Chapter 14
Elara's POV
Coach Warren's whistle cut through the gym.
"Begin!"
The sound of bodies hitting mats erupted around us. Controlled grappling, measured holds. Grunts and the coach's barked corrections echoed off the walls.
Sophia and I stood motionless on mat seven.
She smiled at me—that perfect, gentle smile—before settling into her stance. Knees bent just right, hands raised at textbook angles, weight distributed evenly between both feet. The kind of form that looked impressive to everyone watching.
The kind that told me exactly what I needed to know.
She wanted a show. Not a quick win. She wanted to crush me slowly, publicly, so everyone could watch the pathetic Omega get destroyed.
I let my shoulders hunch slightly. Let my eyes dart toward the crowd of students, phones already angled to record, then back to her face. Made my breathing shallow and uneven.
Her smile widened.
She struck.
Right fist straight for my face, left leg sweeping low toward my knee. A one-two combination designed to overwhelm and panic.
I stepped back—and felt it. A faint warmth pulsing from the bracer hidden beneath my sleeve, spreading through my left forearm like liquid heat. My body responded faster than it should have, weight shifting with a precision this weak frame shouldn't possess.
Her fist missed my nose by inches. Her leg swept through empty air where my knee had been.
The momentum of her follow-through made her stumble forward half a step.
I caught it—that fraction of a second where her balance wavered, where surprise flickered across her face.
The bracer's warmth faded to a low hum against my skin. Just enough. Just like Cole had promised.
She recovered fast, resetting her stance. But I'd seen enough.
Her attacks were direct. Powerful. But they lacked variation. Every movement telegraphed by the tension in her shoulders, the shift of her weight before the actual strike. She wasn't trying to win efficiently—she was trying to dominate. To put on a performance.
That made her predictable.
She came at me again. Feint high, then a real strike aimed low at my ribs. I read it in the way her right shoulder dipped a fraction of a second before her fist moved.
I sidestepped—felt the bracer flare again, steadying my balance when Elara's asthmatic lungs screamed for more oxygen. The runes were doing exactly what they were supposed to: compensating for this body's weakness without making me superhuman enough to draw suspicion.
Her knuckles grazed my side—barely contact, not enough to hurt.
"Is she even trying?"
"All she's doing is running."
"Waste of Omega trash."
The voices came from the crowd. Laughter rippled through the watching students.
Sophia's jaw tightened. I saw it—the frustration creeping into her perfect composure.
She pressed forward, throwing a rapid combination. Jab, cross, hook. Each one precise, each one readable.
I retreated across the mat, and with each step back I felt the bracer's pulse—subtle, rhythmic, keeping my movements fluid when my legs wanted to buckle. It wasn't giving me strength. It was giving me control. Letting me push this failing body just far enough to survive.
Let her chase me. Let her think she was winning.
Her breathing changed. Faster. Less rhythmic. The careful control she'd started with was fraying at the edges.
I tracked it clinically. Her attack intervals were shrinking—1.2 seconds between strikes at first, now barely 0.8. She was burning through her stamina, getting sloppier with each exchange.
In my previous life, I'd seen this pattern a thousand times. Opponents who let emotion override strategy. Who mistook aggression for dominance.
They always left openings.
"Come on, Grey! Fight back already!"
More laughter. More phones recording.
Sophia's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. She thought she had me trapped, thought the crowd's mockery was breaking me down.
I let my heel touch the white boundary line at the edge of the mat. Gave her the illusion that I'd run out of room to retreat.
Kept my expression panicked. Wide eyes. Shallow breathing.
She took the bait.
Her entire body committed to the next strike—right fist driving forward with all her weight behind it, aimed at my sternum. Left side completely exposed. Balance thrown entirely forward.
There.
The opening I'd been waiting for.
I saw it unfold in slow motion—the gap in her defense, the moment where her momentum would carry her past me if I simply wasn't there.
I dropped low, and the bracer blazed hot against my forearm. For one critical second, the runes channeled something—not wolf strength, not Alpha power, just enough enhanced reflex to let me move like I used to. Like Lynette.
I slipped under her extended arm, using Elara's smaller frame to slip through the gap. Moved to her left where her vision was worst. My right leg swept out in a tight arc, hooking behind her supporting ankle.
The bracer's heat cut off the instant my sweep connected.
Mission accomplished.
She was already off-balance from overcommitting. My sweep just helped gravity finish the job.
Sophia pitched forward with a sharp gasp. Her hands shot out instinctively to catch herself.
I was faster.
I caught her right wrist mid-fall and twisted, using her own forward momentum to guide her trajectory. She hit the mat face-first with a heavy thud that echoed through the suddenly silent gym.
Before she could process what happened, I dropped my knee between her shoulder blades and pressed my palm against the back of her neck. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to pin her completely.
Immobilized.
The gym went dead silent.
Three full seconds of absolute quiet.
Then Coach Warren's whistle shrieked.
"Stop! Grey wins!"
I released Sophia immediately and stood, stepping back. The bracer had gone cold against my skin—depleted, at least temporarily. My hands were steady, but I could feel my lungs starting to tighten, the asthma creeping back now that the runes weren't compensating anymore.
I let my breathing hitch. Let my shoulders tremble as if I couldn't believe what just happened. As if it had been pure luck and adrenaline instead of calculated precision and ancient runic enhancement.
The silence stretched.
Then the gym exploded into noise.
"Holy shit, did you see—"
"No fucking way—"
"She just destroyed Sophia—"
"Replay that, I need to see it again—"
I glanced around at the sea of shocked faces. Phones were still recording, but now the angles had shifted, zooming in on Sophia still flat on the mat.
Across the gym, I spotted Chloe. Her hands were pressed against her mouth, green eyes huge with disbelief and something that looked like hope.
On the mat, Sophia pushed herself up slowly. Her red-brown hair had come loose from its ponytail, falling across her face in messy waves. She turned her head to look at me.
For one unguarded moment, her expression was completely blank.
Then I saw it—the shift behind her eyes. Shock transmuting into humiliation. Humiliation crystallizing into cold, calculated rage.
Her face was flushed. Not from exertion. From the raw, burning shame of being beaten in front of everyone by the weakest Omega in school.
She stared at me, and in that stare I saw a promise. Saw the exact moment she decided that this wasn't just about maintaining her social status anymore.
This had just become personal.
I kept my face carefully neutral, maintaining the wide-eyed, slightly panicked expression of someone who'd barely survived. Let my hand drift to my ribs as if checking for injuries, when really I was making sure my sleeve still covered the bracer.
Let her think it was luck. Let her think I was terrified.
It would make her next move easier to predict.
Sophia climbed to her feet, movements slow and deliberate. She didn't bother brushing off her gym clothes. Didn't try to fix her hair.
She just stood there, five feet away, staring at me with those cold eyes and that dangerous, glittering light that said she'd just decided exactly how she was going to make me pay for this humiliation.