FightsRendered

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

Greg held the choke for only a few seconds after Wyatt went limp, long enough to be certain the fight was finished, before releasing his arms and allowing the former Beta to settle flat against the mat. Greg remained beside him on one knee, head hanging as he dragged air into lungs that suddenly seemed incapable of filling completely. The adrenaline that had carried him through the final exchange was draining fast, uncovering every piece of damage beneath it. His ribs throbbed with each inhale, his abdominal muscles cramped where Wyatt's punches and spear had battered them, and both shoulders burned from a long fight of grips, locks, and impossible angles. Greg flexed his fingers several times as feeling returned through exhausted forearms, then slowly rolled one shoulder and winced when the joint answered with a deep ache. Goddamn, Redwood. You are one stubborn son of a bitch. The thought almost became a laugh, but Greg didn't have enough breath left for one.

Eventually Greg pushed himself upright. His quadriceps trembled beneath him as he rose, forcing him to pause before planting one foot carefully across Wyatt's upper abdomen and lower ribs, not driving down to hurt him, but using the position to steady legs that were threatening to betray him. Greg straightened as much as his battered back allowed and slowly raised both arms, flexing his biceps in victory. His fists tightened as his biceps contracted and his shoulders protested immediately. There was nothing effortless about the image. His chest heaved beneath every breath, his abdominal wall quivered from exhaustion, and the muscles along his thighs remained visibly tense merely to keep him standing. Yet Greg held the pose anyway, looking down at Wyatt for a moment before lifting his eyes toward the men surrounding the mat. He had expected Wyatt to be difficult. He had not expected the Redwood to force him into the deepest reserves of strength, endurance, and stubbornness he possessed.

For several heartbeats, The Pack simply stared. The silence held, absolute and complete, before someone shouted, a single voice cutting through the shock like a blade, "Holy Fucking Shit!" Then the voices followed, overlapping and urgent, a cascade of disbelief and awe that rippled through the warehouse. Men who had watched Wyatt bulldoze through challengers for years found themselves breathless, their words tumbling over one another: "Did you see that?" and "Fuck me! That was brutal as hell!" and "I've never seen anything like that." Each voice was layered with the weight of witnessing something extraordinary. This wasn't celebration or mockery. It was recognition, raw and visceral, of what had just been witnessed as the Beta title shifted from Wyatt to Greg. The Pack stood transfixed, processing not Wyatt's fall but the sheer magnitude of the fight itself, the brutal artistry of it, the refusal of both men to break until one simply could not continue. Ethan remained silent, watching Greg sway slightly above the unconscious ginger before a small, knowing smile appeared, paired with a subtle nod of acknowledgement that he would be the next target.

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

Wyatt's body went rigid. His hands shot up instinctively, clawing at Greg's forearm with desperate strength. Greg's chest pressed flush against Wyatt's back, but the SEAL's breathing was ragged, his muscles trembling from exhaustion. The ginger's vision began to blur almost immediately, the sudden loss of blood flow to his brain creating a disorienting rush of darkness at the edges of his sight. "You're done," Greg whispered against Wyatt's ear, his voice strained and breathless. He tried to adjust his grip to deepen the choke, but Wyatt's thrashing made it difficult to maintain the perfect position. Wyatt wasn't finished. Not yet. His fighter's instinct screamed defiance even as his oxygen-starved brain struggled to function. "Fuck... you," he gasped out, the words strangled and barely audible, his voice cracking under the pressure of Greg's forearm. His hands clawed frantically at the SEAL's arm, nails scraping skin, searching desperately for any gap, any weakness in the hold. His body thrashed violently, muscles convulsing as he fought against the inevitable.

Greg's arms burned with the effort of maintaining the choke. His breathing came hard against Wyatt's ear, each exhale shaky with exhaustion. "Stop fighting," he said quietly, but his voice carried the strain of a man holding on with everything he had left. Wyatt's thrashing intensified for a moment, pure desperation driving his movements. He drove his elbows backward, trying to create space, trying to break free through sheer force of will. Greg's grip wavered slightly, his forearm slipping a fraction before he managed to cinch it tighter again. The SEAL's weight pressed down, but it was a struggle, every second requiring maximum effort to maintain control. Wyatt's vision darkened further at the edges, the warehouse lights becoming distant and hazy. Greg began to move, forcing Wyatt downward with pressure that felt inexorable but cost him everything. The ginger's legs buckled, and he dropped to one knee, still clawing, still fighting. His movements were slower now, but his resistance remained fierce. His breath came in shallow, desperate gasps that couldn't get past Greg's choking forearm. Greg's entire body shook with the effort of forcing him lower. The SEAL's used all of his own weight to drive Wyatt down, and Wyatt's second knee finally followed with a heavy thud. Greg's chest remained flush against Wyatt's back, but his arms trembled visibly now. Wyatt's hands fought to help find air, but Greg's forearm remained locked around his neck., The hold felt less absolute, but more like a man clinging to victory by his fingertips. Wyatt's ass slid backward across the canvas as Greg forced his legs to extend, the SEAL's muscles screaming in protest. His thighs straightened involuntarily, his heels scraping against the mat as his body was positioned where Greg needed it. Both legs stretched out in front of him now, vulnerable and exposed. Wyatt's back remained pressed against Greg's chest, the SEAL's frame a cage of control behind him, but one that felt like it might collapse at any moment.

Greg settled into position, his legs bracketing Wyatt's extended ones, locking him in place. The rear-naked choke remained cinched, but Greg's arms shook with the effort of maintaining pressure. His breathing was harsh and ragged, each breath a struggle. Wyatt was no longer fighting the position with the same intensity. His movements grew weaker, less coordinated as his body began to surrender to the inevitable darkness creeping in from all sides. Wyatt's body began to tremble; his consciousness began to slip away. Ethan nodded knowingly when he saw Wyatt's eyes roll back slightly, unfocused and glassy. Greg held the choke in place, his entire body committed to maintaining the hold, every muscle fiber engaged in the final effort. "It's okay to tap," Greg whispered, his voice barely more than a rasp, almost tender despite the exhaustion. Wyatt's struggles became nothing more than involuntary twitches. The ginger's hands fell away from Greg's arm, dropping uselessly to his sides. His head lolled back against Greg's shoulder, his breathing growing increasingly shallow. And then, finally, Wyatt's body went completely slack. His eyes closed. His consciousness faded into darkness, and he surrendered to the inevitable, claimed by the SEAL who held him with the last reserves of his strength.

