Free Harvest Moon by Lisa Kessler

for the amateur boxing circuit through the USA Boxing organization for twenty years before he retired from the ring, but retirement hadn’t fulfilled him like boxing did. Now he climbed into our underground ring to keep order between gladiators. His thick accent and thready smoker’s voice always reminded me of Mickey from the Rocky movies.
    Bruiser exhaled slowly, his halitosis daring me to turn away and break eye contact. I ground my teeth together, allowing a growl to rumble in the back of my throat.
    “Get to your corners.”
    Neither of us wanted to be the first to walk away. Bruiser gave me a shove as he turned and I clocked him in the jaw. He rushed toward me, but Bob boldly slid between us. “Save it for after the bell.”
    “I’m comin’ for you, Wolf.”
    “Bring it.” I went to my corner and bit into my mouthpiece while I loosened my muscles and rolled my shoulders and head without ever taking my gaze off of my opponent. The wolf paced inside me, hungry for a show of dominance.
    The bell sounded, igniting the aggression smoldering in my gut. We both charged toward the center of the ring and I landed jabs to his forehead, backing him toward the corner. Bruiser swung a wild right hand. I dodged the blow, answering with an uppercut to his abdomen. He stumbled back, hitting the ropes, and I pursued.
    I had expected more from this guy. Wanted more. I took a step back, taunting him to follow. “Thought you were comin’ for me.”
    A fire sparked in his eyes. He lurched forward, landing a solid punch to my chest that knocked the air out of my lungs. That was more like it. I wanted the beating. Deserved it.
    He grinned around his mouthpiece, sensing he’d slowed me. The jabs came faster than I could block, pummeling my already battered ribs.
    “You got nothin’ left, Wolf. You’re mine.” His putrid breath stung my nostrils just as his glove hit my jaw.
    The bell rang and Bob rushed in to point us back to our corners. No trainers waited to offer strategy, no stools to rest our legs, and no ice to clear our heads. I watched him take a swig of his water and wipe his face with his towel. I didn’t move. Sweat rolled down my face. I didn’t give a shit. The weight of my stare had him trying to focus on anything other than me, jumpy, like a rabbit sensing a wolf nearby.
    “I got plenty left,” I grumbled as the bell rang.
    Bruiser already had his hands up in an effort to block my combinations hitting his face. Once his body was exposed, I shifted my assault to his abdomen, landing heavy blows. Each time my glove connected, my mind filled with a primal howl. This one was for my father. This one was for Nero. And the final blow, an uppercut to his chin, that was for my mate, for the danger surrounding her, and my inability to gain her trust.
    Bruiser stumbled to the right. I took a few steps back as his legs crumpled to the mat. Bob counted while I pulled in air. Exhaustion calming the beast inside.
    Bruiser groaned on the ground and Bob grabbed my wrist, hauling my arm up. “Wolf. Winner by knockout.”
    The modest group of spectators and fighters shouted my name, but I hardly noticed. Now that the rage had been spent, my entire body ached. I climbed out of the ring, pulling out my mouthpiece so I could loosen the laces on my gloves with my teeth. Inside the dingy locker room, I yanked them off and stared at my hands, opening and closing my fingers. Sometimes I didn’t recognize them anymore, the joints swollen and red.
    But, damn it all, I felt better. The physical pain gave me something else to focus on, a distraction from all the fear, the emotions that threatened to suck me under.
    As I left the warehouse, Marv trailed after me. “Wolf?” I stopped and turned around. “You done good.” He stared at my shoes, avoiding eye contact. “You should rest for a week or two.”
    Even Marv recognized I’d been fighting more often. Too often.
    I clasped his shoulder. “Thanks, buddy. I think I will.” I