STRAY

My heart pounding, I stepped out of the alley, half expecting to be struck by lightning or hit by a runaway train. Nothing happened, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I took another step, my eyes wide to let in all of the available light. Still nothing happened.

I was feeling foolish now, chasing a stranger down a dark alley at night, like some bimbo from a bad horror film. In the movies, this was where things always went wrong. A hairy hand would reach out of the shadows and grab the curious-but-brainless heroine around the throat, laughing sadistically while she wasted her last breath on a scream.

The difference between the movies and reality was that in real life, I was the hairy monster, and the only screaming I ever did was in rage. I was about as likely to cry for help as I was to spontaneously combust. If this particular bad guy hadn’t figured that out yet, he was in for a very big surprise.

Find out more about Rachel Vincent by visiting mirabooks. co. uk/rachelvincent and read Rachel’s blog at ubanfantasy.blogspot.com

Coming soon

ROGUE

Also by Rachel Vincent

Shifters series STRAY ROGUE PRIDE PREY SHIFT ALPHA Soul Screamers series MY SOUL TO TAKE MY SOUL TO KEEP MY SOUL TO SAVE MY SOUL TO STEAL IF I DIE BEFORE I WAKE Unbound series BLOOD BOUND SHADOW BOUND And coming soon … OATH BOUND

Stray

Rachel Vincent

www.mirabooks.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Writing a book is a very solitary pursuit. Publishing one is not. It’s a group effort, requiring contributions from many people, with many different areas of expertise. With that in mind, I’d like to thank everyone who worked on Stray during its development: editorial director Dianne Moggy and executive editor Margaret Marbury; in marketing, Ana Movileanu and Stacy Widdrington; art director Erin Craig and designer Sean Kapitain; editorial assistant Adam Wilson, whose contributions behind the scenes should not go unnoticed; and everyone involved in production and sales. Thank you all.

Also, thanks to Ohh, who double-checked my Spanish, without laughing at my mistakes.

Thanks to my editor, the fabulous Mary-Theresa Hussey, whose patience with me and faith in my story are directly responsible for putting this book on the shelf. Thanks to literary agent extraordinaire Miriam Kriss for being so incredibly good at her job. For answering my questions and calming me down. For giving me confidence and pride in my work. In short, thanks for selling my books.

And finally, I owe a huge debt of gratitude – and a big hug – to Kim Harrison, the world’s greatest mentor, for lending her wisdom, her experience and her time to a newbie writer in need of guidance. For teaching me more than I ever thought possible, and more than I could ever express. And most of all, thanks, Kim, for taking me seriously.

To my No.1 fan, the love of my life, for endless support and encouragement. For providing me with the time and the space I needed to make my dream come true. And most of all, for daring me to finally put my hands on the keyboard, and the words on the page.

This never would have happened without you.

One

The moment the door opened I knew an ass-kicking was inevitable. Whether I’d be giving it or receiving it was still a bit of a mystery.

The smell hit me as I left the air-conditioned comfort of the language building for the heat of another north-central Texas summer, tugging my backpack higher on my shoulder as I squinted into the sunset. A step behind me, my roommate, Sammi, was ranting about the guest lecturer’s discriminatory view of women’s contributions to nineteenth-century literature. I’d been about to play devil’s advocate, just for the hell of it, when a shift in the evening breeze stopped me where I stood, on the top step of the narrow front porch.

My argument forgotten, I froze, scanning the shadowy quad for the source of the unmistakable scent. Visually, nothing was out of the ordinary: just small groups of summer students talking on their way to and from the dorms. Human students. But what I smelled wasn’t human. It wasn’t even close.

Absorbed in her rant, Sammi didn’t realize I’d stopped. She walked right into me, cursing loud enough to draw stares when her binder fell out of her hand and popped open on the ground, littering the steps with loose-leaf paper.

“I could use a little notice next time you plan on zoning out, Faythe,” she snapped, bending to gather up her notes. Grunts and more colorful words issued from behind her, where our fellow grad students were stalled by our pedestrian traffic jam. Lit majors are not known for watching where they’re going; most of us walk with our eyes in a book instead of on the path ahead.

