TwinFlames: A Science Fantasy Romance: The Five Elements, #3

By Nicole Wells

A secret camp in the woods. A revolution in the making. And a fighter that will change what it means to be human.
Maia is hell-bent on revenge until a tattooed menace literally stands in her way.
Gabe is a legendary fighter with a soft heart that snags on the wounded woman before him.
Together, they discover much more than they bargained for. When the world is ending, someone's gotta step up and do the saving, and two MMA fighters might just fit the bill.
The Wood Element is being activated, and with it, a war

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicole Wells
• Release date: May 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201528911

Book preview

Prologue

January 2024

Australia

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The heady flare of power tingles all over my skin, fueled by the adrenaline pumping through my veins at the rapid rate of my heartbeat. I manifest into a small, bare room with three people: a twenty-something couple embracing and a woman who looks to be in her fifties or sixties off to the side.

We’ve got to hurry! The Ancestor is out there. The thought goes off like a siren in my head before I’ve got a grounded sense of up versus down.

The screams of thousands echo in my ears, making the silence in this white walled space overwhelming. As is the stifling weight of fear and dread that permeates the air. Tense shoulders, wide eyes and slack faces echo my shock as I scramble for my bearings.

We don’t have time for introductions, but I can’t just whisk them away. How am I going to get them to trust me? I push past the lingering cold and the sensation of my body being rearranged.

The tall, lanky man turns his head, his arms still around the superstar he hugs, her high fashion metallic dress a contrast to the grim turn of events. Another second passes. The couple looks stupefied and nine parts pissed to one part scared. Only the portly older woman standing close to them warms from her shock, her face softening.

Are you the Ancestor? the male asks, his stern face and narrow eyes challenging, but the remnants of the teleport still leave me feeling disoriented, and I hear, Are you the answer?

No. No, I am not, I think. I am the payback.

I

WildWood

Force, no matter how concealed, begets resistance.

Lakota proverb

Chapter One

Maia

Four Months Earlier, September 2023

Southern California

Y ou're going down, bitch. The MMA fighter looks at me with fury in her eyes before she unleashes a punch to the face.

One that I easily evade.

I bounce on the balls of my feet. The floor has a gentle give—a little bit of softness in this world of edges and grit. Brash noise and harsh illumination surround me, but I tune it all out.

Unlike her, I don't waste energy announcing my intentions before I deliver a one-two punch to her gut. It doesn't have the satisfying crunch of a broken nose or ribs, but it'll do. My body glides back into my loose fighting stance. Fighting feels like magic to me. I revel in my prowess, a bright spot in my dark world.

Knowing she'll be doubled over, I position myself for a roundhouse kick that’ll knock her off balance.

My foot sails through the air in perfect execution; it feels so good to let my body do its thing. Like it’s been kept too long in a tight cocoon of sharp consequence and unforgiving laws—this is me getting my wings.

A thunk sounds as I absorb the jar of a solid connection while momentum carries my leg through the rest of the semi-circle.

And she's down.

Greasy blonde hair with dark roots spreads in disarray around her head on the floor. She looks younger than my twenty-four years. These punks come to the ring to work out their anger, but they know nothing about rage.

The count starts. Angry voices crest over me. My body bounces as I keep my muscles loose, starting my cool-down routine. I shake out my legs, my arms. ...Eight… I roll my shoulders and my head. ...Nine… The crowd jeers at her, the sound desperate and the volume escalating. I pivot to the gate. ...Ten! The ref finishes his count and the fight is over.

Too fast.

I'd make more if I wasn't such a clear favorite with set odds. But I don't care about my haul much anymore. After the first few thousand, it's all the same. What a difference this money would have made a few months ago. If only I'd had it then, maybe my sister—

I ruthlessly bludgeon that train of thought into the ground.

But the lingering irony makes me want to punch something.

I climb out of the cage, needing to move and too impatient for the locks.