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

That thread of air was everything: survival, the difference between consciousness and oblivion, between being claimed and escaping. Wyatt's vision remained blurred at the edges, darkness creeping in from the periphery, but the microscopic gap kept him tethered to awareness. Greg's thighs remained locked around his head like a vice, the suffocating pressure of the SEAL's crotch pressed against his face an overwhelming reminder of how close he was to losing everything. The scent of Greg's dominance filled his nostrils with each shallow breath, the rigid length of the SEAL's cock unmistakable against his cheek. Not like this. Not fucking like this.

His world narrowed to a singular focus: escape. He had to break the hold quickly. He didn't have time for technique. He only had time to do something Greg couldn't account for or expect: raw, explosive power born from desperation. Wyatt's hands gripped Greg's hips as he got to his knees. His calves tensed against the mat, his core coiled tight. Then, with a roar that was half fury and half primal desperation, Wyatt detonated. His legs fired beneath him like pistons, quadriceps and glutes exploding with violent force as he drove through his heels. The power surged through his hips, his core, his entire frame as he launched himself upward. Greg's entire body lifted off the mat, all of the SEAL's weight suspended in the air while his figure-four remained locked tight around Wyatt's neck. For a moment, they were airborne together, Wyatt's legs trembling with the effort. Then Wyatt twisted his torso and slammed Greg down onto the canvas.

The impact was devastating. Greg's back crashed into the mat with a bone-jarring thud that reverberated through the warehouse as the Pack erupted in shocked exclamations. But Greg's legs didn't release. His thighs remained locked, his expression cold and focused even as the impact rattled through his spine. "Fuck," Wyatt gasped, his voice strangled and desperate. The microscopic gap he'd created was barely enough to keep him conscious. But he couldn't stop. Not now. Wyatt planted his feet again and drove upward with another guttural roar. The second lift was harder, his muscles already depleted, his oxygen-starved brain struggling to coordinate the movement. But desperation overrode exhaustion. Wyatt's legs fired again, launching Greg's body off the mat with violent force, the SEAL's weight feeling impossibly heavy this time. Wyatt's entire body shook with the effort, his face still buried against Greg's crotch, the suffocating musk filling what little air he could draw. He slammed Greg down a second time. The impact was even more brutal, Greg's shoulders crashing into the canvas, his head snapping back slightly from the force. His body jolted, muscles tensing reflexively as the accumulated damage compounded, but his legs still didn't release. Greg's jaw was set, his blue eyes burning with determination even as pain radiated through his spine. Wyatt's knees nearly buckled, his vision going dark again. No. Fuck no.

Wyatt planted his feet one final time, barely able to support his own weight, let alone Greg's. But he dug deep and found one last reserve of strength, pure, animalistic survival instinct. His face was still pressed against Greg's crotch, the rigid bulge of the SEAL's cock unmistakable against his cheek, the scent overwhelming, intoxicating, infuriating. With a roar that tore from the depths of his soul, Wyatt exploded upward. The lift was the most violent yet. His entire body became a weapon, every muscle firing in one desperate, coordinated chain as his legs launched him upward with explosive force. But this time, Wyatt didn't just lift. He twisted hard, adding torque to the descent, and drove Greg down with every ounce of power he had left. The third slam was catastrophic. Greg's body crashed into the canvas with a thunderous impact that shook the entire warehouse, the force rattling through both men as the accumulated trauma finally took its toll. Greg's grip shattered as his arms and legs flailed open from the impact.

Wyatt felt the rush of air pour into his body. With desperate violence, Wyatt pushed-kicked Greg away to give himself more time and space. Wyatt staggered backward, gasping for air like a drowning man breaking the surface. His face was flushed, covered in sweat, and the evidence of Greg's dominance, the scent of the SEAL's musk still clinging to his skin, the imprint of Greg's thighs still burning on his cheeks. Greg rolled to his side, his own breathing heavy, the accumulated damage from three devastating slams written across his face. He was slower than usual to get up, and, to all around, he looked genuinely hurt. Wyatt didn't give him time to recover. He couldn't. It was now or never. Rage and desperation surged through the Beta like wildfire. He'd been seconds from losing, seconds from being claimed, dominated, and owned. The memory of Greg's cock pressed against his face, the suffocating control, the humiliation of being trapped, it all ignited something primal and furious inside him. Wyatt charged forward, running on pure adrenaline. His right fist shot out in a sharp jab that snapped toward Greg's face. The SEAL raised his guard instinctively, but Wyatt was already following with a left cross that crashed into Greg's ribs with brutal force. The punch sank deep, and Greg's body twisted from the impact. Wyatt's breathing was ragged, his movements deliberate and heavy, every muscle committed to the strike. He followed with a right hook aimed at Greg's jaw, his arm trembling slightly from exhaustion as he threw everything he had left into the combination.

Greg blocked the onslaught. Wyatt still pressed forward, his shoulder colliding with Greg's as he drove another punch toward the SEAL's abdomen. Greg's hands snapped down to block, his forearms crossing to absorb the strike, but the force still drove through his guard. Greg could tell that Wyatt was focused on the singular need to finish this fight before he could recover, before he could lock on another hold. Wyatt was fighting back to prove he was still the Beta. But even as Wyatt's punches landed, Greg's eyes remained cold and calculating. The SEAL was absorbing, waiting. Wyatt threw a vicious hook toward Greg's jaw, and Greg slipped it cleanly, rolling his head to the side as the fist whistled past his ear. Greg used the momentum to flow beneath Wyatt's extended arm. His body pivoted smoothly, rotating beneath the ginger's guard as Wyatt's hook carried him forward and off-balance. Greg's feet planted, and he drove backward, sliding directly behind Wyatt's body. The transition was seamless, almost liquid in its execution. Wyatt realized the danger too late. Greg's left forearm snapped across his neck, the muscular arm settling perfectly against his throat. Greg's right hand threaded through, clasping his own left wrist and locking the hold with brutal finality. The rear-naked choke cinched tight, cutting off both carotid arteries in one devastating motion.