“Sorry.” I knelt to help her, snatching a sheet of paper from the concrete before the student behind me could stomp on it. Standing, I took the steps two at a time, following Sammi to a brick half wall jutting from the porch. Still talking, she set her binder on the ledge and began methodically reorganizing her notes, completely oblivious to the scent, as humans always were. I barely heard her incessant chatter as she worked.

My nostrils flared slightly to take in more of the smell as I turned my face into the breeze. There. Across the quad, in the alley between the physics building and Curry Hall.

My fist clenched around the strap of my backpack and my teeth ground together. He wasn’t supposed to be here. None of them were supposed to be here. My father had promised.

I’d always known they were watching me, in spite of my father’s agreement not to interfere in my life. On occasion, I’d spot a too-bright eye in the crowd at a football game, or notice a familiar profile in line at the food court. And rarely—only twice before in five years—I caught a distinctive scent on the air, like the taste of my childhood, sweet and familiar, but with a bitter aftertaste. The smell was faint and tauntingly intimate. And completely unwelcome.

They were subtle, all those glimpses, those hints that my life wasn’t as private as we all pretended. Daddy’s spies faded silently into crowds and shadows because they wanted to be seen no more than I wanted to see them.

But this one was different. He wanted me to see him. Even worse—he wasn’t one of Daddy’s.

“…that her ideas are somehow less important because she had ovaries instead of testes is beyond chauvinistic. It’s barbaric. Someone should…Faythe?” Sammi nudged me with her newly restored notebook. “You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

No, I hadn’t seen a ghost. I’d smelled a cat.

“I’m feeling a little sick to my stomach.” I grimaced only long enough to be convincing. “I’m going to go lie down. Will you apologize to the group for me?”

She frowned. “Faythe, this was your idea.”

“I know.” I nodded, thinking of the four other M.A. candidates already gathered around their copies of Love’s Labours Lost in the library. “Tell everyone I’ll be there next week. I swear.”

“Okay,” she said with a shrug of her bare, freckled shoulders. “It’s your grade.” Seconds later, Sammi was just another denim-clad student on the sidewalk, completely oblivious to what lurked in the late-evening shadows thirty yards away.

I left the concrete path to cut across the quad, struggling to keep anger from showing on my face. Several feet from the sidewalk, I stepped on my shoelace, giving myself time to come up with a plan of action as I retied it. Kneeling, I kept one eye on the alley, watching for a glimpse of the trespasser. This wasn’t supposed to happen. In my entire twenty-three years, I’d never heard of a stray getting this far into our territory without being caught. It simply wasn’t possible.

Yet there he was, hiding just out of sight in the alley. Like a coward.

I could have called my father to report the intruder. I probably should have called him, so he could send the designated spy-of-the-day to take care of the problem. But calling would necessitate speaking to my father, which I made a point to avoid at all costs. My only other course of action was to scare the stray off on my own, then dutifully report the incident the next time I caught one of the guys watching me. No big deal. Strays were loners, and typically as skittish as deer when confronted. They always ran from Pride cats because we always worked in pairs, at the very least.

Except for me.

But the stray wouldn’t know I had no backup. Hell, I probably did have backup. Thanks to my father’s paranoia, I was never really alone. True, I hadn’t actually seen whoever was on duty today, but that didn’t mean anything. I couldn’t always spot them, but they were always there.

Shoe tied, I stood, for once reassured by my father’s overprotective measures. I tossed my bag over one shoulder and ambled toward the alley, doing my best to appear relaxed. As I walked, I searched the quad discreetly, looking for my hidden backup. Whoever he was, he’d finally learned how to hide. Perfect timing.

The sun slipped below the horizon as I approached the alley. In front of Curry Hall, an automatic streetlight flickered to life, buzzing softly. I stopped in the circle of soft yellow light cast on the sidewalk, gathering my nerve.

The stray was probably just curious, and would likely run as soon as he knew I’d seen him. But if he didn’t, I’d have to scare him off through other, more hands-on means. Unlike most of my fellow tabby cats, I knew how to fight; my father had made sure of that. Unfortunately, I’d never made the jump from theory to practice, except against my brothers. Sure, I could hold my own with them, but I hadn’t sparred in years, and this didn’t feel like a very good time to test skills still unproven in the real world.

