’t enough, my father’s vitals revealed his temperature was slightly elevated. I’d need to bring him some intravenous antibiotics and hope for the best. A bad bladder infection or bed sores were both common ways to cause organs to shut down in bedridden comatose patients.

Foreboding, and an all too familiar lack of control, roiled in my gut. My opponent might be hungry for a win, but I was famished. Something in my life would be a victory.

Sorry Shark, I wasn’t going down tonight. No chance.

Roddy grabbed his glove, raising it over his head. “Winner! Shark in the fifth round.”

Cheers and the hum of activity filled the space. The tiny crowd of spectators consisted of other fighters and a few regulars who were once fighters and now turned to small-time wagering. Cash changed hands, notes were scribbled on pages, and Shark paraded around the ring, high on adrenaline.

I watched him as I shadow-boxed, warming my muscles. We were both about six foot two inches, so our reach would be well matched. He looked like he outweighed me by maybe twenty pounds, so on paper he’d have more power behind his punches.

On paper.

No one in the club knew werewolves existed, let alone that I was one.

But my wolf wasn’t the power behind these punches. Rage, pure and undiluted, fueled my inner fire. And nothing released the pressure like a good fight.

Shark narrowed his eyes, his jaw jutting forward as he paced the ring. I’d only seen the last couple of rounds of his fight with Pirate, but it had been enough. Shark was a southpaw. I’d have to keep protecting my eye while I went in with my right. A good southpaw could clock you with a left hand if you gave him that opening.

I rolled my head, then my shoulders, while I danced on the balls of my feet. My gaze never strayed from Shark’s face. Even when he turned away, the first thing he saw when he faced me again was my stare. No fear. Only hunger.

Without breaking eye contact, I climbed in the ring. My wolf clawed to the surface, sensing a battle for dominance. The full moon was still a few weeks away. No threat of shifting into a wolf with an audience, but I welcomed his predatory instincts.

We met in the center of the ring, face-to-face, while Roddy barked out his usual reminders. No low blows, no head butts, and once a fighter was down, you waited for the count over in your corner. We knocked gloves and went to our corners. There weren’t any stools, no trainers to sponge you down, only a fresh towel to wipe away blood and a fresh rubber mouth guard. I popped mine in, grinding my teeth while I awaited the bell.

The
ding
set us moving toward the center of the ring. Shark came in like a freight train. He jabbed my ribs with his right, nudging me toward the ropes. I countered with an uppercut to his jaw, knocking him back a couple of steps. He shook his head, snarling around his yellow mouthpiece, and came back at me, landing a combination to my midsection that knocked the air from my lungs.

Strong opponent. Good.

I blinked, stoking the fire inside of me. This was no longer a man in the gym. This wasn’t a man at all. This was a fight with fate and destiny. I landed a right and a left to his body for my father’s fever. He stumbled back toward the ropes and I pursued, landing a jab to his chin for my mother’s heartbreak over caring for her husband who might never speak to her again.

Left, right, to the body, to the head. He put his hands up to block my attack to his face, so I concentrated on his body; each punch became a retribution for my inability to save Malcolm, my inability to wake my father. Every bad choice I had made in the last year, I pummeled into Shark’s body.

His big hands shoved at my shoulders and I lost my balance, jogging back a few steps to steady myself. Shark heaved for breath while I waved him forward, inviting his attack. I wasn’t ready for the fight to end. Not yet. His punches, the pain they brought, were a penance for my failures, a reminder to keep fighting.

The bell rang. I wiped my face and waited for round two, watching Shark struggle to catch his breath. Marv came by with a water bottle and a bucket. I took the water and winked at him. “Thanks.”

He grinned. “You’re doing good, Wolf.”

I swished the water around and spit into the bucket as the bell rang again. Shark came on the attack before I got out of my corner. His right hand was relentless, pummeling my abs until my entire body ached. I lowered my elbows to block his attack, and his left hand clocked me in the eye.

Stars lit around the edge of my vision. I bit down on my mouthpiece, forcing myself to stay upright. I landed a couple of unfocused blows, trying to break out of the corner where he had me pinned. Shark’s knee slammed into my balls. Hard. It was all I could do to stay on my feet and not curl into the fetal position on the floor.

Shark backed away with a glint in his eyes.

“No low blows, Shark!” Roddy yelled. “Next time you’re out.”

Oh, there wasn’t going to be a goddamned next time.

I rushed him, slamming him back into the ropes. He couldn’t escape my attack, trapped by a flurry of punches. My attack to his ribs had him breathless, and when he started to stumble sideways, I caught him, pinning him upright in the corner so I could hit his face. Again and again. Right, left, right.

“Okay, Wolf. Enough.” Roddy forced his way between my prey and me. “Damn it, Wolf, I’m callin’ the fight. Back off.”

