Page 19 of Blood Fist

Ridan made a face at his retreating back. Despite his late start, Corric excelled at just about everything. He couldn’t settle for just beingtallerthan Ridan. No, he had to be ambidextrous–something Osmond noticed right away—and wield two swords.

Just like the fancy little princeling he was.

He picked at the leather of his short sword. Gone were the days of slings and wooden practice swords. Ridan had grown used to the weight on his hip. Like another limb, he would feel naked without it.

The short, pointed blade was solid. Made by thebest blacksmith in the clan. But it wasn’t his father’s sword.

That heavy curved saber still hung on the tent wall. Ridan stared up at it every night, wondering when he would be ready. When the time would come when he would grasp the hilt, slot his fingers into the rivets worn down by his father’s sweat and blood. His mother said he would know when he was ready.

He wanted to be ready now. He wanted to trace the decorations his father had painstakingly chosen to accompany him to battle, wanted to feel his spirit in the razor-sharp edge of the blade.

But he wasn’t. Not yet.

Jonen rubbed his nose with the back of his hand as he trudged back to Ridan. Dirt clung to his sweaty curls and back. He’d gone shirtless, showing off the wide expanse of shoulders presenting as an alpha gave him. The little Jonen Ridan used to tower over was gone—in his place was a hulking alpha that created a shadow big enough to intimidate a juvenile Tetratorn.

He sniffled as he clambered up the fence to join Ridan.

“You let him win,” Ridan observed, his voice full of scorn.

Wide eyes turned to him, curls shaking in denial before his mouth caught up. “What? No, I didn’t.”

“You pulled two punches and ignored an opening.”

Jonen played with a fraying thread on his worn pants. His shoulders hunched under Ridan’s scrutiny. “I just…didn’t want to hurt him.”

Ridan curled his lip in disgust. “You think an enemy will hesitate? You’re not doing him any favors. That’s how he gets killed.”

“I know,” he whined, dropping his chin to his chest. “He looks so?—”

Ridan didn’t wait for him to finish, shoving him off the fence. Jonen yelped, flipping backwards to land in a heap on the other side in a puff of dust.

“Mean,” he groaned, not bothering to get up from where he sprawled on his back.

Ridan examined his nails. “When are you going to ask him to mate?”

Jonen spluttered dirt and indignation, his tongue tying into knots with the force of his denial. “That’s-I-I don’t Ridan! I-what?” he pushed himself to his feet, but Ridan shoved him back down. He went without protest.

“Your knot is going to shrivel up before you ever get to use it.”

The alpha answered with a garbled wail of self-pity and embarrassment, “I know.”

Ridan let him wallow in his misery, looking up to see Corric helping Oosa and Shesto practice. They weren’t warriors—Oosa’s family made the clothes in the clans and Shesto had recently apprenticed with the pot maker. They had art in their blood but liked to be prepared. It was important to be able to protect themselves.

“He’s a prince,” Jonen mumbled from the dirt.

Snorting, Ridan twisted to look down at him. “Of what? Drooling on the pillow while he sleeps?” he hopped down off the fence and shook out his legs, getting the blood flowing. “Besides, he was all set up with aroyal matchand ran screaming straight to you. Obviously, he has terrible taste.”

He left Jonen to ponder his words, resting a hand on the hilt of his blade as he made his way to the stables.

Ridan would rather chew off his own fingernails than admit it aloud, but Jonen was a good man. He’d always been kind hearted, soft when he could be, butfierce and loyal when the time called for it. Even when he presented, he didn’t become a knothead. As an alpha, he would protect his mate without smothering him. Probably be sappy and romantic, too.

And as much as he resented Corric’s unfair height, he was a good man, too. When Ridan presented, Corric stayed with him. Held him, comforted him in the way only a fellow omega—a fellow pack member—could. Corric never brought up things said in the hazy fever of a heat, never judged him. Just forced him to drink water and eat, let Ridan draw comfort from his frigid scent.

He would be a solid mate for Jonen.

That, and he called for the alpha during every heat. He never remembered afterward, and Ridan usually had enough decency not to mention it, but with every pining glance, he was beginning to lose patience.

He was about to check Peppercorn’s hooves when he noticed a commotion. His mother was riding into camp on her gray mare, face twisted into an uglier scowl than usual. She dismounted before the mare even slowed, tossing the reins to a stable girl before calling out for Osmond.