Uri threw the first punch, his fist cutting through the air with brutal speed. Corvine dodged, the wind of the blow grazing his cheek. But the closeness made him catch a whiff of Uri's scent, and his blood ran cold.
Liah was right. This man was not their kind. While werewolves carried the scent of earth, musk, or primal wildness around the pack, this man carried the dominant scent of smoke and spice, something foreign, ancient, and dangerous.
Uri threw a kick, and Corvine ducked backwards, avoiding contact by a hair's breadth. Uri was getting frustrated, his movements growing more aggressive as he lunged forward. Corvine went on one knee and punched him in the groin, a cheap shot, but effective.
Except it did little to nothing to cause Uri pain.
His next kick landed with precision, sending Corvine flying through the air. His back hit the ground hard, the impact driving the breath from his lungs.
