KENDRA'S POV
These men are all talk because nothing can explain why I took them down this fast. Not to brag, but I am the quickest warrior you'll ever meet. I can easily predict and defend any punches thrown at me, and these men learned the hard way. I'm surprised these useless moves are the best stunts they can pull. Had they been part of my warriors, with their naïve skills, they would be way below omegas. These men fought like little boys, and their alpha had proudly lined them up across the borders.
Perhaps Griffin is just a failure of an alpha, just like the rest of them. I crackle my knuckles at the thought of my brewing plan. Soon I'll have him crushed below my knees. Taking a few steps forward, I grab a fistful of hair from the trembling man on the ground. He has a fine head on top of his neck and looks young. I relish in his agony as he takes in a sharp intake of air through his mouth, teeth clenched, maybe because of the sensitivity his broken teeth left, which is my doing. He's the last of the men alive.
"Look at me, Blondie," I say, tugging his thick blond hair backward, forcing him to look at me. His hair is bulky, thick, healthy, and lovely to comb through. I love it. Men hardly use hair products, but their hair looks so nice. How I wish I had that.
"Blondie, Blondie," I taunt, slowly moving my upper body from right to left, mimicking a snake.
"In for a game?" I continue.
The boy looks young, about 18, 19 years old max. His eyes betray his fear, as he should be. I muse at his discomfort. He gulps, and I can see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, strained probably from the posture I have forced him to.
"I assume that's a yes that thing in your throat just did." I finish, pointing to his throat using my right hand. By the way, I'm left-handed, and that's something that has betrayed me a lot of times. I wish I were right-handed to blend in, but at the same time, my uniqueness had become my signature. Whenever I accomplished my missions, I put a mark indicating that a left-handed person did the job. I do that to taunt the person on the receiving end.
"Okay," I insist, pulling my lips up to reveal an evil smile. The boy looks taken aback and blinks a few times, trying to decipher what he sees.
"You're the crafty wolf," he murmurs in disbelief.
"What else would I be?" I ask, throwing up one of my eyebrows.
"You're the one Alpha Griffin is looking for," he says in realization. "Everyone thinks you're anything but a woman."
I love the fact that a whole pack thinks I am a man. That makes matters more interesting.
"You're a woman," he repeats, "but you don't move like one."
"You move like one," I fire back.
"You're a rogue." He says.
"That will take over your pack." I finish his sentence.
"Alpha Griffin won't allow that."
"Yet here we are," I say in an agitated voice. "We'll see about that. My plan is in motion."
He shuts his mouth when I yank his head forward. He inhales the dust and lets out a sharp cough. His reflexes are below poor, I observe. That was a slight push, but the weakling ended face-first into the ground. Useless. He looks like a clown with his face painted in dust, leaving only his eyes clean.
The boy claps to clear his dusty palms. This naïve boy is too comfortable in front of me, an enemy.
Sensing the change in the aura I emit, he scrams up on his feet, taking a fighting stance. His fists are held out, knees bent, one leg in front of the other.
"There you go," I said, sizing him up. Should I spare him, should I not? I like him.