They crash into the bleachers with a screech of tortured metal, then spill back onto the grass in a tangle of limbs. This isn’t a human fight. This is a battle between predators. I hear the sickening, wet crunch of a fist connecting with a jaw, followed by a low, pained grunt that is more animal than man. They roll and tear at each other, ripping up clumps of turf when Jaxson and Ryker both shift.
My limbs are frozen. My brain is screaming at me to run, to crawl, to do anything but lie here and watch, but I am paralyzed. My gaze slides desperately toward Lucas. He hasn’t moved.
He stands there, his posture rigid, his face a mask of cold, calculating fury. But his eyes aren’t on the brutal display as his friends fight.
They are fixed on me.
There’s a terrifying stillness in his gaze, an