It’s not too late to call in the cavalry, I thought, patting the slim cell phone in my pocket. Except that it was. Every time I spoke to my father, he came up with a new excuse to call me home. This time he wouldn’t even need to make one up. I’d have to handle the problem myself.

My resolve as stiff as my spine, I stepped out of the light and into the darkness.

Heart pounding, I entered the alley, tightening my grip on my bag as if it were the handle of a sword. Or maybe the corner of a security blanket. I sniffed the air. He was still there; I could smell him. But now that I was closer to the source, I detected something strange in his scent—something even more out of place than the odor of a stray deep inside my Pride’s territory. Whoever this trespasser was, he wasn’t local. There was a distinctive foreign nuance to his scent. Exotic. Spicy, compared to the blandly familiar base scent of my fellow American cats.

My pulse throbbed in my throat. Foreign. Shit. I was in over my head.

I was digging in my pocket for my phone when something clattered to the ground farther down the alley. I froze, straining to see in the dark, but with my human eyes, it was a lost cause. Without Shifting, I couldn’t make out anything but vague outlines and deep shadows. Unfortunately, Shifting wasn’t an option at that moment. It would take too long, and I’d be defenseless during the transition.

Human form it is.

I glanced quickly behind me, looking for signs of life from the quad. It was empty now, as far as I could tell. There were no potential witnesses; everyone with half a brain was either studying or partying. So why was I playing hide-and-seek after dark with an unidentified stray?

My muscles tense and my ears on alert, I started down the alley. Four steps later, I stepped through a broken tennis racket and stumbled into a rusty Dumpster. My bag thumped to the ground as my head hit the side of the trash receptacle, ringing it like an oversize gong.

Smooth, Faythe, I thought, the metallic thrum still echoing in my ears.

I bent over to pick up my bag, and a darting motion up ahead caught my eye. The stray—in human form, thankfully—ran from the mouth of the alley into the parking lot behind Curry Hall, his feet unnaturally silent on the asphalt. Pale moonlight shined on a head full of dark, glossy curls as he ran.

Instinct overrode my fear and caution. Adrenaline flooded my veins. I tossed my bag over my shoulder and sprinted down the center of the alley. The stray had fled, as I’d hoped he would, and the feline part of my brain demanded I follow. When mice run, cats give chase.

At the end of the alley, I paused, staring at the parking lot. It was empty, but for an old, busted up Lincoln with a rusty headlight. The stray was gone. How the hell had he gotten away so fast?

A prickly feeling started at the base of my neck, raising tiny hairs the length of my spine. Every security light in the lot was unlit. They were supposed to be automatic, like the ones in the quad. Without the familiar buzz and the reassuring flood of incandescent light, the parking lot was an unbroken sea of dark asphalt, eerily quiet and disturbingly calm.

My heart pounding, I stepped out of the alley, half expecting to be struck by lightning or hit by a runaway train. Nothing happened, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I took another step, my eyes wide to let in all of the available light. Still nothing happened.

I was feeling foolish now, chasing a stranger down a dark alley at night, like some bimbo from a bad horror film. In the movies, this was where things always went wrong. A hairy hand would reach out of the shadows and grab the curious-but-brainless heroine around the throat, laughing sadistically while she wasted her last breath on a scream.

The difference between the movies and reality was that in real life, I was the hairy monster, and the only screaming I ever did was in rage. I was about as likely to cry for help as I was to spontaneously combust. If this particular bad guy hadn’t figured that out yet, he was in for a very big surprise.

Emboldened by my own mental pep talk, I took another step.

The distinctive foreign scent washed over me, and my pulse jumped, but I never saw the kick coming.

Suddenly I was staring at the ground, doubled over from the pain in my stomach and fighting for the strength to suck in my next breath.

