“Do you think I’m a fool? You’re a Shifter.”

“And you’re a pussy. That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? The only way you can feel less inferior is to cage us like animals and rule us with your money. Fuck your money. I don’t have superpowers, so I’m offering you a chance to fight me as a man. I don’t need my wolf to win my battles, in case you haven’t already noticed. You have the advantage, being that I’m wounded and staining your floor with blood. So here’s your chance to really feel like a man and beat the hell out of one of the best. If you knock me out, then you win your money and get immortality. If I win? Well, I just win.”

Wheeler was tickling a sensitive nerve all weak men like Delgado had: ego. Beneath all the layers of power, money, and intelligence, was a small boy on a playground who wanted to be the toughest kid. None of his possessions would ever truly make him feel superior the way a man feels when he uses his fists to settle an argument.

“How do I know you won’t shift?”

“Jesus Christ,” Wheeler grunted. He flipped a coffee table over and broke off one of the legs. “Here, I’ll give you another advantage, unless you’d rather use one of those fireplace pokers.” He tossed the wooden stick and Delgado caught it.

A second passed before Delgado cautiously set the gun down on a table. He gripped the wooden stake in his hand and twirled it a little to get a feel for it.

Wheeler relaxed and widened his stance. The two men approached each other, and Wheeler instinctively held his left arm in front of him to block any attempts Delgado made to strike. Because Delgado was right-handed, his swings would hit the left side of Wheeler’s body. That meant he had to block and punch with his left hand since the bullet had gone into his right shoulder, weakening the limb.

Delgado crossed his right arm over his left shoulder and suddenly swung at Wheeler, striking him with the stick on the right arm. When he raised his hand again, Wheeler ducked, taking the blow on his back. Wheeler charged forward and tackled him like a football player.

Wheeler roared, shoving Delgado across the room until he stumbled and fell backward. The two men crashed to the floor and Delgado struck him on his left temple.

“You son of a bitch,” Wheeler growled, gripping Delgado’s arm and slamming it against the hard marble. The wood clanked against the surface and tumbled out of reach.

Delgado threw his fist and Wheeler couldn’t raise his right arm to block, so he head-butted him instead. He heard the crunch of bone before he ever saw the first drop of blood. The second time, Wheeler hit him right between the eyes.

Wheeler lifted his head, dazed for a moment. That’s when he saw his butterfly knife displayed on the wall—as if it were a souvenir of a hunt. It had been in his back pocket when they took him. Wheeler liked using that knife for tricks, and when others asked him if he’d ever used it, he always said he was saving it for a special occasion.