I stumbled backward and Shark timbered onto the floor.

Oh shit.
I’d lost myself to this dark pit eating away at my sanity. What the hell was I doing? Regardless of the beating this guy gave me or the kick to the balls, I had to help him.

His pulse thumped in a steady rhythm I had no trouble hearing with my heightened senses, but blood ran from a cut over his eye, and his nose and lip bled onto the mat. There was also a better than average chance he had a nasty concussion. I rushed over, tearing at the ties on my gloves with my teeth as Roddy counted down.

Ripping the glove off my right hand, I called to Marv. “Get me some ice and a clean towel.”

Roddy declared my victory while I pressed ice to the back of Shark’s neck. He groaned. Conscious.

Marv took over holding the ice pack on Shark’s skull, and I got up and out of the ring. Alone in my locker room, I rested my head in my hands. Every fight, it took more blood and more pain to quench the fire. I could’ve killed that man. Where was the line in the sand? Aggression and anger were changing me into someone I didn’t recognize. I’d taken an oath to preserve life. This…this club, these nameless fighters…I was far from my calling.

Tremors racked my usually steady hands.

I was spiraling out of control, and I didn’t have a fucking clue how to stop it.

Chapter Two

K
ILANI

I
t had been hours since my run-in with Dr. Ayers. Why couldn’t I let it go?

I stuffed my scrubs into the overloaded hamper by the door, kicked off my sandals, and dropped my keys into the hollowed-out coconut shell on the table. Exhaustion weighed on me, but my stomach’s demands for food kept me from collapsing on the easy chair. I scanned the fridge for something that was both simple to prepare and not spoiled.

Neither existed.

I slammed the refrigerator closed and snatched a banana from the fruit basket on the counter. Drawing the peel down, I wandered back into the main room of my studio apartment. My first bite drew a groan of delight. Either I was starving or this was the all-time best banana ever consumed on the planet.

Mid-bite, I sank into the chair and reached for the remote, ignoring the looming laundry basket. The trip to the Laundromat around the corner was imminent, but I could relax for a little bit first. The washing machines would be busy right now anyway. If I waited a couple of hours, the families should be gone. The last thing I needed was awkward conversations while folding my underwear. After all, I was supposed to be laying low in this town, not building a new network of friends.

But I couldn’t put it off another day or my hamper was going to have a blowout.

The channels flipped by as I clicked the remote. Habit, I guess. I didn’t even want to watch anything, not really. What I wanted was to be distracted from replaying my conversation with Dr. Ayers.

The guy had a chiseled jaw and light hazel eyes that demanded your attention. Not to mention his loose-fitting doctor’s smock couldn’t begin to hide the well-built body underneath. But his gorgeous exterior wasn’t what haunted me.

I’d been at his side while his father lay on the ground without a pulse. I’d witnessed him working with no regard for himself or anyone else, his only concern, his full attention, resting solely on saving his dad’s life. Moments like that revealed true character, true self, and although he never surrendered to panic, he’d radiated guilt, worry, and a quiet confidence.

Acceptance of his position, his responsibility.

But in spite of all that, Dr. Ayers didn’t admit his father to the hospital for treatment. It didn’t make sense.

None of my business.
But if the head nurse traced the missing meds back to me, I’d be out on my ass. I should’ve been focused on keeping my job, not pondering what might be going on in Dr. Ayers’s mind.

My cell phone rang. I glanced over at my bag on the table while my tired body whined about letting the call go to voicemail. My aching muscles shut the hell up when my extrasensory abilities realized who was on the other end of the line.

My psychic ability to see into the future sounded like a handy tool, but it came with a huge catch. I could only see a couple of minutes ahead, and they were sporadic. Pretty useless, unless you were a nurse. Being able to know and anticipate what a patient needed before the doctor asked for it made me a commodity in hospitals.

It had also been my ticket to freedom, to getting off the island.

I scrambled up and grabbed my phone without wasting a second to check the caller ID. “Sebastian?”

“Kilani. We don’t have much time.”

The banana in my stomach turned to rock. “They’re here, aren’t they?”

“Your name came up on the weekly target list.”

“That sounds bad.” I stared at the ceiling, blinking back tears. “I don’t even know what Nero really is. I’m no threat. It’s not like I’m going to say anything. Not that I’d have any proof anyway.”

“You found Grace’s body. You’re a loose end now.” The phone rattled and his voice dropped in volume. “They have an entire country to search, Kilani. You should be safe for now. The last place they’d look is in Reno.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He cleared his throat. “Nero has enemies in Reno. That’s why I sent you there. You remember where to go if you sense trouble?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “I still don’t understand why a horse ranch would be safer than going to the police, but I trust you.”

Silence. Did he hang up? I checked my phone. It said connected.