Amber Silverblood: Silverpack

Chapter Thirty Two

Stark and I faced each other from across the ring. Sweat coated my body and I struggled to breath, but I still forced my hands to stop shaking and look my alpha in the eye. Bruises dotted my skin where he had mercilessly pounded on me every time I made a mistake. The pain had scared me at first, but now it just made me mad. It was nature's way of telling me to give up. Stark was turning my own body against me, and that pissed me off more than you can imagine. Without a word, we both raised our fists again.

"Keep your hands up this time," Stark told me. "Every time you let them down, you give your opponent a chance to hit you."

Easier said than done. By now, my arms felt like steel beams topped with blocks of lead. I didn't say anything, though, and Stark gave a nod. At his signal, I stepped further into the ring. Stark stepped forward too, his actions mimicking my own, and we circled each other for a minute like a pair of angry wolves. Stark's face was impassive, but I was running my eyes all over him, trying to decide where to strike. We'd been going at this for hours, and Stark had brushed off everything I'd thrown at him as if I were just flicking wads of paper at him. He gave me instructions when he needed to, but for the most part he expected me to figure out my own strategies.

What haven't I tried yet? I wondered. I'd thrown punches everywhere my arms could reach, and even tried kicking him a couple times, but nothing had worked. While I was exhausted and covered in bruises, Stark wasn't so much as breathing heavily.

Acting on a whim, I ducked low and thrust my fist out, trying to punch him in the gut. That had never worked before, but I'd noticed that his reaction time was a little slower for that part of his body. My knuckles got within an inch of his skin, and for a split second my heart leaped into my throat. Then Stark slapped my hand away like I was a child reaching for a piece of candy I wasn't allowed to have.

"Too slow," he grunted. "You have to move—"

Before he could finish, I jumped up and swung my leg out at his hip. I hadn't really expected that punch to connect, but now that he was poised for that, his side was wide—

"Whoa!" I shouted. I don't know exactly what happened, but one second I was kicking at Stark, and the next I was in the air, spinning around so fast that the snow covered forest became a blur of whites, browns, and greens. I landed face down in the dirt.

Crap, I thought, picking myself up. I spat dirt back onto the ground, and then got to my feet, dusting off my clothes. I winced when I moved my arm. I'd landed hard on it. There'd be another bruise there in half an hour. Glaring at Stark, I went back to my side of the ring again. Instead of telling me to get ready again, though, Stark looked up at the sky.

"It's about to get dark," he said. "Let's head home."

I let my arms fall to my sides. Can you imagine what it'd feel like to be stuck in a clothes dryer filled with rocks while it's set to "Disintegrate"? If you can, then that might give you an idea how I felt after ten straight hours of Stark's training. We'd met at dawn, and now the sky as beginning to turn purple as the sun set behind the trees. It had taken me ten minutes to walk from his cabin to the ring, and that had mostly been a downhill hike. Now we were going back up the way we'd come, carving our way through snow with every step, and on top of that my arms and legs felt like they were going to fall off.