Second-Chance Mate:The Alpha Who Took What My Mate Threw Away

Chapter 23 – First Bruises

By the next morning, every muscle in my body filed a formal complaint.

Getting out of bed felt like peeling myself off the mattress with a spatula. My shoulders ached from holds, my legs ached from running, and even my ribs had opinions.

Nyra sounded smug. We did good.

“We did painful,” I muttered, dragging on clean clothes. “There’s a difference.”

Downstairs smelled like coffee and toast. Tessa pressed a mug into my hand before I could say good morning. “Training field in twenty, if you’re up for more bruises,” she said. “Gently bruises.”

“Define gently,” I said.

“Less blood,” she replied, and wandered off.

On the field, Rowan and Jonah were already stretching, both in loose shirts and training pants. A couple of younger wolves—late teens, early twenties—practiced holds on each other under Aiden’s eye. Everyone looked too awake.

“You’re late,” Rowan said.

“You’re obnoxious,” I answered. “We can’t all be morning people.”

“Unfortunately,” Jonah said, almost smiling. “Gloves.”

He tossed me a pair of padded gloves again. My fingers slid into the familiar weight. Less alien today.

“Today,” Rowan said, “we add hitting back.”

“I thought that’s what we did yesterday,” I said.

“That was getting loose,” Jonah said. “This is about what happens when ‘stop’ doesn’t work right away.”

A little shiver ran through me. I flexed my hands. “Okay. Show me.”

Rowan stepped in front of me. “Hands up. Chin down. Don’t worry about pretty. Worry about effective.”

He held up his own gloved hands. “I tag you, you tag me back. Hard as you want. You don’t break me, I’ve survived worse.”

I snorted. “You’re asking a lot of my self‑control.”

He flashed the quickest of grins. “Good. Use it.”

We started slow. Light taps, more like testing range than punching. My first attempts were clumsy—too wide, too telegraphed. Rowan blocked them with embarrassing ease.

“Shoulder, not wrist,” he said. “Drive from your legs. Again.”

Again.

The word became a drumbeat. Hit, block, adjust. I learned where my balance broke, where it held, how to shift weight so my feet didn’t tangle. Occasionally Rowan let one of my hits land cleanly; the satisfying thud of glove on padded ribs sent a little flare of vicious joy through me.

“Better,” he said. “You’re thinking less.”

“Compliment?” I panted.

“Almost.”

Jonah cut in after a while, bigger and heavier. Getting through his guard was like trying to punch a door. But when I followed the same principles—shoulder, hips, legs, not just arms—he rocked back a step, eyes sharpening.

“There you go,” he said. “You hit like someone who’s tired of being the one getting dragged.”

“I am tired,” I said. “Of everything.”

He actually laughed.

Mira watched from the sideline, arms folded, eyes tracking every move. Not hovering—just… there.

After a water break, Rowan changed it up. “Okay. Add grabs.”

He moved faster, tagging my shoulder, then following with a hand at my wrist. The first time, instinct screamed, and I yanked back uselessly.

“Again,” he said.

Second time, I remembered. Step in, not away. Elbow, twist, break the grip.

Third time, he went for my throat.

Nyra roared.

I didn’t go under this time. Heat flared, but it didn’t blind me. I dropped my weight, slammed my forearm against his, and snapped a punch up into the soft spot under his ribs.

He grunted and staggered back two full steps.

We stared at each other, both breathing hard.

“Better,” he said after a second. “You didn’t disappear.”

“I wanted to,” I admitted.

“Wanting isn’t the same as doing,” Jonah said.

The younger wolves had paused their own drills to watch. One of them, a girl with a buzzcut and an old scar along her jaw, looked… impressed. That was new.

“Okay,” Mira called. “Before we break ribs, cool down.”

I stripped the gloves off with shaky fingers. My knuckles throbbed inside the padding. Bruises would bloom tomorrow, I knew it.

Worth it, Nyra said.

Mira stepped over, taking my wrist lightly, checking my pulse. “How’s your head?”

“Attached,” I said. “Didn’t go anywhere special.”

“Flashbacks?” she asked, straightforward.

“A couple of flickers,” I said. “Less… sticky.”

Her mouth lifted. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

The buzzcut girl approached, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Hey,” she said to me. “That counter you did? On the throat grab?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you… show me?” she asked. “My little brother likes to jump on my back. I figure I should learn not to panic.”

It was such a normal, stupid reason that I almost laughed.

“Sure,” I said instead. “Come here. Step where I stepped.”

We walked through it slow. Hands. Feet. Where to put weight. She picked it up quick, body already used to moving. The second time, she did it without prompting. Her eyes lit.

“That felt good,” she said.

“Careful,” I said. “You get used to that feeling, you start liking training.”

“Too late,” Jonah muttered.

By the time we wrapped, the sun had climbed higher, burning off the last of the morning mist. Sweat dried cool on my skin. My hands ached. My ribs ached. My brain… didn’t.

Not the jagged way it had when I walked into this pack. This was a clean soreness, the kind you could point to and say: I earned that.

Rowan walked me back toward the houses, keeping an easy pace.

“You’re doing well,” he said.

“I’m not punching you for saying that,” I answered. “That’s progress.”

He huffed. “You’re not less in danger because you can hit now,” he said. “But you’re less helpless. There’s a difference.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s the difference between being strapped down and choosing to stand there.”

He glanced at me sidelong. “Exactly.”

We reached the porch. Caleb was there again—because of course he was—leaning on the railing, mug in hand.

“How bad?” he asked, eyes flicking over me, checking for injuries I didn’t feel.

“I’m a bruise with legs,” I said. “But I can choke Rowan out if he annoys me.”

“Progress,” Caleb said, mouth twitching.

“Hey,” Rowan protested. “We just got her to stop threatening to throw wrenches. Don’t give her new ideas.”

I rolled my sore shoulders. “New idea is: when Council comes, I don’t curl up and hope someone else handles it.”

Caleb’s gaze held mine. “No,” he said. “You don’t.”

Nyra settled behind my ribs, tired but pleased.

For the first time, the thought of the inspection didn’t make me feel like a rabbit waiting for the hawk.

It made me feel like a wolf, bruised and wary—but learning, very fast, how not to go down easy.