Chapter One
CALYS
My breasts hurt.
The pain was similar to having a pair of sore giant lumps connected to my body. The pain reminded me of something I tended to forget. I may have been raised with panthers, but I wasn’t one. I was human, and I could die of breast cancer.
But the pain’s all worth it, I told myself valiantly. Tonight was proof of it. My aching breasts, the result of an opponent’s hard jab to my chest, were also proof of it. I was in The Den. I had made it to the strongest fighting class. And because of that, I finally had the chance to pick my future partner from the cream of the crop.
Black Mamba, my first opponent, had potential. He had an eight pack, a must for me. I was also an expert when it came to guesstimating body mass indexes, and just by looking at Black Mamba, I knew he was at 24.4. That meant only a little over one-fifth of his body was made of fat. Not bad at all, although he really could have gotten that down to twenty-three. A couple more push-ups each day would have done the trick.
Rare Bear was good, too. His skills in tae kwon do were amazing, but there was something strange with the way he fought. He always had his pinky finger turned up, like a queen holding a teacup. Could that mean anything?
I continued mentally scoring potential consorts as I hurried down another tunnel. If all roads led to Rome, all tunnels under Naples, Florida led to The Den. The tunnels were dark and narrow. Lights were only installed in the intersections. They were sparsely decorated with plain wooden tables and chairs, and they served as waiting areas for fighters without dressing rooms.
Behind me, the shouts of the crowd were still loud.
“Bite his neck!”
“Break his claws!”
The Den was the only one of its kind in the States, an underground fighting arena for shifters. Night after night, huge crowds turned out to watch the fights. To make battles more exciting, special chemicals had been injected in the air. These chemicals had the power to neutralize the extraordinary senses of shifters. As a result, wolves no longer had the best sense of smell and bird shifters no longer had the best sense of hearing. Everyone was basically equal, and because of that only brute strength – and tactics – could win the battle.
My breasts ached more painfully with every minute that passed. Since I was the best in my previous fighting class, The Den had given me a dressing room. But that was still five intersections down, and I didn’t think I could make it that far. I had to do something before I went crazy and cut off my own breasts.
Turning right, I took a detour. In minutes I came to an empty intersection and nearly expired with joy at the sight of it. I hurried to the corner and took off my loose shirt and overalls. My choice of costume was strategic. Leatherface’s clothes were big enough to hide the fact that I was, well, a girl.
Under my costume, I wore a tank top and a skimpy pair of black nylon shorts. I pulled my top up and unwrapped the layers of cotton bindings around my chest. “Aaaah.” Tears actually formed in my eyes as my breast bounced free of its restraints.
Note to self: make an appointment with a doctor ASAP. I knew how to do things. Hot wiring a car was easy. Saving a choking stranger with the Heimlich maneuver was easy. But girly stuff like finding out if I had breast cancer? I could vaguely remember watching an infomercial that said I had to touch myself to find out if I had breast cancer. But the why or how of it? Not one clue.
The pain in my breasts reminded me of my unwanted task. With a grimace, I started groping my breasts. They were bigger than I was comfortable with, so there was a lot to grope. I really wanted to have them reduced. Panthers outside my pack tended to think just because I had big breasts, I was stupid. Worse, they also thought the bigger a woman’s breasts were, the smaller her brain was. I just couldn’t understand them. It wasn’t like breasts took up space inside my head.
The damp air inside the tunnels made my nipples pucker up. It was embarrassing, and I felt my cheeks heating up at the sight of it. I really wish I was born a man instead, I thought glumly as I continued touching my breasts.
The weight of my breasts in my own hands was also embarrassing. Maybe it was time to seriously consider breast reduction surgery. Maybe—
“Do you need some help with that?”
With a gasp, I whirled around, shocked at the voice. I should have heard someone approaching, but I had let down my guard, being too busy worrying about breast cancer.
The intruder was a tall masked man clad entirely in black. He had dark hair and green eyes. I recognized him instantly.
He was The Masked Wolf.
He was The Den’s #1 fighter.
And I was his #1 fan, but he didn’t have to know that.
For a moment, I could only gape. The Masked Wolf. The Masked Wolf! THE MASKED WOLF!