Hey, Rage! One of the faceless strangers crowding the cage is waving and yelling, invading my space. Probably some guy who's aiming to be my manager—thinks he can take his share of the cut, just waltz in like a typical guy, throw his weight around and screw things up. Or take all the credit.

Shut the fuck up. I push another anonymous body out of my way. They usually know to give me space but this crowd is bigger than normal. The underground MMA world has really exploded since I got on the scene.

Or maybe it’s because the world is going to hell and no one can do anything about it.

I usually get some respite after a good fight, but it really was over too fast, and I'm still keyed up. So, I plan to ride instead.

After picking up my earnings, I gather my beat-up bag and put on my gear. That chick didn't even rouse a sweat, so I won't be hot in the extra leather. Small mercies.

Pulling out a couple hundred, I tuck it into the other bag on the bench. I don’t know what brought her to the ring, and she might be more desperate for the money than me.

Money is not what I’m hungering for.

Out in the packed parking lot crowded with illegally parked bikes, I spy my black crotch rocket, a Honda Fireblade. Its sleek lines beckon me to let her run fast and wild. She’s my splurge; my modern-day steed in place of the Appaloosas bred by my people. I know a stretch of road not too far from here with daring curves we could eat up until we’re away from the city. I need nature and trees like I need air. I'm itching to go.

If only there wasn't a damn Harley at right angles to my ride. My girl’s packed in like a sardine. Why don’t people follow rules anymore? I can’t wait to get away from this LA crowd. Strike that, I can’t wait to get away from people, and back into nature.

Who the fuck blocked me in with their hog? I'm pissed off enough, you'd think the sheer force of my desire could move it. If only. It's not like I'm some superhero, although I am on a mission to right some wrongs.

I don't expect an answer, so the rumble from the shadows takes me by surprise. A rarity.

Didn’t expect anyone to be coming out so soon. Especially not a little thing like you.

A growl rumbles out of me as I grit my teeth, turning to find a beast of a man nonchalantly taking my measure. He's standing by the side door. Although the meager security light fails to show much, I can tell he’s holding onto his helmet, the muscles in his arms popping, as thick as tree trunks. His whole body is massive, like his bike.

I stare back at him, trying to penetrate the shadows. Just move your damn ride, man.

He’s got on worn blue jeans that show off muscular thighs and a black hoodie instead of a biker jacket. A chain at his throat glints in the moonlight. A crooked nose in the shadows matches the no-nonsense body giving off vibes of danger and mystery.

My skin prickles under his silent focus. He’s got cool competence that borders on intimidating, and I want to test those boundaries. I shake my head, surprised at myself.

My blood’s warmed but my cool mind intercedes. Focus, Maia. This flare of heat that he's ignited, something that I thought long dead inside me, means he's trouble.

The guy doesn’t move a muscle as he studies me. Make me. He says it with a smile in his voice, like he thinks this is flirting.

I clench my fist. Goddammit, I really wish that fight had taken the edge off.

I grind my teeth. I hate the arrogance, like he’s got the time, my time, to waste. I hate the implicit presumption he’s in charge, the domination.

Most of all, I hate this forgotten bit of me that’s perked its ears and wants to play.

Hate. Rage. I am a husk encasing this magma-hot coal of emotion that fuels me to violence, nothing more. All the beauty and light in my life are gone, scattered like ashes to the wind, set to burn by a fucking arrogant man who had the power to back it up.

The bastard’s face invades my mind again, even though I haven’t laid eyes on him in months.

I. Abhor. Arrogant. Men.

Unmeditated actions are the most efficient, so in a way it's good that I’m striking before I even realize it. I’ve crossed the distance, my helmet on a perfect arc toward his wall of abdominal muscle, my center of balance already tipping to prepare for raising my leg. It will connect with his head that will come down just enough when he deflects my helmet.

