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WREN

“I can’t believe you’re heading to the gym after working a double,” Dina said, counting out cash behind the bar.

The manager of Arcane had worked in these kinds of places since she was eighteen. Now, at fifty-five, she wore that experience like armor. Locals rarely attempted to cross her, and if they did, they met the other end of her bat.

As she stood there in her black cowboy boots and salt-and-pepper hair woven into a braid that hung halfway down her back, I envied Dina. The way she was so sure of herself. How she knew exactly who she was and made no apologies for it.

I hoisted my duffel over my shoulder. “You know I’m always twitchy after a shift. Gotta work that out.”

I’d only been in Crescent Creek for a little over a month, but Dina was observant. And her keen eye meant that even though she didn’t ask questions, she saw more than I likely wanted her to. Her gaze flicked to me, and then she went back to the money. “Give ‘em hell.”

I chuckled and headed for the back door. “Thanks, D. Get home safe.”

As I slipped outside, I glanced at where my beat-up navy hatchback was parked. Not that anyone would want to steal it—its condition was too crappy. But I liked knowing it was still there. Just in case I needed to escape.

But I didn’t need to use the vehicle daily, thanks to Dina renting me the studio apartment above the bar for a steal. I could walk everywhere I needed to go. It wasn’t as if I went many places: the tiny grocery store a few blocks down, the woods behind the bar for a run in wolf form, and the gym.

Crescent Kingdom.

The name had called to me the moment I stopped in town, checking out what it had to offer and knowing I didn’t have the cash to make it much farther. But Crescent Creek had been exactly what I needed. And the gym was, too.

As I pushed open the door, the familiar sound of gloved hands striking bags and mitts hit my ears. It created the most soothing symphony—the sound of home.

The place was humming, even at ten o’clock at night, largely because Crescent Kingdom’s clientele worked long hours at other jobs. Fitting in fight training came after dinners with family or working double shifts at jobs like I did.

“Hey there, girlie. Thought you might be bailing tonight.” Clyde ambled over in that stiff, limping walk he had—the gait of a fighter who’d reached his senior years.

I couldn’t help the smile that pulled at my lips as I took in his grizzled face. “Never. Just took longer to close up tonight.”

Clyde pinned me with a stare. “Rowdy customers?”

I’d never had a father. Not a real one, anyway—someone who cared about my well-being, happiness, and safety. I hadn’t had grandparents either. As far as I knew, Bastian’s parents were dead. And my mom never thought it would be safe for us to be in contact with hers.

But there was something about Clyde’s gruff care and grandfatherly demeanor that made my chest ache in the most beautiful way.

“Nothing and no one I can’t handle,” I assured him.

Clyde chuckled. “I don’t doubt that, girlie.” He inclined his head toward a man in his late twenties, hitting a heavy bag. “Franco wants to spar if you’re up for it. Getting ready for that bout in three weeks.”

I watched the shirtless man connect with the bag, sweat glistening on his tan skin. He was fit, attractive, and moved with grace, but I felt nothing but respect for him. No tingling attraction or anything else. Maybe that part of me was broken.

“No problem,” I agreed quickly. “Just need to warm up.”

“I’ll get the ring clear in thirty,” Clyde said.

I gave him a quick nod and moved to the far wall, where I tucked my bag. Clyde had a small locker room for the handful of women who frequented the gym, but I didn’t want my bag anywhere I couldn’t see it, where it might be difficult to get to if I needed to bolt.

I’d learned the hard way to carry everything I needed with me: my current fake ID, along with at least two others, enough cash to get me through a couple of weeks, and a spare set of clothes.

Everything had to be ready so I could flee at a moment’s notice and transform. I’d had every hair and eye color under the sun but was currently back to my natural dark brown with blue eyes that almost looked turquoise in certain light. There was only one thing I never changed.

My first name.

It was an homage to my mother—the only piece of her I still carried with me. Because each time I heard someone call my name, I heard my mom’s voice in my head. “My Little Wren, listen to the song inside you. As long as you hear your voice, you’ll always be able to come back to yourself. ”

I held tightly to that reminder, using my heart to ground me every time the pain got to be too much—other people’s or mine.