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

Wyatt's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. Through the white-hot agony radiating from his groin and the fire screaming through his shoulder, he forced words through his battered throat: "Not... submitting." The defiance was barely a rasp, each syllable an act of will against the systematic destruction of his body. His right arm trembled violently as he tried once more to push, knowing it was futile, knowing it would only deepen the trap, but refusing, absolutely refusing, to break. Greg felt the resistance and respected it. He maintained the pressure, his breathing controlled despite the burning that had begun to spread through his own shoulders and lower back. The geometric prison was a masterpiece of leverage, but leverage required sustained muscular tension. His left arm, wrenched upward at an angle that kept Wyatt's wrist locked, had begun to tremble with the accumulated fatigue of nearly forty minutes of relentless combat. His right arm, clamped around Wyatt's leg and maintaining the genital control, burned with a deep, aching exhaustion that no amount of conditioning could completely overcome. Even his core, usually his fortress, was beginning to protest the unnatural angles required to keep Wyatt suspended and immobilized. Greg's breathing remained steady, but he could feel it: the subtle weakness creeping into his muscles, the way his grip strength was fractionally less than it had been thirty seconds ago. Wyatt's defiance, combined with his own mounting fatigue, meant the hold was becoming less efficient. Another minute, maybe two, and the geometry would begin to fail. Greg's mind calculated instantly: he could push through, could maintain this position and hope he could last until Wyatt's body simply gave out, but that risked the fight on hope. Greg never relied on hope.

Without warning, Greg released the genital control and the wrist lock simultaneously. Wyatt crashed downward, his body slamming into the mat with a heavy thud that drove the remaining air from his lungs. Before Wyatt could even process the sudden freedom, Greg repositioned himself to sit directly in front of Wyatt. With a few swift movements, Greg locked in a figure-four configuration with surgical precision. The positioning placed both men in nearly a straight line with each other. Greg rested on his side, facing Wyatt, the redhead pinned flat beneath him with his face driven directly into the vise of Greg's crotch, his nose and mouth pressed against the hard ridge of the SEAL's genitals. Greg's legs locked around Wyatt's head in the figure-four configuration, cinching the hold tight and driving Wyatt's face deeper into the suffocating contact. This hold would give Greg's muscles the time they needed to see this fight through to the end. The figure four required different leverage points and different muscle groups, but his attack on Wyatt's carotid arteries could resume while he rested his upper body slightly.

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

Greg felt Wyatt's resistance crumble beneath the accumulated punishment. The Beta's body had begun to go slack, his breathing shallow and desperate. Greg eased the pressure on the neck crank just enough to speak, his voice cold and clinical. "You're done, Wyatt. Submit." The words cut through the haze of pain. Wyatt's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as he forced air through his battered throat. "Fuck... you." The defiance was weak, barely more than a rasp, but it was there. Stubborn. Unbroken. Greg's expression didn't change. Without a word, he released the dragon sleeper completely.

Wyatt crashed face-first into the mat, the impact jarring through his already compromised neck and shoulders. His arms splayed uselessly beside him, his chest heaving as he tried to draw breath. For one brief moment, he thought he might have a chance to recover, to reset, to find his footing again. Greg didn't give him that chance. Before Wyatt could even lift his head, Greg moved with brutal efficiency. He caught Wyatt's left leg behind the knee and hauled it upward, threading it around the back of his own neck before trapping the foot securely under his right arm. The angle forced Wyatt's hip into an unnatural rotation, his hamstring and glute stretching taut as the leg was bent and elevated simultaneously. Greg's right hand seized Wyatt's left wrist and wrenched the arm upward behind his back, the shoulder joint immediately screaming in protest while his body weight kept it compressed toward its breaking point. Wyatt's right leg tried to plant for leverage, but Greg hooked it under his left arm and forced it around his own back, locking it in place. The position lifted Wyatt almost entirely off the mat; only his right shoulder and the side of his head remained in contact with the canvas.

The realization hit him like a freight train: he was trapped in a geometric prison with no escape. His left shoulder ground toward dislocation as the arm was levered upward, the rotator cuff grinding against bone. His left hip flexor burned with the strain of being pulled backward and up; the muscles along his inner thigh stretched to their limit. His spine curved into an agonizing bow, every vertebra compressed on one side and hyperextended on the other. His right shoulder felt like it might dislocate from supporting his suspended weight. His abdominal muscles cramped as they tried to stabilize his core against the opposing forces. Even his neck strained from the awkward angle, his cheek grinding against the canvas while his body was lifted and twisted above him.

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

Greg suddenly released the pec claw and pivoted with lethal efficiency, using Wyatt's momentary paralysis to snake his forearm over Wyatt's neck and beneath the Beta's jaw in one fluid motion. He didn't give Wyatt time to process the shift. He didn't allow even a breath of relief. He simply transitioned one trapped arm into the other, creating a new angle of attack while his other hand locked around Wyatt's neck, cinching the hold tight. The Dragon sleeper settled into place with surgical precision, Greg's forearm applying pressure directly across the carotid arteries while his other hand cupped the back of Wyatt's neck, creating multiple pressure points that no amount of struggling could relieve. Greg forced Wyatt's spine to bow across the hard brace of Greg's thigh. Pain streaked from the base of Wyatt's skull through his neck as the muscles along both sides of his cervical spine contracted desperately against the pull. His shoulders were dragged behind their natural alignment, stretching the tendons across his chest while compressing the joints between his shoulder blades. Wyatt's body tried to rise with the pressure, but Greg's weight kept his knees planted, leaving his torso suspended in a punishing backward arch. Wyatt clawed at Greg's arm, yet every attempt to twist free only sharpened the strain. His abdominal muscles trembled from trying to fold forward while Greg continued wrenching his head and upper body in the opposite direction. His breathing came in ragged bursts, each inhale stretching his ribs wider against the unnatural bend.

