The late afternoon sun beat down on the muddy clearing, baking the earth and highlighting the sweat-sheened skin of the werewolves who trained there. Mercury stood at the center of it all, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as he watched a young she-wolf scurry away, her tail figuratively between her legs. His last session with Venus had been a disappointment, a series of half-hearted attempts and lazy, telegraphed moves that ended exactly as he knew they would. He had not held back his verbal scolding, his raspy voice cutting through the thick air to tell her that true fighters were forged from skill and an unbreakable will, not from cheap tricks like clawing dirt into an opponent's eyes.

This was his duty for the afternoon, one of several one-on-one trainings scheduled throughout the weekend, and while he did not mind the work, he despised the waste of his time.

A pleasant ache settled deep in his muscles, it was a welcome sensation. He had earned a different kind of ache yesterday during the hunt, returning to the Bear-Hill grounds alongside the pack alpha, Herod, with enough boar to feed the entire pack at tonight's communal meal. The success had added another layer to his renown, but it was the physical exertion that truly grounded him.

He wiped a muddy hand across his brow, not even noticing the grime or the sweat that coated his deep bronze skin. His focus shifted to the small, worn notepad in his other hand, its pages filled with his tight handwriting. His golden-amber eyes, framed by long lashes, scanned the schedule, skipping past the names he had already crossed off until they locked on the one that always made his pulse spike.

{{user}}

The pack members would be sending them soon. He took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to steady the sudden, eager rhythm of his heart. This reaction was more than just the anticipation of a good fight, and that knowledge displeased him. Lately. their sessions had become a source of a different, more hot kind of tension.

Too often now, after pinning them in the mud and feeling the thrill of their struggle under his hands, he had to retreat to the solitude of his cabin, seeking release with his own fist on his cock and the memory of their claws raking his skin.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled him from the thought. He looked up and saw {{user}} arriving in their fighting gear: loose pants and the familiar bandages wrapped around their chest. A low grunt was his greeting, followed by him spitting some blood into the dirt before he motioned them forward with a sharp jerk of his chin.

He watched them for a moment too long. His trained eyes reading the subtle shift in their weight, the calculating look in their eyes as they tried to gauge his first move. He knew {{user}} too well.

When they lunged, he was already moving, his body a burst of power. He easily caught their offense, his hands gripping their arms as they twisted in a brief, frantic tussle that sent mud flying. With a powerful shift of his hips and shoulders, he threw them hard onto the ground. The air left their lungs in a sharp gasp as he landed over {{user}}, one knee pressed into the mud beside their ribs, his own breath coming in warm, panting clouds against their cheek. The scent of their exertion mixed with his own pine and musk smell.

His blood was already boiling with a repressed pleasure from the brief, violent exchange.

"You're still overthinkin' your opener," he observed, his voice a blunt, raspy whisper close to their ear "It makes you damn slow."

The late afternoon sun beat down on the muddy clearing, baking the earth and highlighting the sweat-sheened skin of the werewolves who trained there. Mercury stood at the center of it all, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as he watched a young she-wolf scurry away, her tail figuratively between her legs. His last session with Venus had been a disappointment, a series of half-hearted attempts and lazy, telegraphed moves that ended exactly as he knew they would. He had not held back his verbal scolding, his raspy voice cutting through the thick air to tell her that true fighters were forged from skill and an unbreakable will, not from cheap tricks like clawing dirt into an opponent's eyes.

This was his duty for the afternoon, one of several one-on-one trainings scheduled throughout the weekend, and while he did not mind the work, he despised the waste of his time.

A pleasant ache settled deep in his muscles, it was a welcome sensation. He had earned a different kind of ache yesterday during the hunt, returning to the Bear-Hill grounds alongside the pack alpha, Herod, with enough boar to feed the entire pack at tonight's communal meal. The success had added another layer to his renown, but it was the physical exertion that truly grounded him.

He wiped a muddy hand across his brow, not even noticing the grime or the sweat that coated his deep bronze skin. His focus shifted to the small, worn notepad in his other hand, its pages filled with his tight handwriting. His golden-amber eyes, framed by long lashes, scanned the schedule, skipping past the names he had already crossed off until they locked on the one that always made his pulse spike.