He drops his helmet, blocks my foot, and parries my follow-up punch. I try to sweep him while he does, but the sonuvabitch is a mountain that won’t tumble. He’s an incongruity of solid rock with the strikes of a coiled snake.

My mind is back online and screaming at me. Split-second odds and maneuvers are calculated—all second nature and muscle memory. I’ve been fighting professionally for months, but I’ve been a survivor since the day I was born. The answer is there isn’t any good move. He hasn’t struck back, which creates a bit of a stalemate—no openings.

If there isn’t a way out, though, I make one. I’ve got his number, even if he won’t let me discern a weakness in his fighting style. He gave it to me when he refused to play.

"Look at you, Mr. The-Only-Way-I-Can-Get-A-Girl’s-Attention-Is-By-Forcing-Her. Does it make you feel like a man?" I snarl.

His blank face and condescending lack of engagement infuriate me more, and I throw a sloppy one-two jab he doesn’t fall for, my hand flailing in the empty air.

Babe, settle down. You’re gonna end up hurting yourself. He doesn’t say it as a taunt. He’s serious.

Icy-hot rage flows through my veins and my muscles itch to attack, screw the consequences. Some days I just feel rabid, like I got life’s cruel bite and just have to pass on the bitterness.

Fuck, get a grip. I need to get my emotions in check. But for some reason, this guy makes everything personal.

I dance on the balls of my feet, just out of his range, trying to get back in my analytical brain, trying to distance myself.

You get off on picking on a smaller opponent?

Aha! There it is, a twitch in his jaw—a clench. And his facade starts to break.

I smile, feeling calm energy flow through my muscles and replace my haphazard aggression. This coiled tension is a powerful, delicious sensation. I’ve engaged the enemy, and I’m ready.

The fight is on.

Chapter Two

Gabe

She’s crazy.

And damn if that doesn’t ignite something in me. I’m swept up in it, in her. This must be what it felt like when fire was first discovered—she’s got more passion blazing in her brown eyes than I’ve ever seen.

And she’s got the skill to put that passion to good use.

Unfortunately, that means this beautiful goddess wants to beat me to a pulp, while I want to end this fight before the one I came to see—the one now relegated to the farthest reaches of my mind—finishes. I don’t want the crowd to spill out here, as it inevitably will, and disrupt this chemical reaction between us.

Some of her long hair has broken from its braid and slices around her face in dark lines as she tries another kick. Smart girl, your power is in your legs. Women tend to be uncomfortable using their legs, but a woman’s body delivers the strongest punch with her foot.

She uses all of her five six-plus frame as leverage. Her strikes demand my attention and I block them—I’m just buying time to think. I lash out with a right jab that I know she’s in position to counter. Distract her and let her vent. I swipe with my leg, pulling back when it looks like I might reach her. But don’t hurt her.

I don’t want to hurt her. Any woman, really, but especially this sassy brunette that’s got me mesmerized.

She’s lucky I’m not like most other guys here. I don’t want to knock her down a peg to teach her a thing or two; I don’t even want to compete. I just want her safe.

I catch myself meeting her strikes with full force. She’s so talented, it’s hard to hold back. I can’t believe how skilled this chick is. My mouth curls into a smile. She makes fighting fun again.

I’ve seen too much wasted talent, trained too many youths bent on revenge, to let her go and follow their dead-end.

She’s my chance to make amends.

A chop at my spleen wakes me from my realization.

An impressive combination of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, kickboxing, Muay Thai, krav maga and karate moves keeps me focused.

Finally, she gives me an opening—a clear punch to the face. I grab her fist and use the weight behind it to spin her around. I’ve got both her hands now engulfed in mine. Spicy cinnamon under the musk of feminine sweat distracts me and she bucks.

Damn, this girl is good.

I regain control and wall her in.

Fuck you, bastard, she growls, the words coming out more a promise than a curse. She’s already planning her next strike. God, this woman is a fighter through and through. The perfect protégé.