Ethan watched from the edge of The Pack and understood immediately why Greg had chosen this over what Wyatt had just minutes before. It told Ethan exactly where this fight was going. With the smother, Wyatt had pressed Greg's face directly into his pit, reducing oxygen while making a psychological statement of ownership and control. It was humiliation wrapped in a submission hold, a tool for breaking the mind as much as the body. But Greg's was a different beast of a hold. There was no showmanship, no psychological warfare, no need to prove dominance through degradation. The carotid pressure would render Wyatt unconscious far more reliably than suffocation ever could, the blood flow to the brain cut off with mathematical certainty. The multiple pressure points, along with the nerve centers being compressed with the arteries, all meant there was no single angle Wyatt could exploit to escape. It was the hold of a man focused purely on tactical efficiency, on neutralizing a threat. Ethan had seen Greg fight before, but this was different. This was a fighter who had stopped holding back.

Then Greg's free fist drove into Wyatt's exposed abdomen with methodical cruelty. The punch landed hard and deep, forcing the air from Wyatt's lungs in a strangled gasp. Before Wyatt could recover, another strike crashed into his ribs, then another into his lower abs. Greg wasn't wild with these blows; each one was calculated, precise, designed to compound the agony. The strikes were brutal and systematic, turning the skin across his abdomen an angry red as Greg's knuckles hammered again and again. Wyatt tried to protect himself, but his body remained trapped and defenseless. Greg's fist drove into his solar plexus, and Wyatt convulsed violently.

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

As Wyatt continued to play with Greg's nipple, Greg's body jerked involuntarily against the surfboard hold, his spine arching even further as the sensation shot through him like electricity. But he couldn't move. Couldn't defend himself. Couldn't do anything but endure the violation of Wyatt's touch while his face remained buried in the suffocating musk of the Beta's armpit. Wyatt pinched harder, twisting slightly. His fingers released, only to return moments later, teasing, circling, possessing. He alternated between gentle touches and sharp pinches, each one a reminder of Greg's helplessness. The touch was unbearable. Not because it hurt, though the pinches sent sharp jolts through Greg's chest, but because Wyatt unknowingly was targeting the one thing Greg despised: people playing with his nipples. He'd always hated it. Always. The sensation made him see red. While Wyatt may have been flirting and playing with Greg, Greg clenched his teeth while something was slowly building within.

Fury. Raw, primal, visceral fury erupted from somewhere deep in his core. It wasn't the cold, calculated rage he'd felt earlier in the fight. This was different. Hotter. More feral. It burned through the oxygen deprivation, through the sexual arousal that had been building throughout the match, through the humiliation of being controlled so completely. But more than that, it burned with the white-hot intensity of a deeply personal violation. Wyatt unknowingly found the one thing Greg kept locked away, the one thing no one ever knew existed. His muscles coiled with violent intent. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. Every fiber of his being screamed against the dominance, against the possession, against the violation of being touched this way while trapped and helpless. The fury was a living thing inside him. It was a counter-force to everything Wyatt was trying to impose on him. He would not submit. He would not be owned. Not like this.

Greg exploded. Not with technique or calculation, but with raw, uncontrolled violence. His entire body convulsed against Wyatt's hold as a primal roar tore from his chest. He thrashed violently, bucking his hips and driving his shoulders backward in explosive, thrashing movements that shattered the geometry of the surfboard. His muscles ignited with white-hot fury, tearing himself free through sheer rage and physical explosion rather than any refined escape. The moment his body broke contact with Wyatt's, Greg rolled away hard, his breathing ragged and violent, his eyes blazing with something far darker than anything that had come before. When they collided, Greg grabbed Wyatt's left arm with both hands and wrenched it violently, using the momentum to sling the massive Beta toward the mat. Wyatt crashed down hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Greg flowed seamlessly into position, dropping his right knee directly onto Wyatt's neck while trapping Wyatt's left arm beneath his own right arm, locking it into a devastating armbar. Wyatt's shoulder was hyperextended, his elbow bent at an unnatural angle, the joint screaming under the pressure. Wyatt immediately tried to adjust, twisting his hips toward the trapped arm and bringing his knees closer to his body to relieve some of the pressure, but Greg's knee on his neck kept his neck, right shoulder, and right pec pinned flat against the mat. Every attempt to turn only drove the elbow higher, rotating his shoulder farther behind his back. Wyatt's free right arm clawed at the mat, searching for leverage that didn't exist. The armbar held him completely. That's when Greg unleashed his fury.

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

Wyatt's expression darkened. "Wrong answer."

Wyatt yanked downward on the fishhook in Greg's nostrils, pulling his head back and down toward his armpit. The motion deepened the arch exponentially. Greg's entire anterior chain was stretched to the breaking point. The Pack could see his abdominal muscles pulled taut and trembling. Greg could feel his rectus abdominis being stretched to its absolute limit, fibers elongating from his sternum all the way down to his pubic bone. His external obliques twisted and pulled, creating a brutal spiral of tension through his entire core. His hip flexors were wrenched backward, forcing his hips to cant upward in a desperate, futile attempt to relieve the pressure. Every muscle on the front of his body was locked in a devastating stretch, each one pulling against the others, creating a feedback loop of agony. And then came the darkness as his face was buried in Wyatt's armpit.

The heat hit him first. It was an overwhelming, suffocating warmth that radiated from Wyatt's skin after nearly thirty minutes of brutal combat. Then came the musk. Dense, heavy, and utterly masculine, the scent of Wyatt's sweat and pheromones filled Greg's nostrils with every desperate attempt to breathe. It was primal and raw, the concentrated essence of dominance, exertion, athleticism, and power was thick enough to taste. The coarse ginger hair of Wyatt's pit scraped against Greg's cheek and lips, damp with perspiration that soaked into his skin. Every breath was a struggle. Greg's lungs burned as he tried to draw air through the suffocating heat and musk. The scent invaded his senses completely, drowning out everything else. He could no longer hear the warehouse, the roaring Pack, or his own thoughts. His vision blurred at the edges as oxygen became scarce. He was trapped. Completely.

Wyatt grinned and used his free hand to glide across Greg's abs with deliberate slowness. His palm was rough and hot against Greg's sweat-slicked skin, dragging over the ridges of his abs with possessive intent. The touch wasn't clinical or accidental. It was intimate. Claiming. His fingers traced the deep grooves between each abdominal muscle, feeling the way they flexed and trembled beneath his hand as Greg struggled for air. His hand moved higher, sliding up Greg's torso until his fingers found Greg's left nipple. He circled it once. Slowly. Teasingly. He then pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. The pressure was firm and deliberate, rolling the sensitive flesh with calculated precision. Greg's body jerked involuntarily against the surfboard hold, his spine arching even further as the sensation shot through him like electricity. But he couldn't move. Couldn't defend himself. Couldn't do anything but endure the violation of Wyatt's touch while his face remained buried in the suffocating musk of the Beta's armpit. Wyatt pinched harder, twisting slightly. His fingers released, only to return moments later, teasing, circling, possessing. He alternated between gentle touches and sharp pinches, each one a reminder of Greg's helplessness.