Letting my duffel drop to the floor by the wall, I hopped onto a treadmill and turned up the speed to an easy jog. Many female fighters sparred in shorts and bra tops. I didn’t have that option if I didn’t want to answer questions about the scars riddling my body, so I opted for leggings and a long-sleeved workout shirt.

You could see a couple of the scars on my hands, but most people assumed I had been in a car accident of some sort. Because that made sense. No one would think my own father had inflicted the wounds.

I punched up the speed as the memories tried to take hold. The burn of my muscles always helped, as did my refusal to be a victim any longer.

If my father came for me again, he wouldn’t find a trembling little girl.

“Wren,” Clyde shouted over the music and the sounds of punches and kicks. “We’re ready for you.”

I slowed the treadmill’s speed, easing back into a jog and then a walk. I didn’t rush the process. That was how you ended up with a pulled or torn muscle, and I didn’t have time for that.

Stopping the treadmill altogether, I hopped off and did a quick set of stretches. An exaggerated groan sounded to my right.

“Wren, you are killing me,” Juan muttered. “When are you going to give in and marry me?”

My lips twitched as I glanced over at him from my forward bend. “When you can best me in the ring.”

Franco chuckled and slapped Juan on the shoulder. “That’s a no-chance-in-hell, my man.”

Juan just grinned at him. “Never say never, just like the Biebs says.”

Franco scowled. “Jesus.”

I laughed. This sort of shit talking made me feel like one of the guys, even if I was sort of being hit on. I knew Juan wasn’t serious, just like he wasn’t serious about fighting. He did it for fun, to stay in shape, and to spend time with his friends.

If I really thought about it, he was probably the healthiest of us all. Because you often found people with demons in these sorts of gyms—those trying to beat them into submission. And it only worked for small snippets of time.

I straightened, testing my limbs to make sure they were loose and warm. “Let’s do this.”

Franco nodded, took a swig of water, and then tossed the bottle to Juan. “Don’t hold back.”

Clyde snickered. “Not sure you want to give her that kind of permission.”

Warmth spread through me at Clyde’s words and his belief in me. He had no idea what sort of gift that was.

I climbed into the practice ring, ducking between the ropes. Crescent Kingdom was a mixed martial arts gym on the whole, but people here generally specialized in boxing or jiujitsu. I wanted to learn it all. To know everything I could use to defeat my opponent.

Franco was training for a local MMA match a few towns over and was one of the fighters at the gym who could give me the best run for my money. He sauntered toward the center of the ring, holding out his knuckles covered by fingerless practice gloves.

Tugging mine on, I met him in the middle to touch fists.

“Ready?” Clyde called, backing away from the ring.

I liked the way Clyde coached. He moved around the ring, sometimes getting right up next to it for a closer view, other times backing off so he could see the full picture. He said it gave him perspective.

Franco lifted his chin in assent, and I did the same.

A whistle sounded in the distance.

Franco immediately rose to the tips of his toes, and we started the dance. Our movements came in testing jabs and kicks. Though we’d sparred countless times before, every day was different. You never knew what a person might be carrying with them in those moments.

Franco’s fist shot out, trying to get my ribs. I blocked the worst of it, answering with a kick to his side, instantly rebuking myself. I should’ve gone for his legs, kicking them out from under him.

Too late now.

I moved quickly, darting in for an uppercut to Franco’s jaw. His head snapped back, but he quickly righted himself. Neither of us was sparring at full strength. If we had been, that punch would have packed a hell of a lot more heat.

We dodged and wove, each landing the occasional hit. I had to admit, Franco was getting better.

“Stop holding back,” he growled.

I should’ve known he’d realize what I was doing. He was too smart not to. I could never fight with my full shifter strength or speed in here, but I was holding back even the human part of me.

Giving Franco what he wanted, I lunged forward. Using my petite size, I ducked under his swing and swept his legs out from under him. Franco hit the mat with a loud thud as a collective series of oooohs sounded around us.

I moved in to pounce, to get him into an armbar or some other hold, but Franco was fast. He leapt to his feet before I got there, hands up by his face. We traded punches, and then the air shifted, something catching on it—a scent I hadn’t smelled in weeks.

Wolf.

The shock was enough to have my guard slipping, my hands lowering. And then a fist connected hard with my jaw.