Claiming His Grace: Feral Breed Fight Club, #3

By Ellis Leigh

One plus one equals two…or sometimes three

 

Wolf shifter Beadan fought at the now-defunct southern Pack House with solid results, so when the opportunity arises for him to continue his career in the ring at another location, he jumps at it. He's still on the hunt for his one true mate to take home with him, so easy money and being surrounded by people seems like a good plan.

 

Avory's a single mom with a dream—one that requires money. She comes to The Pack House to make that dream come true for her and her daughter Livia, not expecting anything other than a few fights, a few wins, and some cash in her pocket. What she definitely isn't expecting is to meet her fated mate the second she walks in the door.

 

Navigating those newly mated waters is tricky for everyone, but throw a six-year-old who loves unicorn marshmallow cereal into the mix, and all bets are off. The two adults in the relationship are going to have to make a few adjustments to accommodate their littlest priority. But adjustments aren't all that's needed when the other fighters figure out the two have a weakness no one else in the club does…and her name is Livia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kinship Press
• Release date: Mar 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781954702042

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.

Book preview

One

Beadan

You know what happens when a shitty situation goes up in flames…literally? You end up in an even shittier situation.

Beadan, my boy. So good to see you. Mick—owner of The Pack House fight clubs and exploiter of shifters everywhere—reached for my hand. He looked a little pale, a little less the confident showman he’d always been. Considering the last time I’d seen him, we’d been fleeing a raging inferno as his other fighting arena went up in flames, I could understand why.

Mick. Glad to see you made it here in one piece.

Same to you, boy. Same to you. He darted a glance over my shoulder, obviously ready to move on to welcoming other, more important fighters. If there’s anything you need…

Yeah. That statement would never be completed because if we needed anything, we went to our trainers. Mick was all talk, no action. I wasn’t a big name or one of his top fighters, so he didn’t waste a lot of time on me. That was fine. I wasn’t here for notoriety—I was just looking for a paycheck.

I left Mick behind to play the host and headed inside the training branch of the arena. The darkness of the hall caught me off guard, the length of time it took my eyes to adjust unusual. The thick and sticky air carried an odor that had me recoiling, humidity and whatever they put into the ventilation system to make us all go a little crazy slapping me in the face. I hadn’t missed that smell or the way my body reacted to it.

Bear.

I spun at my fighting name, catching the eye of one of the trainers. I recognized him from the last location but couldn’t remember his name. Not that I needed to know it.

Yes, sir?

You’re in ring four—get your stuff put away and be ready in twenty.

I nodded and headed off down the hall to the living area of the place. A quick check-in at the training office, and I had a key and a room assignment. The closets we slept in weren’t much—bed, dresser, TV, lamp—but they did the job. At least they were clean.

I tossed my stuff onto my new bed and changed into my workout shorts before making my way back to the training rings. Unlike most guys in the program, I wasn’t there because I owed someone a debt. That’s how most fighters ended up in the ring—they owed money, Mick bought that debt, then they owed Mick. Every time you competed—and won—the amount you owed him lessened. Big names and the guys who drew huge crowds didn’t usually stay long, their fights depositing enough money into Mick’s pockets for him to release them quickly. Me? I’d been fighting for almost six months with no debt to pay. I wasn’t violent or a glutton for punishment—I just had nothing better to do.

Right on time. The trainer—one I hadn’t worked with before—set down his clipboard and hopped up into the ring. I’m Tony, and I’ll be working with you for now. Let’s start with some warm-up jabs.

I followed behind him, adjusting my stance to make sure my balance was solid. The workout started easily enough—jab, jab, swing, jab—but eventually, Tony began to move around more. To make me follow him. He danced all around the ring as I followed. I was a good fighter—strong and big and intimidating—but my endurance was shit. The trainers knew it. Tony wasn’t letting me slide on it.

Stay on your toes, he said as he danced across the ring again. I was beginning to get winded and was seriously thinking of letting a punch slip and knocking him in the chin to make a point when he finally stepped back and dropped his hands. You need to work on your endurance.

No shit. I’m not here for the long haul, man. So long as I can win, I think I’m fine.

And when someone else gets you in that ring and wears you down until you’re too tired to throw a punch? What then?

I shrugged, still breathing harder than I’d like to. Then I untape my hands and call it over.

If you’re still breathing at the end of it.

That was…well, harsh, but true. Shifters died in these fights. I didn’t usually worry about such things because I was strong and had solid technique, but Tony wasn’t talking out of his ass. If a smaller, faster guy decided to use his agility to keep away from me and forced me around the ring like the trainer had just done? I’d be in trouble. Can’t win a fight if you can’t breathe.

I’ll work on it, man.

Tony nodded, grabbing his clipboard and making a note. I’ve got you with Rafe for the rest of the afternoon. Try not to drop dead of exhaustion, okay?

Jackass. Understood.

Rafe—tall, funny, decent fighter—hopped into the ring, giving me a smile as he bumped fists. You ready for me, big man?

When have I ever not been ready?

We sparred for a good long while, both of us throwing easy punches and keeping the aggression at bay. The man had a good arm, but his best asset was his speed. He could be quick when he wanted to, knocking you on your ass before you even saw the swing coming. He was a fun one to fight.

So, Rafe said, his feet still moving and his hands up close to his head more like a boxer than a cage fighter. I have to admit, I was surprised to see you here. I figured you’d head home after the other place burned down.

I grunted, throwing a few jabs before bouncing back. Nothing to go home to yet.

No family?

Nah, I’ve got family. Got a good pack, too. But they’re all mated.

He froze, his eyes going wide and his arms hanging still. Your entire pack is made up of mated pairs?

I shrugged, heading for my water bottle since we were obviously taking a break. And a triad. Everyone blissfully mated, except me.

That had to be…

I could totally guess where his mind had gone and what word he was trying hard not to say. Others hadn’t been so kind. It wasn’t awful, no. It was actually really nice. There has always been stability where I’m from. But when I got old enough to want some company of my own, there weren’t any options. So, I left.

For good?

Hell no. I tossed the water bottle and knocked my fists together, the international fighter signal for get ready before I start destroying your facial structure. Once I find myself a mate, I’ll head back. Got a house on a little farm and everything.

Rafe snorted a laugh, bringing his hands up to protect that facial structure and dancing on the balls of his feet again. You do realize that the odds of you finding a mate in a warehouse full of men is sort of unlikely, don’t you?

Sort of unlikely.