Forged in the Beta's Claim

Chapter 4

The morning sun beats down on the training grounds, and I'm already sweating through my tank top. The Ironclad Pack's training area is nothing like Crescent Moon's—where ours was a cleared patch of dirt behind the pack house, this is a full combat arena. Weapon racks line one side, punching bags hang from steel frames, and there's even a raised platform for sparring. Everything about it screams discipline, power, and control.

Everything I'm not.

I hover at the edge, watching wolves go through drills. They move like soldiers, synchronized and deadly. A few glance my way, and I catch the whispers. The rejected omega. The weak one who couldn't keep her mate. I lift my chin and ignore them, even as shame burns in my chest.

Then I hear him.

"¡Otra vez! Your stance is s**t, Marcus. You want your throat ripped out? Again!"

The voice cuts through the morning air like a blade—deep, commanding, with an accent that rolls the words in a way that shouldn't be as attractive as it is. I turn toward the sound and my breath catches.

He's in the center of the sparring platform, circling the wolf who showed me around, who's already panting. The trainer—it has to be him, the Beta, Alpha Ilas, mentioned—moves with a predator's grace, all coiled muscle and lethal intent. He's tall, easily six-three, with shoulders broad enough to block out the sun. His skin is a warm olive tone, gleaming with a light sheen of sweat that highlights every cut of muscle across his bare torso.

And there are a lot of muscles to highlight.

His chest is a work of art, defined pectorals leading down to abs that look carved from stone. Black tribal tattoos snake across his left shoulder and down his bicep—pack marks, I realize, but more intricate than any I've seen. More tattoos peek above the waistband of his low-slung training pants, and I have to physically stop myself from staring at the V of muscle that disappears beneath the fabric.

His hair is dark, almost black, cut short on the sides but longer on top, falling slightly across his forehead. Stubble shadows a jaw that could cut glass, and there's a thin scar running from his temple to his cheekbone that only makes him more devastating to look at. Another scar cuts across his ribs—a claw mark that didn't heal clean.

He's a warrior. Every inch of him screams danger.

Then his eyes flick to me, and I forget how to breathe.

They're dark—so dark they're almost black—but when the sunlight hits them, I catch flashes of amber, like embers in coal. Those eyes pin me in place, assessing, calculating. His gaze sweeps over me—a quick, professional assessment—but something flickers in his expression before he looks away, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. When his eyes return to mine, they're carefully neutral.

"You." He points at me, then crooks his finger. "Here. Now."

It's not a request.

My feet move before my brain catches up, carrying me across the training ground. Every step closer makes my heart pound harder. He's even more imposing up close—taller, broader, radiating an alpha energy that makes my wolf want to either submit or challenge him. I'm not sure which.

I stop at the edge of the platform, tilting my head back to meet his eyes. This close, I can smell him—pine and smoke and something darker, muskier. Something that makes my mouth go dry.

"Ivory Galloway." His voice is a low rumble, my name sounding exotic with his accent. "I am Raul Lexing, Beta of Ironclad Pack. I will be your trainer."

He doesn't offer his hand. Doesn't smile. Just stares at me with those intense dark eyes like he's trying to see straight through to my soul.

"Okay," I manage, proud that my voice doesn't shake.

Raul's eyebrow arches. "Okay?" The single word drips with challenge, waiting for me to elaborate.

I bristle. "What do you want me to say? That I'm thrilled to be here? That I asked for any of this?" My hands clench at my sides, a defensive spark of anger burning through my uncertainty.

He begins to circle me, slow and deliberate. I force myself to stand still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me unnerved. Each step he takes feels calculated, like a predator measuring his prey.

"Why should I invest time in training someone so fundamentally unprepared?" His voice is clinical, assessing. "You have no foundation. No real understanding of what you are."

"I didn't ask for this," I snap back, my wolf rising beneath my skin. "I didn't choose to suddenly have my entire world turned upside down."

He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. The proximity is suffocating, electric. My pulse quickens—a betrayal of my body's response that I absolutely hate.

"Pequeña," he says, the Spanish endearment sliding between us like a blade, "being unwilling is not the same as being incapable."

His eyes bore into mine—cold, intense, measuring every microscopic reaction. I can feel the weight of his professional judgment, the calculation of whether I'm worth the effort. For a heartbeat, something shifts in his expression—something almost like recognition—before his features harden again.

"Get on the platform," he orders, stepping back. "Show me what you can do."

"I don't know how to fight."

"I know. That is the problem." He moves to the center of the platform, rolling his shoulders. The movement makes all those muscles shift and flex, and I have to force my eyes back to his face. "Come. Attack me."

"What?"

"You heard me. Attack me." He spreads his arms wide, leaving himself open. "Show me your wolf. Show me you have any fire left, or admit you are as weak as everyone says."

The taunt works. Rage floods through me, hot and wild, and my wolf surges forward. I don't think—I just move, launching myself at him with a snarl.

He sidesteps so fast I barely see it, and suddenly I'm stumbling past him. His hand catches my wrist, spinning me around, and then I'm pressed against his chest with my arm twisted behind my back. Not painfully, but firmly. Inescapably.

"Sloppy," he murmurs against my ear, his breath hot on my neck. "Predictable. You telegraph every move."

I'm acutely aware of every point where our bodies touch—his chest against my back, his hand wrapped around my wrist, his other hand resting on my hip to hold me steady. He's so warm, and he smells so good, and I hate that I notice. Hate that my body responds, my wolf practically purring at the contact.

"Let go," I grit out.

"Make me."

I try to jerk away, but his grip is iron. Try to stomp on his foot, but he shifts his weight. Every move I make, he counters effortlessly, until I'm panting with frustration and exertion and something else I don't want to name.

"You fight like you're prey," he says, still in that low, dangerous voice. "All panic, no strategy. If you want to survive, you need to think like a predator."

He releases me suddenly—but not before his fingers linger against my hip for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. I catch the slight tension in his shoulders as he steps back, as if he's forcing himself to let go. When I stumble forward, catching myself before I fall, and turn back to him, his expression is perfectly controlled again.

"Tomorrow morning, dawn. Be here." He turns away, dismissing me. "And Ivory? Do not be late. I do not tolerate slackers or excuses."

"I'm not weak," I snap at his back.

He glances over his shoulder, and for just a second, I see something flicker in those dark eyes. Interest, maybe. Or challenge. His jaw works, like he's biting back words.

"Prove it."

Then he's barking orders in Spanish at the other trainees, and I'm clearly dismissed. I stand there for a moment, trembling with anger and adrenaline and unwanted attraction, before I force myself to walk away.

I can feel his eyes on me the entire time.

Back in my room, I collapse on the bed and press my hands to my face. What the hell was that? My skin still tingles where he touched me, and I can still smell him—pine and smoke and male. My wolf is restless, pacing, wanting to go back.

Wanting him.

"No," I say out loud. "Absolutely not."

I just had my heart shattered. I'm still dealing with the rejection of the mate bond and the pain that flares every time Gavin touches her. The last thing I need is to be attracted to some arrogant, infuriating Beta who looks at me like I'm something he scraped off his boot.

Even if he is the most physically perfect man I've ever seen.

Even if his touch made me feel more alive than I have in weeks.

I groan and roll over, burying my face in the pillow. This is going to be a disaster. I can already tell.

But when I close my eyes, all I see are those dark, intense eyes, and all I feel is the ghost of his hands on my body.

Tomorrow can't come soon enough.

And that terrifies me most of all.