"Seven days," Damon said, his voice cutting through the quiet corridor.
I looked from my shoes in his hand up to his face. "What?"
"The regional committee gave me a seven-day grace period to submit a replacement partner," he said. He stepped aside, nodding toward the open door of the auxiliary practice studio behind him. "My original partner walked this morning. The moment she heard my collarbone took structural damage at the border, she backed out. She didn't want a damaged Alpha dragging down her scores."
I didn't move. The faint bass from the Grand Hall still vibrated through the floorboards under my boots.
"And you think I will?" I asked.
"I think you built Sterling’s entire routine from scratch," Damon said, leaning against the doorframe. "I watched you running drills with him from the balcony last month. He was clumsy until you fixed his balance. I don't need a soft, obedient Omega who waits for an Alpha to lead her around the room. I need someone who knows how to keep an injured fighter upright on a competitive floor."
"I’m not a backup plan," I said flatly. "And I don't dance just to help you settle a grudge against Cole."
"Then don't do it for me," Damon countered, holding out my shoes. "Do it so you're standing on that stage when they call the scores."
I stared at the pink satin ribbons dangling between his fingers. My chest burned with the memory of Vanessa’s smug smile and Cole’s hand bruising my arm. If I walked out tonight, I was the discarded Omega who ran away to nurse her bruised pride.
If I walked onto the competition floor with Damon Black, everything changed.
"If we do this," I said, stepping into the studio, "it happens on my terms."
Damon followed me inside, letting the heavy soundproof door click shut behind him. "Name them."
"I set the counts," I said, turning to face him. "I dictate the tempo. Every lift, every drop, and every single touch point goes through me first. And when I call a stop, you freeze immediately. I don't care how much your Alpha pride hates pausing. If you try to power through an eight-count on sheer stubbornness, I walk."
Damon gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "A lot of rules for a mating ritual meant to celebrate primal instinct."
"Take them or forfeit your rank," I said.
His amusement faded, replaced by an intense, assessing focus.
"Done," he said.
Without hesitation, Damon unbuttoned his black jacket and shrugged it off, tossing it onto the corner bench. Beneath his fitted shirt, thick medical tape bound his right shoulder and collarbone, pinning the joint tight against his chest.
He stepped directly into my space. The dark, sharp scent of cedar and crushed smoke wrapped around me, heavy and potent, but he held his hands open at his sides.
"Here," Damon said, dipping his chin toward his right side. "Fix the stance. You know where the leverage breaks."
I hesitated for a second, then reached out.
My fingers pressed against the curve of his injured shoulder. The muscle underneath was hard as iron, radiating fierce heat through the tape. He flinched—a minute, involuntary twitch of his jaw—but he didn't pull away.
"Your clavicle is sitting too low," I said, adjusting the tilt of his frame. "If you try to lock your arm in a standard ballroom frame, the pressure will shear through that joint by the second bar. You need to drop your elbow three inches and let your core take the torsion."
"Show me," he muttered.
I stepped closer, planting my left hand against the left side of his ribcage while keeping my right fingers resting lightly over his good shoulder. "Match my center. We’re only doing the opening turn. Four counts. Slow."
Damon nodded.
I counted under my breath. "One, two, three—"
On beat three, instinct took over.
Instead of waiting for my pivot, Damon surged forward. His raw Alpha strength kicked in, trying to force the momentum of the rotation by driving off his back leg. The sudden surge threatened to rip my shoulder out of alignment.
"Stop," I snapped.
I locked my heels into the floor, dropped my center, and shoved against his chest with both hands.
The abrupt halt jarred his injured side. Damon sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, stumbling half a step back before catching his footing. His dark eyes flared with immediate predatory irritation.
"I had the line," he growled, his voice dropping an octave.
"You rushed the downbeat by half a second," I said, refusing to back down. "You didn't use technique—you used brute force because your right side couldn't generate the swing. If you do that on competition wax, you’ll tear that tape off your skin and drop me on my skull."
Silence settled over the room, thick and volatile. Most Alphas would have snarled at an Omega speaking to them like that. Cole would have lectured me about respect and chain of command.
Damon stood still, his chest rising and falling heavily. He stared at me, his gaze tracking from my eyes down to the steady stance of my feet.
Then, slowly, the tension left his shoulders.
"Reset," Damon said simply.
He stepped back into the starting mark, dropping his right elbow three inches just like I had instructed.
"From the top," he said. "Count it."
A faint spark of satisfaction flickered in my chest. I stepped in, resetting our frame.
This time, when I stepped through the second beat, he waited. He let my hips guide the rotation, matching the tempo with deliberate precision until we completed the full turn without a single ripple in the line.
The sound of the studio door flying open broke the rhythm.
"What the hell is this?"
Cole stood in the doorway, his charcoal jacket unbuttoned, his face flushed with anger. He looked between my hand on Damon’s shoulder and Damon’s arm wrapped securely around my waist.
"Ivy," Cole said, his voice tight with suppressed fury. "Get away from him."
I didn't drop my arms. Neither did Damon.
"What are you doing here, Cole?" I asked, keeping my voice level.
"Looking for you," Cole snapped, taking two aggressive strides into the room. He pointed an accusatory finger at Damon. "You walk out of the hall, make a public scene, and then come straight to *him*? Have you lost your mind?"
"I don't recall asking for your permission," I said.
Cole’s jaw worked. "Don't play games with me, Ivy. We have three years of history. We were practically pledged before this tournament started. You running off to Sterling’s biggest rival within ten minutes of a roster announcement is an insult to the entire pack. Don't use our mate bond to humiliate me."
"Our mate bond?" A cold laugh escaped my throat. "You shattered that the second you handed my routine to Vanessa. You told me my scent made me a liability on the floor. Remember?"
"That was business!" Cole barked, stepping closer. "That was about technical points! You’re parading around with an injured rogue just to spite me. It’s pathetic, and it makes you look desperate. You belong on our squad’s bench, supporting the pack."
He reached out, his hand darting forward to grab my wrist just like he had in the hallway.
Before his fingers could touch my skin, Damon shifted.
Moving with blinding speed despite the injury, Damon placed himself directly between us. His uninjured left arm came up, blocking Cole's reach with a bone-cracking smack of forearms.
The air in the studio grew instantly suffocating as two Alphas flared their auras in confined space.
"Take another step toward her," Damon said, his tone chillingly calm, "and I’ll break your wrist."
Cole recoiled slightly, startled by the sheer venom in Damon’s voice. Then his eyes darted past Damon to find mine, looking for the girl who had spent three years appeasing his temper and smoothing over his flaws.
"Ivy," Cole said, his tone turning desperate and demanding. "Tell him to back off. Tell him this is pack business and come back to the Grand Hall."
For three years, I would have stepped in. I would have made an excuse, softened the blow to his pride, and taken the blame just to keep the peace.
I looked Cole dead in the eyes.
"You chose your partner," I said clearly. "I chose mine."
Cole froze.
The color drained entirely from his face as the words landed. Damon moved back half a pace, coming to stand squarely at my side, shoulder to shoulder, solid as an iron wall.
Cole stared at us, his fists trembling at his sides. For the first time since the roster was announced, he wasn't looking at a petulant Omega having a tantrum.
He was looking at his new competition.