Have you heard of the Angel? My voice comes out gruff from too much use.

I can practically feel her eye roll. Of course, it makes sense. With these skills, she’s probably in the circuit and already familiar with the renown.

A light bulb goes off. I probably hold in my arms the very talent that drew me out.

I don’t know where the hell he is, like everyone else, so just fuck off. She struggles, but I can tell it’s a distraction. She’s been waiting for the moment she can really fight again, and I bet she’s about to create it if need be.

Actually, he’s holding you. And he’d like to go someplace to talk.

Chapter Three

Maia

Air whooshes into my lungs.

Angel. A legend in the underground fighting world.

I turn around as his arms slacken and fall away. He lets me take a step back. Up close, a self-deprecating smirk softens the angles of his jaw and nose.

He doesn’t move a muscle. It takes a lot of training and skill to hold so preternaturally still, like a true predator.

Of course, it makes sense he can. He sits at the top of our food pyramid, the best fighter of us all.

Angel continues to study me. My face settles in a scowl. If the high bids and fame couldn’t bring him out before, what does he want with me?

You know Joe’s? His gravelly voice rumbles through my body.

I’ve only been in the outskirts of LA for a couple of days, but I’ve heard it’s a local haunt for bikers. The diner is across town, fifteen minutes away and the opposite direction of where I planned to go.

I want to know more about this man and his story. His presence is unnerving in the way it affects me, yet his mystery pulls me in.

Mystery I want to unravel.

I nod slowly. With my latest lead finally putting revenge in my reach, maybe I can afford a little celebration. If there’s any silver lining to world devastation, it’s learning to seize opportunities and be in the moment. And I’ve been so long without a man. A brief indulgence with someone who has actually sparked my interest wouldn’t be so bad… I stand a bit straighter as I bite my bottom lip. My heart hikes up a notch. I’d forgotten this heady rush of attraction. I’d disconnected from this part of me that knows the fights can lead to even better sex.

His chin lifts toward our bikes and he passes me my helmet. It’s like a soccer ball in his meaty palm, and his giant arm unfurls. I can’t help but stare, my eyes following the curves of his arm, the mounds and valleys of muscle, until they track back to his face. He looks like he’s in his early thirties.

Brooding eyes continue to study me, eyes of a renowned fighter. Most call him Angel, some, Dark Angel, or even Devil. More and more, he’s called the Lost Angel.

A gentle giant, I think, as I look at him now, silent and studious.

I shake my head, to clear it of such stupid thoughts. He’s a man, isn’t he? A ridiculously talented fighter that never felt the showmanship of the ring and gave it all up. Or at least that’s how the story goes. The truth stands before me, in a guy who wants to talk.

I’ll meet you there. His low baritone registers in a different way now that we’re not fighting, rolling through me, eddies spinning in my belly.

Angel strides over to his Harley, not waiting for confirmation.

An idea pops in my head, robbing me of breath. Maybe I can use this powerful man as part of the payback overdue to a depraved cop. Having the notorious Angel as an accomplice? He’d get me close to that bastard. And if I could get him to vouch for me when the authorities come investigating...

This will be more than an indulgence—it’ll be the answer I’ve been looking for.

I don my helmet and ride, not toward the curves of an isolated road outside of town, but east, into the stifling grid of stoplights and the waiting stares of strangers.

I make good time, even spying a vintage toy store that I’ve ear marked to return to. I’ve got a new wad of cash burning a hole in my pocket. I know my nephew is still a newborn and won’t have use of the trinkets I send back home, but I can’t seem to stop myself. He’s gonna have whatever future he can carve out of this clusterfuck planet, and I’m investing in it. Even if my sister never fully recovers from her debilitating depression, he’ll be the most loved baby in the world. He’ll never question that love or think any part of him is bad because of his beginnings. I’m going to make sure of it.