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

Wyatt tried to force Greg to the mat as he cranked the full nelson, but Greg would not budge, and, after Greg tried to sweep his legs, Wyatt knew it was only a matter of time before Greg did something to escape or turn the tables. There was no way Wyatt was going to allow that to happen. Wyatt suddenly dropped into a deep squat, tightening the full nelson until Greg’s elbows were forced higher and his shoulders drew back against the limits of their sockets. Then the Beta drove through his legs. His quadriceps and glutes contracted in one explosive surge, lifting Greg completely from the mat while the SEAL’s feet kicked for purchase that was no longer there. Wyatt’s forearms remained locked behind Greg’s skull, denying him the ability to turn or brace as his body rose against the Redwood’s chest. Greg tried to widen his legs in midair and hook a foot around Wyatt’s calf, but Wyatt had already shifted his hips beneath him. The Beta stepped forward, twisted sharply, and threw Greg downward while releasing the pressure on his neck at the final instant. Greg struck the mat across his shoulders and upper back with a violent crack. His shoulder blades were driven inward against the canvas, his spine flattening beneath the impact as the force snapped through his ribs and jolted his skull. Air burst from his lungs, and for several seconds, the harsh industrial lights became shapeless white stains above him.

Wyatt did not waste those seconds. He seized Greg beneath the shoulders and dragged him away from the center of the impact before the SEAL could gather his limbs beneath him. Greg tried to roll onto one hip, but the message from his body arrived slowly, dulled by the slam. Wyatt dropped behind him, caught one leg, then the other, and threaded his own legs into position before Greg understood the trap. The Beta rolled onto his back and drove upward with both feet, lifting Greg’s hips while pulling the upper body backward across the fulcrum of his shins. Greg’s body rose from the mat in a brutal arch. His hips hung high above Wyatt while his shoulders and head were drawn downward, leaving his spine suspended between opposing forces. Wyatt’s legs carried most of the SEAL’s weight, his calves and thighs flexed hard beneath the effort as he forced Greg farther over the curve. One hand controlled the side of Greg’s head while the other fishhooked Greg's nostrils and pulled, keeping the neck aligned just enough to prevent escape while increasing the stretch through the upper spine.

The suspended surfboard attacked Greg everywhere at once. His abdominal wall lengthened until each muscle stood out in rigid bands, fighting to prevent his torso from being folded backward. His pectorals stretched across his ribs as his shoulders were dragged behind the line of his chest, while the tendons around both shoulder joints tightened to keep the arms stable. Lower down, the arch compressed the joints of his lumbar spine while stretching the hip flexors and quadriceps supporting his elevated legs. Every attempt to contract one muscle group increased the strain somewhere else.

Greg clenched his teeth and tried to twist his hips to knock Wyatt off balance, but to no avail. The movement sent a sharp pull through his obliques and forced his left shoulder lower, worsening the torque across his upper back. Wyatt pulled back another fraction. Greg’s back arched higher, his abdominal muscles quivering as the suspended surfboard reached its deepest point. A harsh grunt escaped him before he could contain it, and the sound drew a roar from the Pack surrounding the mat. Wyatt held him there, legs burning and arms locked, knowing the slam had given him only a narrow window.

"Submit," Wyatt commanded, his voice a low growl of absolute authority as he wrenched the hold deeper, forcing Greg's spine to arch impossibly further. "Say it. Tell everyone you're mine."

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

Wyatt's free hand struck the mat again, but this time the movement was deliberate. Greg drew the captured wrist closer to his ribs. Wyatt's triceps stretched taut, his elbow compressed, and a sharp pulse traveled through the shoulder as Greg elevated the joint. Wyatt then remembered a little lesson from an earlier fight: Calvin had attacked a single finger when trapped. Wyatt rolled toward his trapped arm, and Greg followed. The movement brought Greg's upper hand close enough for Wyatt to clamp around his thumb and twist sharply. Greg's fingers opened instinctively, and Wyatt ripped his wrist free. Their shoulders collided as both men scrambled to their feet, separated briefly, then reset.

Greg attacked first with a compact punch toward Wyatt's jaw, but Wyatt slipped beneath it, stepped outside Greg's lead leg, and disappeared behind him before the SEAL could turn. Both of Wyatt's arms shot beneath Greg's armpits, his forearms climbing along the backs of Greg's arms before his hands locked behind Greg's head. Wyatt locked down the full nelson with all his strength. Greg's body jerked upright as Wyatt tightened the hold. The Beta's biceps pressed beneath his shoulders, while his forearms drove the upper arms higher. Wyatt pulled his clasped hands down against the back of Greg's skull, forcing the SEAL's chin toward his chest and drawing both shoulders backward. Greg's pectorals stretched tight as his arms were opened and elevated, his rear deltoids hardening beneath the strain. His trapezius bunched around his neck, fighting the downward pressure on his skull, while the smaller muscles of the rotator cuffs began to burn from stabilizing joints that Wyatt was steadily prying apart. Greg tried dropping his weight, but Wyatt widened his stance and pulled back while pressing down on Greg's neck. The Beta's legs anchored behind Greg's, his back contracted in thick ridges, and every attempt Greg made to lower an arm only caused Wyatt to lift the opposite elbow higher.

Wyatt pulled Greg against his chest and tightened the full nelson another inch. Greg's shoulders trembled as pressure concentrated inside both joints. The SEAL twisted left, then right, but Wyatt moved with him, keeping his hands locked and his elbows drawn inward. Behind him, Wyatt's aroused bulge twitched hard against Greg's ass, the rigid length unmistakable through the thin fabric of their shorts—a visceral reminder that this wasn't just about dominance, it was about possession.

"You keep finding somewhere else to put me," Wyatt said between heavy breaths, wrenching Greg's arms higher. "So how about I go deep up your ass?"

