Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Before I could finish the thought, the crowd of Weres had finished forming up as Curly had directed them. Once everything was said and done, there were only about ten men left in the center of the ring—two of them being Dragon Tattoo and Mr. Mustache, as I had christened them in my head. They still looked like the two meanest to me, but the other eight weren’t exactly small. Any one of them could snap me in half like a twig, I thought, feeling my stomach clench with anxiety. I didn’t see a single one of them I wanted to end up with.
“All right now, look around you, boys,” Curly instructed them. “If you don’t think you can take the heat, there’s no shame in duckin’ out now. Or, if you’re standing outside the ring, thinkin’ you can take these boys in the middle, well come on in. This here is gonna be a battle royale and the winner takes all—meaning the Royal Omega here!” He pointed at me and then waited to let the men decide.
After a moment one man—who was slightly smaller than the rest of the behemoths who had stepped into the middle of the ring—shook his head and left the center to go back to the surrounding ring of Weres. There were some boos and jeers from the men around him but Curly called on them to “Shush.”
“Ain’t no harm in backin’ out,” he bawled at the crowd. “A man’s gotta know his limits!”
“Well, my limit is Double Dragons, over there!” one man shouted from the side, which brought a burst of guffaws. I supposed he must be talking about the guy with the Dragon tattoos on his arms.
“All right then, anybody else want to back out?” Curly asked, eyeing the nine remaining contestants. If not, ya’ll can start fightin’ and whoever’s left standing at the end is the winner.”
“That’s gonna be me,” the Dragon Tattoo guy growled, pointing at his chest with his thumb.
“You think so? Come get some, then,” Mr. Mustache growled.
The two men started toward each other but Curly bawled,
“Wait now—wait just a minute before we get started! Ya’ll haven’t heard the rules yet!”
I winced again—I was definitely going to die deaf in one ear—the right one, since I was standing on his left side.
“Hurry up with the rules, then,” Mr. Mustache growled. “I can’t wait to take that pretty little piece of Royal ass off in the woods and knot her good!”
Ugh—disgusting. My stomach did a sick flip.
“Rules are this,” Curley went on, shouting so loudly you’d think he had a megaphone, though he didn’t. “It’s a free-for-all and the last man standing is the winner. But no weapons and no Wolves—got it?”
“Aww, you don’t have to say that part about the Wolves, Curly,” someone objected. “It’s almost a week until the full moon. Ain’t nobody here strong enough to Shift when it ain’t a full moon night!”
“Still, though, I have to say it,” Curly said sternly. “Now, if we’re all clear on the rules and regulations, let’s get to fightin’!”
The men began squaring off against each other and I wondered which of them would win. Every single one of them looked extremely unpleasant—not to mention considerably older than me. These were all hardened men in their late thirties and forties, I estimated, and most of them had been in plenty of fights before. I didn’t see a single nose among them that didn’t look like it had been broken at least once.
And then, just as the punches were presumably about to start flying, a loud voice shouted,
“Room for one more?”
I frowned, scanning the crowd to see who it was coming from. Then I saw him—a tall, muscular man wearing a mask that covered his entire head. The mask was shaped like the head of Anubis, the Egyptian god of the Underworld—a black jackal with a narrow muzzle and sharply pointed ears. Since he was bare-chested, wearing only tight black jeans and the mask, he really did look like Anubis, I thought.
“Who’s that?” Curly demanded as the new man pushed his way through the crowd and came to stand in front of the stage. “Who’re you, stranger?” he demanded.
“You don’t need my name,” the new guy growled. The mask, with its long, dark muzzle and pointed ears, seemed to be well molded to his face—I wished I could see his eyes but he was too far away from me. “I heard the invitation was open to all so I came,” he said. “I’m here to claim the Royal Omega as my mate.”
“Well, I’m afraid you got a little competition, son,” Curly cackled, pointing to the other nine contestants. “You sure you wanna throw your hat in the ring?”
“Start the fight,” was the new man’s only response. “I heard your rules—no weapons and no Wolves,” he added.