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    Claiming His Prize: Feral Breed Fight Club, #2
    Claiming His Prize: Feral Breed Fight Club, #2
    Claiming His Prize: Feral Breed Fight Club, #2
    Ebook134 pages2 hours

    Claiming His Prize: Feral Breed Fight Club, #2

    By Ellis Leigh

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    About this ebook

    Dragons don't play well with others…

     

    Dragon-shifter Piers has been fighting at The Pack House—an underground MMA-style fight ring for shifters—for months. He's bested every opponent, won every prize, except the attention of the hot female doctor he can't get off his mind.

     

    Doctor Jane patches up shifters to keep her father safe, a fate not of her choosing. She'd be okay with her lot in life if it weren't for the handsome dragon shifter with the charming smile she can't stop thinking about.

     

    When another dragon claims Jane as his mate, Piers will have to fight to the death to save her from a fate she didn't choose. But the biggest obstacle in his way isn't the fire-breathing dragon set on claiming what isn't his, but the doctor herself who might choose duty over everything else. Maybe even him.

     

    Scales will fly, hisses will sound, and dragons will take to the sky, but only one will end up with the ultimate prize: love.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKinship Press
    Release dateMar 15, 2016
    ISBN9780996146593
    Claiming His Prize: Feral Breed Fight Club, #2
    Author

    Ellis Leigh

    A storyteller from the time she could talk, USA Today bestselling author Ellis Leigh grew up among family legends of hauntings, psychics, and love spanning decades. Those stories didn’t always have the happiest of endings, so they inspired her to write about real life, real love, and the difficulties therein. From farmers to werewolves, store clerks to witches—if there’s love to be found, she’ll write about it. Ellis lives in the Chicago area with her husband, daughters, and a German Shepherd that refuses to leave her side. Ellis can also be found writing tropey, erotic shorts with her bestie Brighton Walsh as London Hale or taking her suspense into the contemporary world as Kristin Harte.

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      Book preview

      Claiming His Prize - Ellis Leigh

      One

      Piers

      Pain exploded across my rib cage. The bastard landed a halfway decent punch, but there wasn’t enough strength behind it. Kudos for me. I curled my body, exaggerating the strike and moving with the hit to avoid any serious damage. I may have been able to heal quickly, but a broken rib would put a kink in my form for a solid two minutes. Not ideal when you were in the middle of a no-holds-barred cage match.

      The crowd responded to my show with cheers and hisses, growing louder as I pushed the other man away from me. I brought my hands back up, ready to take him on again. I didn’t attack, though. I waited and watched. One second, two. I let the crowd and anyone tracking the fight think this douche had a shot. That he’d actually be able to get one over on Tidal, that he’d mar my perfect fight record. That suspense and possibility of an upset added to the drama of the match. It made the humans in the stands bet a little bit more. Risk their hard-earned dollars on the dream of someone being a better fighter than me. That risk meant money, and money made the bosses real happy with me at the end of the night. So I faked like this kid had a shot at beating me, and my opponent was just dumb enough to think it was real. Sucker.

      As the other guy in the ring came at me again, I purposely stumbled back. Yeah, I could put on a show with the best of them. A little wincing, a little wobbling. A little hiding out until I had this guy right where I wanted him. I’d call myself a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but that would be too far from the truth. I was a dragon in wolf’s clothing, and this guy was about to find out what that meant.

      My opponent hit the wall of his own patience in a decidedly obvious way. He dropped his left arm, swinging with all he had on the right. But I was faster than this schmuck, and I’d learned a hell of a lot from watching guys fight. I dodged right and down, practically ducking under his fist, then came up hard. I didn’t go for a punch, though. Didn’t need to—this was no boxing ring. I clutched his shoulders and pulled, then brought my knee up into his gut. His sternum cracked against my thigh, the snap more felt than heard. Not nearly a fight-stopping blow, but enough to get his attention. And by the way he growled an inhuman rumble as I shoved him back, I’d say I pissed him off.

      Pissed off wolf shifters made bad decisions.

      You’re fucking mine, Tidal.

      I grinned around my mouthguard and gave him a wink. Dumb bastard.

      There are moments in every fight when, as a fighter, you see the end clearly. You can spot the trajectory of a run or the angle of a hit. You can tell by the way your opponent limps on one side or slows his swings that he’s reached the end of his endurance. I saw the end of this particular match right as my opponent took a single step toward me. One step, and the rest of the fight played out in my head. Every angle, every attempt to beat the best. He was going to rush me, but in his haste and rage, he’d forget to guard his body. He’d leave me the perfect opening for an uppercut to his chin. A knockout shot. If I hit him hard enough and at just the right angle, I’d scramble his brain for a few hours. If I missed… Shit, I couldn’t miss.