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

Wyatt's answer was not another joke. His free palm flattened against the canvas, his triceps swelling under reddened skin as his entire body surged upward with enough force to shift Greg several inches. The trapped shoulder rotated despite the pressure, Wyatt turning toward the captured arm, shortening the angle Greg had created. His knees scraped beneath his torso as he forced himself onto all fours. Greg felt the escape developing. The Beta was bringing his hips beneath his weight, building a platform from which his strength could finally become useful. Once Wyatt squared his knees, the shoulder lock would collapse. Wyatt drove upward again, his back flaring as his deltoid strained to rotate the shoulder. Greg's weight slipped to one side. Wyatt twisted sharply, dragging his wrist away from his spine. For a heartbeat, the pressure disappeared. His head lifted, his grin returning as Greg's control began to break. Greg released the hold. Wyatt surged forward, believing he'd finally torn free, but Greg's hands never lost contact. One slid from wrist to elbow, the other clamping around Wyatt's forearm. Greg stepped his leg across Wyatt's shoulder and sat through the opening. The movement redirected Wyatt's momentum instead of stopping it, his own power carrying him sideways as Greg folded around the arm and dragged him into a new entanglement.

Wyatt landed chest-down. Greg settled beside him, one thigh wedged across Wyatt's neck and shoulder, the other along the Beta's ribs. Wyatt's arm bent across Greg's lap, elbow tucked against his hip. Greg secured the wrist with both hands, pulling inward while preventing the shoulder from rotating. The pressure arrived through the elbow first. Greg's thigh forced the forearm one direction while Wyatt's upper arm remained trapped in another; the biceps contracted instinctively, but the wrist held fixed. Wyatt's triceps stretched and trembled as the joint compressed. Wyatt growled and tried to roll. Greg leaned back and drew the wrist closer to his ribs, driving the elbow higher while forcing Wyatt's shoulder downward. Wyatt's back widened as his lats engaged, his free arm clawing at the canvas, but Greg slid his thigh more firmly across Wyatt's neck and shoulder before the movement could mature. The pressure forced the head down and trapped the Beta's strength. All of Wyatt's enormous power had no path through which to travel.

"Almost had you," Greg said, his breathing controlled despite the violent scramble.

"Almost," Wyatt answered through clenched teeth, "isn't finished."

Greg tightened his legs and settled deeper. Wyatt's arm shook between his hands, the tremor no longer from effort alone. His head was pinned, shoulder immobilized, elbow suspended, with nowhere safe to turn. Greg drew the wrist closer against his chest. Wyatt's body went rigid as the joint reached its limit. His free hand struck the mat once from the sudden burst of pain. Greg held the position, balanced between control and damage, forcing the Beta to feel exactly how thoroughly the scramble had been lost.

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

Wyatt shifted higher after the spear, spreading his knees across Greg's ribs. The Beta's weight drove inward, collapsing Greg's breath into shallow gasps. Wyatt planted one forearm beside Greg's head, forcing his shoulders flat. Greg didn't fight the dead weight. Instead, he threaded his forearm beneath Wyatt's collarbone and caught the Beta's right wrist. He waited until Wyatt committed forward, then planted one foot and twisted sharply onto his side, driving his hips upward at an angle. Wyatt's supporting arm collapsed beneath him. The SEAL rolled through the opening, using Wyatt's forward momentum to drag him across his body. Both men crashed onto their sides, then Greg followed the rotation, drove his weight across Wyatt's shoulder blades, and forced him face-first onto the mat. Greg threaded one leg along Wyatt's flank and folded the captured arm behind him. Wyatt's elbow bent sharply as Greg pulled the forearm across his own chest, securing the wrist with one hand while clamping his other arm around the muscle above the elbow. Greg leaned back onto his hip, drawing the wrist inward while elevating the elbow in the opposite direction.

The pressure reached Wyatt's shoulder immediately. His deltoid bunched into a hard ridge as the arm was forced behind its natural range. The rotator cuff muscles tightened desperately to keep the humerus seated in the socket. Greg's control of the wrist prevented rotation. Every inch he lifted the elbow transferred pain directly into the joint. Strain traveled across the shoulder capsule, down through the biceps tendon, and into the crook of the elbow until the entire arm trembled. Wyatt planted his free palm and drove upward. His triceps thickened, his lats flared. Greg felt the power gathering and lowered his weight across Wyatt's upper back, using his thigh to block the shoulder from turning. Wyatt lifted his chest several inches before Greg pulled the wrist closer to the spine. A sharp bolt tore through Wyatt's shoulder and forced him back down. His cheek struck the mat. The joint became the center of three opposing forces: Greg's hip held the torso in place, one arm elevated the elbow, and the other dragged the wrist inward. Wyatt's strength had nowhere useful to travel. Any attempt to bend the arm tightened Greg's grip. Any attempt to roll toward the trapped side drove the shoulder deeper into its socket.

Greg settled beside Wyatt with the Beta's arm captured against his chest. He felt the constant contraction in Wyatt's upper back as the larger man searched for escape. There was no panic in those movements which Greg respected and appreciated. Wyatt was measuring the hold, testing the placement of Greg's legs and the angle of his hands. Greg adjusted before Wyatt could exploit anything, sliding his grip higher along the forearm and drawing the elbow farther from the mat. Wyatt's pectoral stretched across the front of his shoulder while his biceps pulled tight beneath the skin. The leverage increased enough to make Wyatt's fingers flex involuntarily against the canvas.

Greg settled tighter behind him, his voice dropped lower. "This is what pinning someone down feels like, Redwood. You're mine."

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

Wyatt's chest heaved as he caught his breath, his blue eyes locked on Greg with predatory intensity. The SEAL stood a few feet away, his body still trembling, his penis visibly straining against the damp fabric of his shorts. Greg's hands were slowly being raised defensively, but his stance was still shaky, his legs uncertain beneath him. His abs contracted with each labored breath, the muscles still bearing the red marks from Wyatt's crushing bearhug. The Beta's lips curled into a dangerous smile and adjusted his own hardening crotch. Greg was right there, on the edge, vulnerable, with his body betraying him even as his mind fought for control. These were the most valuable seconds after a major hold, and Wyatt knew it. Time to finish this. Wyatt exploded forward. His legs detonated beneath him, every muscle in his powerful thighs and calves firing at once as he launched himself across the mat. His shoulder dropped, his arms spread wide, his entire body becoming a weapon as he closed the distance in a heartbeat.

