Page 63 of Griffin Food

I share a look with Rafe. He shrugs. He looks as battered and broken as I am. Worn down. And now this new fuckery? Fuck knows what this means.

When we enter the training pit, the same griffins are there as were present the very first day. The pelt at the back of my wolf’s neck rises. Atlas and his two lieutenants have their wings out on full display like they are not already impressive enough without them. Assholes.

It is not the big bastard Vander who moves first today. No, it’s Atlas who splits from the pack. His wings suddenly disappear. At his nod, Vander approaches, grasping Rafe in a no-nonsense way.

“What are you doing?” I demand. Not that I can make demands of anyone here. My belly tightens as I’m left alone in the center of the room.

Atlas shrugs out of his shirt, tosses it aside, and rolls out his shoulders. My eyes dart between him and whatever the fuck Vander is doing with Rafe.

“The hell,” Rafe snarls.

Chains rattle. My eyes shift from Atlas’s looming presence to find Rafe secured to the wall, arms drawn above his head, heavy iron circling his wrists. The chain looks thick enough to hold an orc. He growls and yanks on them.

My gaze snaps back to Atlas, who has stepped closer while I’ve been distracted. He doesn’t smile. His face is a blank slate.

Yet a tendril of something soft and sweet lingers on him, reaching my nose as he stops a few paces from me. Our mate. Aroused.

She doesn’t tell me what he does with her, beyond that she delivers his breakfast each morning and waits until he’s finished before taking the tray away.

I come out swinging.

He blocks the blow easily and slams his fist into my jaw. It rattles my skull and stars burst behind my eyes.

Fuck. He punches damn hard.

He grins, curling two fingers in a little come-hither gesture.

“Don’t fight him!” Rafe calls. “Don’t play into their games!”

Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have an inner wolf who’s going feral from the scent of our mate on this bastard.

I charge.

He tosses me aside and kicks my ass to help me hit the rough, sandy floor with force.

With a roar, I launch myself at him again.

We go at one another. It's a small satisfaction that his blood stains the floor beside mine, and bruises soon mottle his flesh. Only he is strong and tireless, and for every blow I land, he lands three.

I was already worn out when we walked into the training pit. Up half the night plowing Violet’s sweet cunt, and lugging rocks or chopping endless supplies of wood all day.

And I didn’t even get my breakfast today!

I’m beyond spent. And still the rage inside me roars. Burning with the need to know how her aroused scent came to be on him. Has he taken her? Will I smell his seed when I join her later in her nest?

Something breaks loose. Something dark and primal.

It doesn’t matter how tired I am. Doesn’t matter how many blows land. Doesn’t matter that I recognize he is toying with me.

Rafe’s hoarse voice echoes off the stone walls, begging me to call it time. “For fuck’s sake, Lark. Yield!”

Nothing can reach me. I am lost in the haze of rage and madness. Nor am I close to yielding.

I’m on the floor face down, mouth full of grit. I drag myself off the ground, spitting out a gob of blood. My legs barely hold me. I sway.

“I know what this is about,” I grit out.

Atlas arches a brow. There’s a bruise blooming on one cheek, his left eye swollen, yet he is not beaten, barely winded.