She nodded. “Yes. And I was wrong to ask you to.” She tossed her second sock aside and looked at him. “But Henry used both of us to ruin our pack. Are you going to let him get away with it?”

It was very quiet in the garage. I’m not sure anyone was even breathing. Henry’s name had been a shock. Heads turned toward Henry, who was leaning against the wall between the garage doors, as far as he could get from Adam’s side of the mat.

Paul looked at him, too. For a moment, I thought it was going to work.

“Are you going to let some girl lead you around by your tail like I did?” Henry said, sounding miserable. “She wants Adam, and she’s willing to throw both of us away to get him.” It was a masterful performance, and Paul bought it—hook, line, and sinker.

“The hell with you, then,” Paul said to her. “The hell with you, Mary Jo. I accept your challenge.” He looked at Adam. “You’ll have to wait. I guess I’ll eat my dessert first.”

And he strode to the far end of the mat, next to Henry. Mary Jo walked up to where Adam was standing.

“Reparations accepted,” he said. “You remember he fights with his heart and not his head.”

“And he moves slower to the left than the right,” she agreed.

Adam left her. As he walked across the white mat, he left little traces of blood wherever his foot hit. Blood was better than yellow pus, right?

“Good job,” he murmured when he came up to me. “Thank you. I couldn’t tell if you could hear me or not.”

Warren yielded Adam his place between Jesse and me, moving around Jesse so he could still help her if he was needed. Sam moved around to my side and lay down on the cement with a sigh.

“See if you congratulate me when she’s lying dead,” I said, very quietly. I’d have told him about her ribs, but I was afraid that the wrong person would hear, and Paul would find out. Henry knew, of course . . . but somehow I didn’t think he would tell Paul that he’d broken Mary Jo’s ribs. Paul wouldn’t understand—and Henry was smart enough to know that.

Mary Jo adopted Adam’s horse stance and faced Paul, whose back was to her.

“Challenge given and accepted,” Darryl said. “Fight to the death with the winner having the option to accept a yield.”

“Agreed,” said Mary Jo.

“Yes,” said Paul.

Mary Jo was faster, and she was a better-trained fighter. But when she hit, she didn’t hit as hard. If Paul had been nearer to her size instead of four inches over six feet, she’d have had a good chance. But he had over a foot of height, which translated into reach. I’d remembered from his fight with Warren that he was surprisingly fast for such big man.

Eventually, he landed a fist on her shoulder that put her down like she’d been hammered.

“Yield,” he said.

She stuck her feet between his and knocked them apart. Then she rolled like a monkey between his spread legs, elbowing him in the kidneys as she rose behind him. A second kick behind the knee almost had him on the ground, but he recovered.

“Yield like hell,” she gritted, when she was a few body lengths from him.

“Quit being easy on her,” said Darryl heavily. “This is a fight to the death, Paul. She will kill you if she can. If you accepted her challenge, you have to give her the respect of fighting her honestly.”

“Right,” said Adam.

Paul snarled soundlessly, and stepped back to the edge of the ring, raising both arms to a high block position, his feet perpendicular to each other, hands loosely fisted, deliberately inviting a strike to the torso.

Trouble with baiting a trap like that was that if Mary Jo handled it right, she might be able to turn it into a very big mistake. I grabbed hold of Adam’s arm and tried not to dig in my fingernails. He was tense beside me, muttering, “Watch out, watch out. He’s faster than he looks.”

Mary Jo went slowly left, then right, and Paul turned easily to face her. She shifted her weight to the right—but with a blur of speed, she broke left and moved to the attack, dropping into a long, low lunge that looked almost like something a fencer might use, her fist blurring as hip and shoulder rotated into line, driving it forward like a lance. It was a perfect strike, delivered with superhuman speed.

Paul rotated smoothly as her fist flashed through empty air, just grazing his stomach. He brought both fists down like hammers on her unprotected back, driving her flat to the ground with a sound like distant thunder. Next to me Adam grunted, as if he felt the impact of Paul’s fists himself.

Mary Jo was obviously dazed. She lay on her stomach, blinking myopically. Her mouth and throat worked like a fish’s out of water. Then she drew in a long, shuddering breath and her eyes focused. If her ribs had been hurt before, she must be in agony after the blow she’d just taken.

Any sane person would know the fight was over, and beg to yield, but she was slowly struggling to get her elbows under her and lift her body from the mat. Paul’s mouth twisted in a mirthless smile as he watched her efforts.

“Stay down,” he told her. “Stay down. Yield, damn it. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

She’d gotten to her elbows and was pulling her knees up when he did a flashy skip-step and brought the edge of his foot down on the back of her thigh, driving her flat to the mats again. A short scream tore from her throat, but she jerked her knees underneath her and popped to her feet.

Her guard was too low, her right elbow pressed tightly against her injured ribs. Below her elbow, a small stain of bright red blood was slowly spreading. Every wolf in the room could smell it, and so could I. I was afraid that one of those damaged ribs had punctured a lung. Her left leg wasn’t working quite right, and she took a simple stance with most of her weight on the ball of her right foot. She stood at the very edge of the ring, which eliminated her ability to retreat but also meant Paul couldn’t circle behind her.

Paul advanced slowly, carefully, a predator stalking wounded prey. But I saw him frowning at Mary Jo’s ribs. He was trying to figure out how she’d hurt them.

He moved left and right, forcing her to use the injured leg, his head tilted. He must have heard the same thing I could—the faint burble of a collapsing lung. Her mouth was open as she tried to get more oxygen.

Paul struck with a powerful front kick with no trace of finesse, but power to spare. Mary Jo snapped both arms down and slowed the blow, which had been aimed at her injured leg, but it still flung her stumbling backward off the mats.

She kept her balance, barely, but the leg was obviously almost useless. A ragged sea of hands pushed her, not ungently, back into the ring where Paul was waiting for her.

“It’s okay,” Adam said. “It’s okay. Yield, Mary Jo.”

Mary Jo looked beaten, but as she entered the ring, her injured leg suddenly shot up, toes pointed like a prima ballerina’s. Her kick was as simple as Paul’s had been. Straight up, angling between his thighs.

He tried to block, but it was already too late. There was a muffled impact, and Paul’s breath exploded outward. He backed up rapidly, bent forward with fists crossed over his groin, every muscle in his torso tensed in sudden pain. Mary Jo followed, though I could tell that it hurt, and took advantage of his dropped guard to hit him with a hammer fist to the back of the head.

A perfect nerve strike, I thought. Good for you, Mary Jo.

If he hadn’t been a werewolf, he’d have been seeing lights and hearing bells for weeks. His eyes were wolf-pale, and his arms moved strangely as bones began to shift beneath the skin. Paul shook his head, trying to shake off the effects of the strike. If she’d been in better shape, she could have finished him.

But Mary Jo was too slow. He straightened and pulled his hands back to guard position with obvious effort. Then he came at her slowly, implacably, simply walking to close the distance. Her right fist shot toward his throat, but he blocked it with his right hand, then pushed her elbow with his left, turning her body, then smashed a knee into her injured ribs, hard. She went to the mats, facedown and coughing blood. Paul followed her to the mats, landing astride her shoulders. He grabbed one of her legs and began to bend it back, bowing her back into a tight arch. There were faint popping sounds, and Mary Jo scrabbled at the mat frantically, her control shattered and the wolf fighting for survival.