Jackson stormed through the halls of the underground heading back to his home. He was pissed that he’d lost the fight to that little brat from the Colorado Mountain pack. Jackson never lost, ever.
Except for now, when it mattered the most.
Jackson growled and punched the wall, causing a picture to fall, and the drywall cracked. He let it be and went into his room. His hands were aching and his left arm, which Cade had nearly broken, was clutched to his chest. Jackson stared at himself in the mirror of his bathroom, disgusted.
“This isn’t over,” he mumbled to himself.
After tending to his own injuries, he headed upstairs to Fiona’s bar for a drink. On his way outside, he passed Cassandra, one of the women in the pack, in the underground lounge and she shot up from her couch to check on him.
She touched his bruised face lightly. “Oh, what happened to you?” she asked, startled by his wounds. Jackson had never been so much as nicked before, let alone lacerated.