My bag fell to the ground at my feet. A pair of black, army-style boots stepped into sight, and the smell of stray intensified. I looked up just in time to register dark eyes and a creepy smile before his right fist shot out toward me. My arms flew up to block the blow, but his other arm was already flying. His left fist slammed into the right side of my chest.

Fresh pain burst to life in my rib cage, radiating in a widening circle. One hand pressed to my side, I struggled to stand up straight, panicked when I couldn’t.

An ugly cackling laugh clawed my inner chalkboard and pissed me off. This was my campus, and my Pride’s territory. He was the outsider, and it was time he learned how Pride cats dealt with intruders.

He pulled his fist back for another blow, but this time I was ready. Ignoring the pain in my side, I lunged to my right, reaching for a handful of his hair. My fingers tangled in a thick clump of curls. I shoved his head down and brought my knee up. The two connected. Bone crunched. Something warm and wet soaked through my jeans. The scent of fresh blood saturated the air, and I smiled.

Ah, memories…

The stray jerked his head free of my grip and lurched out of reach, leaving me several damp curls as souvenirs. Wiping blood from his broken nose, he growled deep inside his throat, a sound like the muted rumble of an engine.

“You should really thank me,” I said, a little impressed by the damage I’d caused. “Trust me. It’s an improvement.”

“Jodienda puta!” he said, spitting a mouthful of blood on the concrete.

Spanish? I was pretty sure it wasn’t a compliment. “Yeah, well, back at ’cha. Get your mangy ass out of here before I decide a warning isn’t enough!”

Instead of complying, he aimed his next shot for my face. I tried to dodge the punch, but couldn’t quite move fast enough. His fist slammed into the side of my skull.

I reeled from the blow, fireworks going off behind my eyelids. My head throbbed like a migraine on steroids. The whole world seemed to spin just for me.

At the edge of my graying vision, the stray fumbled for something in his pocket, cursing beneath his breath in a Spanish-like language I couldn’t quite identify. His arm shot out again. Not steady enough yet to move, I braced myself for impact. The blow never came. He grabbed my arm and pulled trying to haul me away from the deserted student center.

What the hell? When confronted by a Pride cat, any stray in possession of two brain cells to rub together would take off with his fur standing on end. After what I’d done to his face, this one should have run screaming from me in terror. It was because I was a girl, I knew it. If I were a tomcat instead of a tabby, he’d already be halfway to Mexico.

I hate it when men aren’t afraid of me. It reminds me of home.

Backpedaling to keep from falling, I tried to yank my arm from his grip. It didn’t work. Angry now, I swung my free fist around, smashing it into his skull. He grunted and dropped my arm.

I rushed toward the alley and snatched my bag from the ground. The stray’s footsteps pounded behind me. I tightened my grip and whirled around, swinging the pack by its straps. It smashed into his left ear. His head snapped back and to the side. More blood flew from his nose, splattering the parking lot with dark droplets. The stray fell on his ass on the concrete, one hand covering the side of his head. He stared at me in astonishment. I laughed. Apparently the complete works of Shakespeare packed quite a wallop.

To think, my mother said I’d never find use for an English degree. Ha! I’d like to see her knock someone silly with an apron and a cookie press.

“Puta loco,” the stray muttered, digging in his pocket again as he scrambled to his feet. Without another word—or even a glance—he took off across the parking lot toward the Lincoln. Seconds later, tires screeched as he peeled from the lot, heading south on Welch Street.

“Adios!” I watched him go, sore but pleased. Surely after that, Daddy will have to admit I can take care of myself.

Panting from exertion, I threw my bag over my shoulder and glanced at my watch. Damn. Sammi would be home from study group soon, and she’d be horrified by my bloody jeans and brand-new bruises. I’d have to change before she got in. Unfortunately, keeping bruises hidden from Andrew would be much harder. Dating humans could be a real pain in the ass sometimes.

Still picturing the intruder’s mutilated face, I turned back toward the alley—and came face-to-face with another stray. Well, face-to-head-shrouded-in-shadow, anyway. He stood five feet away, just out of reach of the pale moonlight, and I could see nothing but the hands hanging empty at his sides. I knew at a glance that they could do serious damage, even clenched around nothing but air.