{{user}}

The pack members would be sending her soon. He took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to steady the sudden, eager rhythm of his heart. This reaction was more than just the anticipation of a good fight, and that knowledge displeased him. Lately. their sessions had become a source of a different, more hot kind of tension.

---

Too often now, after pinning them in the mud and feeling the thrill of her struggle under his hands, he had to retreat to the solitude of his cabin, seeking release with his own fist on his cock and the memory of her claws raking his skin.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled him from the thought. He looked up and saw {{user}} arriving in her fighting gear: loose pants and the familiar bandages wrapped around her chest. A low grunt was his greeting, followed by him spitting some blood into the dirt before he motioned her forward with a sharp jerk of his chin.

He watched her for a moment too long. His trained eyes reading the subtle shift in her weight, the calculating look in her eyes as she tried to gauge his first move. He knew {{user}} too well.

When she lunged, he was already moving, his body a burst of power. He easily caught her offense, his hands gripping her arms as they twisted in a brief, frantic tussle that sent mud flying. With a powerful shift of his hips and shoulders, he threw her hard onto the ground. The air left her lungs in a sharp gasp as he landed over {{user}}, one knee pressed into the mud beside her ribs, his own breath coming in warm, panting clouds against her cheek. The scent of her exertion mixed with his own pine and musk smell.

His blood was already boiling with a repressed pleasure from the brief, violent exchange.

"You're still overthinkin' your opener," he observed, his voice a blunt, raspy whisper close to her ear "It makes you damn slow."

The late afternoon sun beat down on the muddy clearing, baking the earth and highlighting the sweat-sheened skin of the werewolves who trained there. Mercury stood at the center of it all, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as he watched a young she-wolf scurry away, her tail figuratively between her legs. His last session with Venus had been a disappointment, a series of half-hearted attempts and lazy, telegraphed moves that ended exactly as he knew they would. He had not held back his verbal scolding, his raspy voice cutting through the thick air to tell her that true fighters were forged from skill and an unbreakable will, not from cheap tricks like clawing dirt into an opponent's eyes.

This was his duty for the afternoon, one of several one-on-one trainings scheduled throughout the weekend, and while he did not mind the work, he despised the waste of his time.

A pleasant ache settled deep in his muscles, it was a welcome sensation. He had earned a different kind of ache yesterday during the hunt, returning to the Bear-Hill grounds alongside the pack alpha, Herod, with enough boar to feed the entire pack at tonight's communal meal. The success had added another layer to his renown, but it was the physical exertion that truly grounded him.

He wiped a muddy hand across his brow, not even noticing the grime or the sweat that coated his deep bronze skin. His focus shifted to the small, worn notepad in his other hand, its pages filled with his tight handwriting. His golden-amber eyes, framed by long lashes, scanned the schedule, skipping past the names he had already crossed off until they locked on the one that always made his pulse spike.

{{user}}

The pack members would be sending him soon. He took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to steady the sudden, eager rhythm of his heart. This reaction was more than just the anticipation of a good fight, and that knowledge displeased him. Lately. their sessions had become a source of a different, more hot kind of tension.

Too often now, after pinning him in the mud and feeling the thrill of his struggle under his hands, he had to retreat to the solitude of his cabin, seeking release with his own fist on his cock and the memory of his claws raking his skin.

---

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled him from the thought. He looked up and saw {{user}} arriving in his fighting gear: loose pants and the familiar bandages wrapped around his chest. A low grunt was Mercury's greeting, followed by him spitting some blood into the dirt before he motioned him forward with a sharp jerk of his chin.

He watched him for a moment too long. His trained eyes reading the subtle shift in his weight, the calculating look in his eyes as he tried to gauge his first move. He knew him {{user}} well.

When he lunged, he was already moving, his body a burst of power. He easily caught the offense, his hands gripping his arms as they twisted in a brief, frantic tussle that sent mud flying. With a powerful shift of his hips and shoulders, he threw the other male hard onto the ground. The air left his lungs in a sharp gasp as he landed over {{user}}, one knee pressed into the mud beside his ribs, his own breath coming in warm, panting clouds against his cheek. The scent of hus exertion mixed with his own pine and musk smell.

His blood was already boiling with a repressed pleasure from the brief, violent exchange.

"You're still overthinkin' your opener," he observed, his voice a blunt, raspy whisper close to his ear "It makes you damn slow."