The Alpha's Gamble - Chapter 47: Chapter 47

We hurried past passing warriors, the gardeners, even the chef who was picking herbs from the soil-streaked boxes. Noah didn’t stop until we reached the shed at the edge of the garden. He yanked the door open, pushed me inside, and locked it behind us, tossing the key into a dark corner without a second thought. At first, I was fuming, ready to rip the hinges off the door and cuss him out for dragging me here like a child. But all that vanished the second I looked around.
I spun in place, eyes drinking in every detail. A large ring stood in the middle of the room, dimly lit under a warm-and-cold blend of overhead bulbs. Soft mats lined half the floor, punching bags hung from ceiling beams, and steel chains trailed down the walls, held by reinforced bolts.
The shed wasn’t a shed. I’d never been in here before. As far as I knew, no one had. Even during the wildest parties, this place was off-limits. Always locked. Tilly and I had tried to break in once, but it was impossible without tools or explosives.
From the outside, it looked like regular wood, just like any shed. But now, standing inside, I saw it for what it really was: steel-reinforced, fortified, protected like a vault. They really didn’t want anyone in here.
“Why are we here?” I asked. Noah strolled over to the wall and grabbed two pairs of gloves from a neat stack on hooks. He tossed one to me and began slipping his own on.
“This is where you’ll be spending the next few weeks,” he said, grinning. “With me.”
Before I could ask what the actual fuck he meant by that, he started walking toward me.
“Did you read the book?” he asked.
“What book?”
“The one my father gave you.” Oh. Right.
“I did.” He raised an eyebrow and picked up my gloves from where they’d landed. Werewolves don’t usually train with gloves; our skin doesn’t break like a human’s. But he didn’t say anything as he crouched to slip them on for me, wrapping the strap tightly around my wrist.
“And yet, you don’t look freaked out.” I shrugged, watching his fingers move. “It didn’t seem that bad. There’s fighting. I’m good at that. There are rules, I can follow those. Then there’s a winner. It’s not that complicated.” Noah paused. His gaze lifted, darker now.
“It’s a show of power, Maddie. No one backs down in the Ember Ring.”
“I know.” I gave him a smile. He tugged the strap tighter, and I winced from the burn.
“You know you can die, right?” His voice was sharp, like he needed me to actually hear it.
“Yes,” I said, clear and slow. “Like I said. I read the book.” Everything in it was burned into my mind: the rules, the traditions, the blood, the surrender. The Ember Ring was a brutal rite, a tradition no one under eighteen was allowed to even know about. But on the eve of your eighteenth birthday, everything changed. Secrets cracked open. Hidden worlds revealed themselves. And the Ember Ring was the first door you walked through. It was created centuries ago by some Lycan Lord to test the strength of his army. He’d pit his warriors against another pack’s, letting them fight to the death until only one remained. Over time, the rules shifted, now anyone could challenge anyone, as long as they were from separate packs. No weapons. No outside help. No potions or herbs. No witches or warlocks. Just blood and power.
If you died, you died. If you lost, you bore the shame. If you survived maimed, your wolf might never return.
“Why do I feel like you don’t care?” Noah asked, his voice low. I finished adjusting my strap, rubbing my palms together in my gloves.
“Honestly? Right now, there are a lot of things that seem worse than death.” Noah’s face shifted at that. Something passed through his eyes, and it made me inhale sharply.
He didn’t say anything after that. Just led me up onto the mat like we weren’t about to beat the shit out of each other. No warm-up. No warning. Just a four-step routine that he drilled for fifteen minutes without missing a beat. Then he added a double kick, squat, turn, round kick. Another thirty minutes. Every time he added two moves, we did fifteen minutes of perfect repetition. An hour flew by in a blur of muscle memory and pain. I was sweating, panting, arms were shaking from the strain. Noah, of course, barely broke a sweat. He moved like he was made for this, grabbing a water bottle from the corner and downing it casually.
“Good,” he said, twisting the cap back on. “Now that you’re warmed up—let’s do it for real.”
My brain short-circuited.
“Huh?”