      Time slowed in my reality. I leaned into his attack, dropping into a fighting stance to give myself room to maneuver. The man moved with purpose, each step precise and planned, each circle of his shoulder screaming his intentions. He was going to swipe left then hit hard with his right to fake me out. Thinking he could get my focus on the wrong hand. I was too good a fighter and had been through far too many matches to fall for that old trick, so I tucked my right arm in to block the body shot I knew he’d take and balanced my weight on my toes. One more step—he only needed to take one more step.

      He took that last step, and he came up hard with his right straightaway. No left.

      I reacted with a dodge, but I wasn’t quite fast enough. My inner beast raged at the pain as that right fist connected with my ear. The world wobbled around me, my equilibrium thrown off from the blow. I stumbled back for real and grabbed the cage around me to stay on my feet. Motherfucker, that was a cheap shot, and the bastard knew it. He came at me harder, faster, swinging without a plan and not using the rest of his body for the attack, taking advantage of my dizziness. Of my need to figure out which floor I should attempt to step on. There were three, after all.

      I took four more solid hits before I said fuck it all and rushed him with my eyes closed. There was no way I was going down like this; no way he was winning from a goddamned hit to the ear, of all things. I barely stayed on my feet, but I still managed to move in on his body and use proximity to get a couple of jabs to his ugly mug. And when he stumbled back, when he lost his balance and fell against the cage, I took advantage. Fuck this clown, I was winning this fight. I won every fight.

      I beat him down with a procession of hits that left him trapped against the cage with his arms up and his head tucked behind them. But this wasn’t boxing—this was all-out war. Something this dude needed to remember. Boxing experience was good for the ring and to make the fights last longer—it was a fucking art form at times—but wrestling, martial arts, and street fighting were what made the difference between an opponent and a threat. He was no threat.

      Gripping him by the shoulders, I pushed down again and brought my knee up into his chest, cracking a few ribs this time. He growled and curled to one side, leaving me the perfect shot. I brought my knee up harder, aiming for his face. Knowing this was the end of the fight. The snap of his chin hitting my kneecap was loud enough to hear over the screaming spectators, as was the sound of his body hitting the mat. He was breathing, though, something that couldn’t be said for all fighters who lost in this ring.

      "And the winner is…Tidal!"

      The crowd roared, and a team of trainers hurried into the cage to look after the loser. He’d need their attention, for sure—probably end up spending the night in the medical wing. Not that I gave a shit about him. He wasn’t dead, and that was all I needed to know. I was more worried about my own self and the fact I still couldn’t keep my balance. The blow to the side of my head must have knocked something loose or snapped something within my ear, something that wasn’t healing as fast as I’d like. Let the second-string medical team deal with the loser on the floor; I was going to see the best. And the prettiest, by far.

      Great job, Tidal, my trainer Laudon said as I exited the cage.

      Gotta see the doc. I ripped the tape off my hands with my teeth, fighting off chills as my sweat caused my body to cool below ambient temperature. Fucker caught me right in the ear.

      I’ll make sure he’s waiting for you.

      She. I want Doc Jane. I stepped as if to head for the locker room, but the floor tilted. I lunged for Laudon’s arm to keep from falling over, nearly knocking him to the ground with me. He turned with a questioning look, to which I rolled my eyes and pointed at my head.

      Ears? he asked. I nodded, swallowing back the nausea that was threatening to make me spew all over the damn floor. Without another word, Laudon pulled my hands to his shoulders and hurried toward the back, jumping around as if he were celebrating. And thank fuck for his quick thinking. If the others figured out a weakness of mine, they’d take full advantage of it. I’d have bastards knocking me in the side of the head in every match. I knew, because I’d have done the same thing if it meant winning.

      I let go of Laudon once we reached the back, holding on to the wall instead to stay upright. The man didn’t comment, simply stayed by my side as I fought my way along the hall. I wasn’t about to appear weak in front of anyone on staff if I didn’t have to. But the closer we got to the medical ward, the harder it was for me not to want to run, which wouldn’t have ended well. She was there… Jane. The human doctor. The woman I’d been flirting with for months. The woman who started off as a simple distraction but had grown into something so much more in my head. The woman I’d become completely obsessed with getting into my bed. The only woman I’d run into in this place who wouldn’t give me the time of day.

      And yes, it was completely ridiculous that her refusal to see me as more

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