When He's Ruthless (The Olympus Pride 4)

“Blair is mine.” The words were sure. Hard. Nonnegotiable.

Luke shook his head—not only in objection, but in sheer wonder. The other male didn’t seem in any way mentally unbalanced. There was no yelling. No sharp, jerky movements. No signs that he was on the verge of exploding. Yet, he was quite clearly unstable.

“She’s only ever been mine, Donal. The evidence of that is right in front of you. But I won’t bother trying to force you to acknowledge the mating bond—you’re clearly not going to. Besides, I’m more interested in tearing you apart.” Luke took two predatory steps forward, a spike of adrenaline pouring into his bloodstream. “You’ll die tonight, Donal. Let’s face it, it’s been a long time coming.”

Donal inched up his chin. “It will be you who breathes their last.” He cricked his neck, his mouth curled into a smug grin that said he was certain he’d win the duel. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment.”

Keeping his muscles loose, Luke took another fluid step forward. “Not half as much as I have.”

They both charged.

Luke went in hard and fast and vicious. Donal retaliated ferally, attacking like a wild animal. The duel was ugly. Dirty. No holds barred.

Flesh thudded into flesh. Blood splattered on the ground. Grunts and growls rang through the air.

It quickly became clear that Donal was well-trained in combat. That was only to be expected, given he was Beta of his pack. Every counterstrike was wicked fast and brutally accurate. The bastard had one hell of a steely punch.

It also became clear that Donal had one major weakness—he allowed his anger to rule him. And so he often failed to block the pitiless blows that came his way, too focused on fighting offensively.

Luke took full advantage of it, repeatedly landing devastating punches on Donal’s head wound, making it bleed and bleed. His fury still hot and electric, Luke’s cat egged him on. The animal wanted the other male to suffer. Craved his fear. Hungered to brutalize him. Luke was quite happy to oblige his cat. He wouldn’t stop until the bush dog was bloodied, mauled, and dead.

Luke unsheathed his claws and took a swipe at Donal’s belly. Cloth ripped. Skin tore. Blood welled up.

Breathing hard, Donal tightened his fists. “Bastard.” He punched out his balled up hand.

Luke caught the fist and twisted sharply, hearing a tendon snap. The asshole’s pained grunt was music to the cat’s ears. “I was thinking the same of you.” Luke followed up the move with a vicious blow to the bastard’s jaw that made his head whip to the side.

Donal spat a glob of blood and saliva on the ground, and Luke’s cat bared his teeth in a grin of cruel satisfaction. Then the Beta came at Luke in a flurry of fists, hitting him with one body shot after another.

The bystanders egged on Luke, but he tuned out their voices, focusing on his opponent. He was torn between incapacitating him fast and dragging out the fight. Luke was eager for this threat to his mate to finally be eradicated, but he was in no mood to end the bush dog’s suffering soon—not after what the bastard had put Blair through.

Pain rippled up Luke’s body as a rib cracked. Jesus Christ. He snapped out his fist, smashing it into the wound on Donal’s scalp once again.

The bush dog hissed, his eyes blazing. “It won’t matter how hard or many times you hit me. It won’t make her yours.”

“She already is mine.” Luke jerked back, evading the claws that came at his face, and then savagely rammed his fist into the Beta’s face, hearing his cheekbone fracture.

Donal jerked back, sucking in air … and Luke sensed the moment that Donal lost his confidence. Gone was the smugness of earlier. In its place was an uncertainty tinged with fear—the smell of it tainted the air.

Relishing the scent, Luke attacked again with his claws—shredding flesh, stabbing into Donal’s sides, swiping at his throat. The Beta dodged and weaved, but not fast enough. Soon, he was easing back under the pressure.

Still, Donal didn’t wave a white flag. He continued to throw punches—even managed to deliver a solid blow to Luke’s jaw that had so much power behind it he was surprised his teeth didn’t rattle—but Luke was now dominating the fight and they both knew it.

Grabbing the bush dog firmly by the throat, Luke sent his fist smashing into Donal’s ribs again and again and again. Choked breaths whooshed out of Donal, who would have doubled over if Luke hadn’t had a grip on his throat.

A grip Luke then tightened. “Told you you’d die tonight.”

His eyes widening, Donal struck out, wheezing.

Luke’s head snapped back as the bastard landed a mean uppercut. Son of a bitch. He retaliated fast, landing a punch on the spot behind Donal’s ear. The bush dog stumbled backward, double-blinking, his body swaying, his knees buckling.