Chapter 44: Attempted murder

Chapter 44 Cameron Pain. My ribs are screaming, and not in a sexy way. "What the fuck?" I wheeze as I land, blinking up at the sky through the busted limbs of the tree I just got launched through. There’s bark in my hair. Dirt in my mouth. Dignity? Gone. I don’t know what I did, but clearly I’ve pissed off Lenora. "Lenora, let’s talk about this," I manage, backing up as she stalks forward like some beautiful chaos demon draped in confidence. She grins. Not sweetly. No. This is a grin made for war and the gleeful destruction of my pride. She looks like an evil goddess, and something in my spine shudders. I dodge left. She’s faster. Her fingers curl around my wrist, deceptively delicate, and I swear I see actual madness flicker in her eyes. "Oh, shit," I whisper. I try to pull away. Big mistake. She tightens her grip—how the hell is she so strong?!—and the next thing I know, I’m airborne again. Not metaphorically. Literally flying. I crash through another goddamn tree like I’m in a Marvel movie and thud hard into the earth. I groan. "I’m a grown-ass man..." A grown-ass man who just got thrown like a sack of flour by someone who barely reaches my chest. She stalks toward me, arms loose, bouncing a little like she’s enjoying this way too much. "You definitely didn’t need help with those jars," I mutter. She cracks her neck to the side. "Took you this long to figure that out?" Okay. Enough. I get to my feet, shake out my arms, and feel something shift inside me—the wolf pacing, excited, hungry. It likes this. It likes her. It wants to bare its teeth and play. And maybe... maybe I do too. "Fine," I mutter, spitting out dirt. "Time to get serious." Clearly I’ve been underestimating her. This time, when she lunges for me, I meet her head-on. We collide with the kind of force that makes the ground quake beneath our feet. The impact jolts through my bones—sharp, electric—and for a wild second, I realize I’m using everything I’ve got. All of it. And it’s still barely enough. I turn us mid-clash, grabbing her from behind until her back slams against my chest. I hook my arm around her waist, holding her in place, breathing hard. "I’ve got you now," I grit out. But then she stomps on my foot—like, with a vengeance—and drives her elbow into my ribs so hard I see stars. I stagger, wind knocked out of me, blinking like an idiot. "She’s trying to kill me," I cough. I mean, I’m her mate. Shouldn’t there be, like, a built-in mercy system or something? Nope. Lenora doesn’t hesitate. No sweet glances, no holding back. And goddess help me, it’s hot. I retreat a few paces, steady myself against a tree. My lungs burn. My pride is in shambles. She charges again, and I sidestep just in time—barely. Her palm slams into the bark where my head used to be, fingers digging so deep they crack through it like wet paper. I stare. Then I really stare. That was a death blow. A real one. "You’re trying to kill me," I gasp. I stagger back. Before I can recover, she spins low and sweeps my legs out from under me. I land flat on my back with a crack of air leaving my lungs. My ribs ache. My pride aches more. I barely have time to roll before she comes down where my chest was. If I hadn’t moved—goddess, she was going to flatten me. "This is what I’m talking about!" she calls, exhilarated. "Talking about trying to kill your mate?" I bark, out of breath. "You won’t die." Yeah that’s not comforting.I scramble up and try a different tactic—less brute force, more agility. I dart sideways, feint right, then spin in from the left. It works for half a second. My fist connects lightly with her shoulder. But then she grabs my wrist, jerks me forward, and shoulder flips me over her back like I’m nothing but a training dummy. I crash down hard. My lungs burn. I crash down hard. My lungs burn. Before I can stand, a hand is on my ankle and I close my eyes in resignation. * I sit here, as Lenora disinfects my bruises, calmly as if she isn’t the cause. The pain is subsiding—fast, thanks to whatever wolf metabolism I apparently have now—but it’s still there. A dull throb in my ribs, a sharp twinge in my shoulder, and an overwhelming ache in my pride. She didn’t break any bones—probably on purpose—but I’m pretty sure something got fractured. Definitely my ego. She sits on the low coffee table in front of me, legs folded, dabbing a cotton ball soaked in something that smells like mint and murder onto my skin. She doesn’t flinch when I hiss. Doesn’t apologize, either. Her brow furrows like she’s patching up a chair she accidentally scuffed, not the man she threw through a tree. She looks mildly sweaty. There’s a faint sheen on her collarbone, a dampness along her hairline. Meanwhile, I look like I’ve been mauled by a truck-sized raccoon. My shirt is ripped, my torso is covered in scratches, and I have dirt in places I didn’t know I had. "Did I make you mad?" I ask her, narrowing my eyes. "What gave you that idea?" she replies sweetly, smile too innocent to be legal. "An assumption." "It was just a spar," she says, pressing a final bandage to my side and tapping it twice, like she just put a sticker on a child. She rises, unbothered, her shirt riding up enough to show a sliver of toned stomach. I avert my gaze. Not because I’m scared. Not because she casually yeeted me into a tree like a bag of flour. Not because I still have phantom pain from whatever technique she used to fold my spine like an origami swan. But because if I keep staring, I’m going to forget I’m supposed to be mad at her. "So," she says, not even looking at me as she tidies the first-aid kit, "are we going to talk about it?"