"What do you want?"

"You." He leaned close. I was already backed against the wall and couldn't move away when he brought his lips close to my ear. "Run with me tonight."

That was a euphemism among werewolves. Zan went through this whenever Carl wasn't around. I usually cowered and slunk away to hide behind T.J. Zan could take me, but he couldn't take T.J. That was how the dominance thing worked.

I was so not in the mood for this shit.

"No," I said, not realizing what I was saying until the word was out of my mouth.

"No? What do you mean, no?"

I straightened from the wall, squaring my shoulders and glaring at him. My vision wavered to gray. Wolf wanted a piece of him.

"I mean no. I mean get out of my face."

His shoulders bunched. An annoyed rumble sounded in his throat.

Shit. I'd just challenged him. I'd questioned his dominance, and he couldn't let it pass without severely beating me up. Carl and T.J. wouldn't save me because I'd gotten into it all by myself.

The room went quiet. The others were watching with a little too much interest. This wasn't the usual squabble—people were always duking it out, jockeying for positions in the middle of the pack. But this was me. I didn't fight. At best, as the pack's baby I was subject to good-natured teasing. At worst, I ended up on the wrong end of rough-housing. I always cowered, giving up status in exchange for safety. Not this time.

I couldn't break eye contact with Zan. I'd gotten myself into this. Let's see what I had to do to get out.

Those tricks I'd been learning in the self-defense class depended on the opponent's making the first move. It was supposed to be self-defense, not kick-ass. And here I was thinking a few cute punches made me tough. I'd made the challenge; Zan waited for me to start.

I feinted down, like I was going to tackle him in the middle. He reached to swipe at me, and I sidestepped, shoving into his back to topple him. He rolled, smacking into the back of the sofa. I rushed him again, not sure what I thought I was doing. But the Wolf knew. Before he could find his feet, I jumped on his back, hands around his throat, digging my nails into him.

He roared, grabbing my arms and rolling back and forth to dislodge me. My back bit the corner of the sofa, stinging my spine. But I held on, gripping with arms and legs. I wanted to use my teeth as well. At his next lunge, a floor lamp tipped.

Then Meg was there. Meg was Carl's mate, the alpha female of the pack. She was tall and lean, her straight black hair giving her an indefinable ethnic look. She wore a tank top and sweats, and would have looked at home on an exercise bike at the gym, except she vibrated. That was the only way to describe it. She vibrated with power, strength, and dominance. I could feel it across the room, usually. But I was so angry at Zan I didn't notice her until she grabbed my hair and pulled back. Her other hand held a chunk of Zan's hair.

She regarded me, brow lined with contusion. "Are you sure you want to do this?" She was giving me an out; protecting me from my own stupidity.

My blood was rushing. I wanted to rip out a piece of Zan so bad it hurt. I nodded quickly.

"Then take it outside," she said, pushing us away. Someone opened the kitchen door that led to the backyard.

I backed toward the door, holding his gaze. He followed, pressing me. I could hear his heart pounding. His sweat smelled like fire. He clenched his hands into fists. When his muscles tensed, I knew he was going to rush me the last couple of feet to the door.

I ducked, letting him trip over me. He flew headfirst, ungracefully, out the door to the concrete pad outside. I didn't wait; I jumped, landing on top of him as hard as I could. His head cracked on the concrete. Effortlessly, he spun me over, turning the tables so he pinned me to the ground. He backhanded me—I saw stars, my ears rang. He hit me twice more, wrenching my head back and forth while his other hand held my throat. I couldn't breathe.

He was going to kill me.

I'd wanted to learn to fight to defend myself against enemies, not engage in pack power struggles. What was I doing?

Anger and fear. That was what this whole life was about, anger vying with fear, and whichever won out determined whether you led or followed. I had spent almost three years being afraid, and I was sick of it.

I kneed him in the crotch.

He gasped, and while he didn't release me, his grip slackened. Grabbing his wrist, I squirmed out from under him. I kept hold of his arm as I slid onto his back, wrenching the limb around. Something popped and he cried out. I twisted it harder. With my other hand I grabbed his hair and pulled as hard as I could, tilting his head almost all the way back. It took all my weight pressing down on him to keep him at this angle, which made moving too painful for him. I didn't have the luxury of being able to let go to smack him around. So I bit him. Right at the corner of his jaw, taking in a mouthful of his cheek. I bit until I tasted blood, and he whimpered.

Finally, he went slack. I let go of his face, licking my lips, sucking the blood off my teeth. I'd taken a chunk out of his flesh—a bite-sized flap of it was hanging loose.

I leaned close to his ear. "I don't like you. I still hold a grudge against you and I always will, so stay out of my way or I'll rip you apart."

I meant it, too. He knew it, because as soon as I eased my weight off him, he scrambled away, cowering on all fours—submissive.

I crouched and stared at him. The blood was clouding my mind. I saw him, smelled his fear, and wanted to tear into him again. But I couldn't, because he was pack, and he was apologizing. I walked to where he was crouched, curling in on himself like he might disappear. This fight could have gone so differently—I didn't see fear in his eyes so much as surprise. I'd won this not because I was stronger, but because he hadn't expected me to fight back. I'd never have a fight this easy again.

He rolled onto his back. His breaths came in soft whines. I stood over him. Then I turned my back on him and walked away.

A part of me was nauseated, but no way would the Wolf let me go puke in the corner. She was hungry.

I swayed a little. I had a raging headache. I wiped my face; my hands came away bloody. My nose was bleeding. I tried to soak it up with my sleeve, then gave up. I healed fast, right?

The thing was, Zan hadn't been bottom of the pack. Now, others would challenge me in order to keep their places in the pecking order.

Carl stood at the kitchen door, arms crossed.

"He pissed me off," I said, answering the silent question.

"You don't get pissed off."

My first thought was, how the hell would he know? But the last thing I needed tonight was to challenge Carl. Carl wouldn't waste any time in knocking the snot out of me.

I dropped my gaze and meekly stood before him.

He said, "You may have a big-time radio show, but that doesn't make you anything here."

That reminded me. I groped in my jeans pocket and pulled out the envelope I'd shoved there before leaving home. It was filled with this month's payoff, in cash. I gave it to him. The blood I inadvertently smeared on it glared starkly.

He opened the flap and flipped through the stack of fifties. He glanced at me, glaring. It might not have made everything all better, but it distracted him. He handed the envelope to Meg.

If Carl was the bad cop, Meg was the good cop. The first year, I'd come to cry on her shoulder when this life got to me. She taught me the rules: Obey the alphas; keep your place in the pack.

I didn't want to make her angry. Inside, Wolf was groveling. I couldn't do anything but stand there.

Giving me her own stare, she crossed her arms. "You're getting stronger," she said. "Growing up, maybe."