Greg's eyes widened. He tried to brace, tried to plant his feet, but his body was too slow, too compromised. Wyatt's shoulder drove into Greg's midsection like a battering ram. The impact was devastating and loud. Wyatt's shoulder crashed into Greg's already battered abs, compressing the muscle and driving deep into his core. Greg's body folded around the point of contact, his breath exploding from his lungs in a violent gasp. His feet left the mat as Wyatt's momentum carried them both backward, Greg's body completely at the mercy of the Beta's charging power. They crashed into the canvas together. Greg's back hit first, the impact radiating through his entire body. His shoulder blades slammed into the mat, then his spine, then his hips, each section absorbing the force in rapid succession. The air that remained in his lungs was driven out completely, leaving him gasping, his mouth open in a silent cry. His ribs compressed against the unforgiving surface beneath him, his muscles unable to cushion the blow.

And then Wyatt's full weight landed on top of him. Two hundred and thirty pounds of solid muscle crashed down onto Greg's torso, pinning him completely to the canvas. Wyatt's chest pressed against Greg's, his powerful arms bracketing the SEAL's head, his hips grinding down against Greg's pelvis. The crushing weight was inescapable, suffocating, forcing every muscle in Greg's body to bear the load. Greg's back arched involuntarily, his body trying to create space that didn't exist. His legs kicked uselessly against the mat, his heels scraping for purchase. His hands came up, pressing against Wyatt's shoulders, but there was no leverage, no angle to push from. He was pinned, completely and utterly dominated. Wyatt shifted his weight, grinding down harder, and Greg felt Wyatt's penis, hard and straining against the fabric of his shorts, pressed directly against his own erection. The contact was electric, immediate, and overwhelming. Both men's crotches aligned and ground together, separated only by the thin, damp fabric of their shorts. The friction was relentless, the pressure sending a jolt of sensation through Greg's entire groin as their erections rubbed against each other with each deliberate shift of Wyatt's hips. His hips bucked involuntarily, grinding his crotch against Wyatt's in a desperate, uncontrolled response, and a strangled groan escaped his throat.

"Fuck," Greg gasped, his voice barely audible.

Wyatt's face was inches from his, his blue eyes blazing with triumph and hunger. His breath was hot against Greg's cheek, his body radiating heat and power. The Beta's hips pressed down harder, deliberately grinding against Greg's trapped crotch, forcing another involuntary thrust from the SEAL's hips.

"Got you," Wyatt growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Right where I want you."

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

But worse than the pain, worse than the crushing pressure, was the building heat in his crotch. Greg could feel it coiling tighter with each compression, each involuntary grind of his penis against Wyatt's abs. The fabric of his shorts was slightly damp now as small drops of precum leaked. He was close. Too fucking close. His balls were tight, his penis throbbing with each pulse of his racing heart, and every jolt sent him spiraling closer to the edge. Greg growled through gritted teeth. Wyatt felt the tension in Greg's body, the way his muscles were coiling differently now. Not just from pain. From something else. The Beta's grin widened, predatory and knowing. He squeezed harder, deliberately grinding Greg's penis against his abs with slow, brutal precision.

"You're close, aren't you?" Wyatt's voice was thick with dark satisfaction. "Right here, in front of everyone. Gonna blow your load while I'm crushing you."

"Fuck... you..." Greg gasped, his voice strained.

"You're a hell of a fighter, Greg. One of the best I've ever faced." Wyatt jolted him again, harder, and Greg's cock dragged across those sculpted ridges with devastating friction. "But you know what you really are? You're meant to be mine. My bottom. My prize. And deep down, you fucking know it."

Greg's vision blurred. The pressure in his crotch was unbearable now, his body trembling on the verge of release. He could feel the orgasm building, inevitable, unstoppable. His breath came in ragged gasps, his hips jerking involuntarily against Wyatt's abs.

"That's it," Wyatt murmured sensually. "Stop fighting it. Just let go, Greg. Show everyone you belong to me."

The words sent a jolt of rage through Greg that cut through the haze of arousal. No. Not like this. He wouldn't give Wyatt the satisfaction. He wouldn't surrender. Greg's left arm was still pinned, but he knew it was his only shot. Greg twisted his shoulder, driving his elbow upward with explosive force. His left arm tore free. Wyatt felt the escape and immediately tightened the bearhug again, his arms constricting as hard as he could constrict. But Greg was already moving. His right fist cocked back and drove forward, aiming for Wyatt's temple. A single punch would end this. Would break the hold. Would...

Wyatt ducked his head, burying his face against Greg's chest. The punch glanced off the back of Wyatt's skull, deflected, useless. Greg threw another, but Wyatt kept his head down, pressed tight against Greg's sternum, denying him the angle. Greg's fists hammered against Wyatt's shoulders, his back, but nothing with enough force to break the crushing hold. Greg's mind focused on the next solution. His penis was teetering on the edge of orgasm. He had seconds. Maybe less. If he couldn't strike, he had to force the angle. Greg's hands shot forward, wrapping around Wyatt's thick neck from both sides. His fingers dug into the muscle, his thumbs pressing against Wyatt's windpipe. He pushed, forcing Wyatt's head backward, away from his chest. Wyatt's eyes widened in shock as the pressure hit his throat, his grip on the bearhug faltering for just a moment. Greg squeezed. Hard. Wyatt gagged, his airflow restricted, his face reddening. But he didn't release the bearhug. His arms stayed locked, crushing Greg's ribs, grinding his cock against those abs. Both men were now locked together, each trying to break free first.

Greg's vision swam. His cock was still throbbing, still leaking, the orgasm building despite everything. He couldn't hold out much longer. He needed to end this. Now. Through his blurry vision, Greg saw the angle. He released the choke with his right hand and drove a brutal forearm into Wyatt's face. The impact echoed through the warehouse. Wyatt grunted, his grip loosening slightly. Greg immediately returned his hand to Wyatt's neck, squeezing again, cutting off his air. Then he released his left hand and hammered another forearm into Wyatt's face, back to the choke. Squeeze. Release. Strike. Squeeze. Release. Strike. The rhythm was relentless. Brutal. Greg alternated between choking Wyatt and driving forearms into his face, never giving him a moment to recover, never letting him breathe fully or brace for the next strike. Wyatt's face was dark red now, his breath coming in ragged gasps whenever Greg released the choke. But he held on. His arms stayed locked around Greg, crushing him, trying to force the release that would weaken Greg and lead to his submission.