Stepping through the diner doors, I see I’ve arrived before Gabe and slide into a table in the back, with a clear view of the entrance. The pleather sticks to my riding leathers creating an annoying noise and a sensation that grates on my bones.

I tune it out, like I do the rest of my guilt, my grief, and my past.

There are only a few patrons, which makes sense with the cost of bread and pasta these days. Most are looking at their phones or off into space. No one is bothered by this business of being human, let alone being cordial.

What do good manners mean anymore, anyway? It’s time to face the music, and it’s not a sugar pop tune of all-for-one-and-one-for-all. No, in these dire times, it’s a death metal march of dog-eat-dog. Our true colors show when the world is ending and no one is looking.

"...Stocks dive for the second month as Zimbabwe, a major producer of grain, confirms reports that the drought has cut production at least seventy percent, joining Ethiopia, Nigeria and South Africa. Potable water remains a concern in southern China, still reeling from the recent mudslides. And the United States has announced increased funding to push the worldwide Tsunami Timeline project forward, after the tsunami two months ago that wiped out the Aleutian—"

A tall man in a beanie quickly shuts off the teaser for the evening news, despite the few protests of those who were watching the game show. People don’t come here for the world news, they come to escape it.

That’s right! Don’t trust the media! They’re downplaying the disaster because they’re all in league with the aliens! An older man with a scraggly beard two tables over is shaking his fist. He’s wearing a worn X-files shirt and dirty blue jeans.

Aww, man. Tom’s here? Groans and laughter erupt from a table near the front.

The disheveled man’s crazed eyes lock on me. You know aliens are here, right? Infiltrated everything. It’s the end of the world and the government still isn’t coming clean about Area 51!

I shake my head. Yeah, I’m part alien, I droll, then send him my own intense stare. So you don’t want to mess with me. Eff off, dude.

Yeah, I’ve got alien DNA too, Tom. You don’t need to keep telling me your conspiracy theories, a waitress adds with a wink while avoiding his gaze. She tucks his bill under his dish before she hurries away.

His eyes narrow on me and his brow furrows. He gives me a cold once-over. "You wish you were part alien. Deep down you know you’re not enough. Does it help to act tough?"

Now my eyebrows draw together. Jesus, can’t I catch a break?

Then I sigh. He’s got a hang-up and a hair sensitive trigger. I can relate. Attempting a smile, although it feels more like a grimace, I put my hands up. Look, man, I’m sorry. I just want some peace and quiet.

If you could be more, would that be enough? he plows on like I never spoke, looking at me but not seeing me. Then conspiracy guy pulls a few bills out and throws them on the table. He raises his voice as he gets up. Humanity is weak, but we will persevere. Don’t give up! The truth is out there! He shakes his fist again as he leaves, leaving mumbled jeers and a spattering of laughter in his wake.

LA sure has its share of weirdos. Why do I even bother being nice?

Can I help you, honey? the fake sugary sweetness of the waitress’ voice strikes a chord in me.

Coffee, I sigh out, not making eye contact. Black. I like the bitter taste. I like to keep things real. Don’t put a Band-Aid on it when you’ll just have to rip the sucker off later. Just give me the scar.

I keep staring ahead at the other people until the waitress takes the hint and leaves.

Relaxing into the booth, I let the low murmur of voices wash over me as they resume their common, trivial talk. The tide of humanity continues even when the world stops. People are still laughing, gossiping, and arguing over stupid things, just going about their day.

Crazy guy might be certifiable, but he’s right about one thing. The world is fucked up and it’s not doing any good to pretend otherwise.

Ignorant, the lot of them.

Angel finally enters, sans hoodie. His weighted presence ripples out, silencing conversations. It would be hard to ignore this stalwart man, although he tries to make it easy for them. His eyes drop to the floor after taking in his surroundings, rounding his shoulders, and restraining his earth-eating steps.

It's body language that is the opposite of intimidation. Despite it, this carved boulder of a man still intimidates.

