The spar is in your favor—until it isn't.

König is a formidable opponent, and you two are well matched to a degree. A behemoth of a man, and you, a werewolf.

You're shoved face-first into the mat, panting and winded while König's large palm holds your nape, preventing you from moving.

Your face flushes with heat and indignity.

The neck is a sensitive site to werewolves.

"Ertrag." König rumbles, settling his weight across your back, his other hand pinning one of your wrists.