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

Wyatt surged forward before Greg could recover, his arms shooting out to wrap around the SEAL's torso in one fluid motion. His biceps flexed as he cinched the hold tight, crushing Greg's arms against his sides and trapping them there. The bearhug locked in completely, Greg's chest compressed against Wyatt's broader frame, his breath forced from his lungs as Wyatt's powerful arms constricted like a vice. Then Wyatt lifted. Greg's bare feet left the mat entirely, dangling uselessly above the canvas as Wyatt hoisted him upward, using his superior size and leverage to suspend the SEAL in midair. The crowd roared. Wyatt's grin widened as he felt Greg struggle against the hold, testing for weakness, finding none. He began to jolt Greg up and down, each violent compression driving the air from Greg's lungs up, down, squeeze, up, down, squeeze, the rhythm relentless as shockwaves radiated through Greg's core.

With each jolt, Greg's body was forced tighter against Wyatt's rock-solid muscles. With each compression, Greg's penis, already half-hard from the intensity of the fight, from the sweat-slicked contact, from the raw physicality of two powerful men locked together, rubbed directly against Wyatt's ripped abdominal muscles. The friction was unavoidable. Undeniable. Wyatt's abs were a sculpted washboard of muscle, each ridge defined and hard as stone, and as Wyatt jolted Greg up and down, Greg's hardening penis dragged across those ridges. Up. Rub. Down. Rub. Squeeze. The pressure forced Greg's hips forward, grinding his growing erection against Wyatt's stomach with each violent compression. Greg's breath hitched, his rod thickening further despite the crushing pain radiating through his torso. The dual sensations warred within him: agony and arousal, brutality and desire. His penis swelled to full hardness, trapped between their bodies, rubbing insistently against Wyatt's abs as the Beta continued to jolt him. The fabric of his shorts did nothing to diminish the sensation. Each compression sent unwanted pleasure through Greg's penis even as his ribs screamed in protest, creating a maddening feedback loop he couldn't escape. Wyatt felt the rigid length pressing against his stomach, growing harder with each jolt, and squeezed harder, deliberately grinding Greg's rod against his abs.

"Quit fighting it, stud," Wyatt growled against his ear. "You know what this means. You know who you belong to."

Greg's response was primal. A strangled groan tore from his throat, half agony, half something darker he couldn't suppress. His body convulsed against Wyatt's hold, muscles trembling as another jolt sent shockwaves through his ribs and pleasure through his cock simultaneously. A low, guttural growl rumbled from deep in his chest, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. His hips jerked involuntarily, his cock throbbing against Wyatt's abs despite every rational part of his mind screaming against it. Another gasp escaped him, raw and desperate, as the crushing pressure intensified and the friction continued its relentless assault on his senses. Greg's mind raced through the haze of pain and arousal. He needed leverage. As Wyatt lifted him again, Greg twisted his right shoulder and drove his elbow downward, creating just enough space to slip his arm free. But Wyatt felt the escape immediately. His arms constricted, tightening the bearhug with devastating force, crushing Greg's ribs and driving the air from his lungs in a sharp gasp. Greg's freed arm was useless for leverage now. Wyatt had adjusted the hold, cinching it even tighter around Greg's core. His cock was still hard, still grinding against Wyatt's abs, and he could feel himself starting to leak.

Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me.

Greg stepped forward and drove a left hook into Wyatt's ribs before the Beta could straighten. The punch landed with a thick, wet thud, compressing muscle and forcing Wyatt sideways. A compact right snapped across his mouth, then another hook buried itself beneath his ribs. Wyatt staggered, his hand dropping toward his battered abdomen. Greg surged after him. A jab above the eye. A punch hammering into his sternum. Another hook compressing the muscles beneath his ribs, each impact driving deeper into weakening tissue. Wyatt tried to focus through the pain. He hadn't maintained his position as Beta by allowing himself to get overwhelmed. He just had to time his next shot within the fraction of a second Greg's guard opened after each body shot. Greg drove another right toward the damaged abdomen. Wyatt twisted, letting the fist glance across his obliques. His left hand slammed into Greg's ribs beneath the elbow, compressing already battered muscle. Greg's breath hissed through clenched teeth. Wyatt followed with another body shot from the opposite side. His fist buried itself beneath Greg's rib cage, driving inward hard enough to lift the SEAL onto his toes. The muscles across Greg's abdomen screamed, fibers tearing under the accumulated punishment. Greg answered with a hook across Wyatt's cheek, but the Beta rolled with it and returned a short uppercut into Greg's sternum. Neither man retreated. They remained chest-to-chest, shoulders colliding as their fists pounded into ribs, abdominal walls, jaws, and cheekbones. The warehouse filled with the deep concussion of muscle being struck at full force.

Greg hammered a right into Wyatt's side. Wyatt crashed a left against Greg's mouth. Greg buried two punches into the Beta's abdomen. Wyatt's breathing had become rough, his abdomen reddened and swollen. But Greg's own ribs burned with every breath, his core muscles contracting reflexively before each anticipated impact. Greg stepped inside, hammering another fist into the Beta's mouth. Wyatt's lip split. Blood shone across his teeth, but his right foot planted firmly against the canvas. Greg attacked. His left hook tore across Wyatt's ribs while his right hand rose toward the jaw. Wyatt caught the second punch and drove a brutal left into Greg's abdomen. The SEAL's body tightened, his elbows dropping to protect the damaged muscles. That was what Wyatt had been waiting for. The Beta shifted outside Greg's lead shoulder, his right fist drawing back beside his chest. Greg recognized the movement, but his guard was still collapsed toward his battered abdomen. Wyatt's shoulder rolled forward, every muscle from his planted foot through his back firing in a single violent chain. Wyatt's right hand crashed into the side of Greg's face. The punch struck beneath the cheekbone and drove upward across the jaw, snapping Greg's head back. Sweat burst from his hair as his knees nearly buckled.