He makes his unerring way to me. The plastic of the booth doesn’t harangue him as he slides in. Jeesh, does all of creation bow before him? I wonder.

Angel greets me with a combination humph-grunt.

I don’t respond as I feel the stares of the other patrons. They’ve noticed me now, thanks to this giant of a man. They’ve taken in my wiry frame, the hard glint to my direct gaze. I shiver. Most of all, they’ve judged my tan skin and oval eyes. I clench and unclench my hand under the table. They wonder what I’m doing here and if I will steal their precious things. They think I should be on the reservation. They forget this was all once Native land.

I sit up straight, push my shoulders back, and stiffen my neck—the total opposite of Angel’s body language.

Fuck you all.

My eyes stare forward, in Angel’s vicinity, unseeing.

One coffee. Black, the waitress’s voice pipes in with the chink of ceramic on ceramic from the cup and saucer sliding into view.

And for you, sir? I don’t need to see her to know there is a sassy glint in her eye; I can hear it in her voice.

Same. The word is barely enunciated, just a step up from his grunt. In place of words, he hands her several bills. Universal language, that.

Sir, this is fifty dollars. The waitress’s voice offers only a token protest.

Keep the change. Piercing blue eyes meet mine, studying again.

I do the same. In this harsh light, I can see his face more clearly, the sharp planes captivating, and dominated by his intense cobalt eyes. Tattoos dance around his corded neck. Over his collarbone lays a large black bird tattoo with stylized names in barbed wire. It’s haunting. His long hair is champagne blonde, with a gentle wave. It brings a softness about him. What is the true Angel like?

A throat clears. I’ll just get that coffee then and leave you two alone, the waitress says before I hear her brisk footsteps recede. I’d forgotten about her, which is mildly alarming. This guy has got me off my game.

Angel leans back, draping his right arm over the top of the padded bench. Muscles strain against the fabric of his black tee.

So, what do you want? I ask, but by words trip over his simultaneous question, What’s your name?

After a pause, he answers, I want you to be more careful ... Rage.

No one has ever said my street name with a rumble that elicits goosebumps before. My mind catches up: He already knew my name, bastard.

Why do you care? My mouth responds before my brain.

You bristle with a chip on your shoulder. Get it out in the ring. Carrying it around will get you killed.

I volley back, on automatic, My life isn’t your concern.

He scoffs. It doesn’t seem to be yours either. I’m just filling in the void.

I remind myself I’m here to satisfy this itch and see if I can recruit him now that he’s out of hiding, but his verbal sparring has me on edge. It’s like he sees too much, knows too much … cares too much.

He looks at me like my sister would if she knew what I was up to ... if she were her normal self, back before our world started to end.

I lash out, No one asked you to make an appearance. In fact, you were the one doing the asking, wanting to talk. So I’ll say again: What. Do. You. Want?

Coffee! a chipper feminine voice announces, breaking our death stares. The corner of his mouth raises as a white porcelain cup slides in front of him, black liquid sloshing.

He doesn’t spare it or the waitress a glance. He’s still looking at me, towering over me even though we're sitting—the guy’s got to be six and a half feet tall. I clench my hands.

The waitress leaves us to our locked gazes.

He does a backward nod. They have no idea. Like the people who watch the fights. It's all a fantasy, an illusion they want to escape into. He takes his time with his words while large fingers play with the cup handle, turning the mug around slowly in its saucer. There’s a stillness to the rest of his being, and to mine too now. The tension in my shoulders drains. It's like he’s cast a spell.

I think you know, though. You don’t want to be blind. You know something is wrong and you want to do something. Fight it.

There’s a helluva lot wrong in the world, buddy. Can’t fight it all.

Exactly. He looks at me for a long pause. The cup circles like an old-time cassette tape recording our conversation.

The moment, and the words, feel pivotal. I realize I haven’t had much conversation, let alone