I didn’t need to smell this stray to know who he was; his scent was as familiar to me as my own. Marc. My father’s second-in-command. Daddy had never sent Marc before—not once in five years. Something was wrong.

Tension crept up my back and down my arms, curling my hands into fists. I gritted my teeth to hold in a shriek of fury; the last thing I needed was to call attention to myself. Human do-gooders were always out to save the world, but few of them had any idea what kind of a world they really lived in.

I stepped slowly toward Marc, letting my backpack slide down my arm to the ground. I fixed my gaze on the shadow hiding his gold-flecked eyes. He didn’t move. I came closer, my pulse pounding in my throat. He raised his left hand, reaching out to me. I slapped it away.

Shifting my weight to my left leg, I let my right foot fly, hitting him in the chest with a high side kick. Grunting, he stumbled into the alley. His heel hit the corner of a wooden crate and he fell on his ass on a damp cardboard box.

“Faythe, it’s me!”

“I know who the hell you are.” I came toward him with my hands on my hips. “Why do you think I kicked you?” I pulled my right foot back, prepared to let it fly again. His arm shot out almost too fast to see, and his hand wrapped around my left ankle. He pulled me off my feet with one tug. I landed on my rear beside him, on a split-open trash bag.

“Damn it, Marc, I’m sitting in this morning’s fresh-squeezed orange peels.”

He chuckled, crossing his arms over a black T-shirt, clinging to well-defined pecs. “You nearly broke my ribs.”

“You’ll live.”

“No thanks to you.” He pushed himself awkwardly to his feet and held out a hand for me. When I ignored it, he rolled his eyes and pulled me up by my wrist. “What’s with the kung fu routine, anyway?”

I yanked my arm from his grip and stepped back, glaring at him as I wiped orange pulp from the seat of my pants. “It’s tae kwon do, and you damn well know it.” We’d trained together—alongside all four of my brothers—for nearly a decade. “You’re lucky I didn’t kick your face in. What took you so fucking long? If you guys are going to hang around without permission, you might as well make yourselves useful when I’m in mortal peril. That is what Daddy’s paying you for.”

“You handled yourself fine.”

“Like you’d know. I bet he was halfway to his car by the time you got here.”

“Only a quarter of the way,” Marc said, grinning. “Anyway, I was the one in real danger. I got cornered by a pack of wild sorority sisters in the food court. Apparently it’s mating season.”

I frowned at him, picturing a throng of girls in matching pink T-shirts giggling as they vied for his attention. I could have told them they were wasting their time. Marc had no use for human women, especially silly, flirtatious trophy wives–in–training. His dark curls and exotic brownish-gold eyes had always garnered him more attention than he really wanted. And this time they’d kept him from doing his job.

“You’re a worthless bastard,” I said, not quite able to forgive him for being late, even though I didn’t want him there in the first place.

“And you’re a callous bitch.” He smiled, completely unaffected by my heartfelt insult. “We’re a matched set.”

I groaned. At least we were back in familiar territory. And it was kind of nice to see him too, though I would never have admitted it.

Turning my back on him, I grabbed my book bag and stomped to the other end of the alley, then into the empty quad. Marc followed closely, murmuring beneath his breath in Spanish too fast for me to understand. Memories I’d successfully blocked for years came tumbling to the front of my mind, triggered by his whispered rant. He’d been doing that for as long as I could remember.

My patience long gone, I stopped in front of the student center in the same circle of light, and whirled around to face Marc. “Hey, you wanna drop back a few paces? Did you forget how spying works? You’re supposed to at least aim for unobtrusive. The others pretty much have it down, but you’re about as inconspicuous as a drag queen at a Girl Scout meeting.” I propped my hands on the hips of my low-rise jeans and scowled up at him, trying to remain unaffected by the thickly lashed eyes staring back at me.

Marc smiled, his expression casual, inviting, and utterly infuriating. “It’s nice to see you too.” A wistful look darted across his face as he glanced at my bare midriff, his gaze moving quickly over my snug red halter top to settle on the barrette nestled in my hair.

“Go home, Marc.”

“There’s no reason for you to be rude.”

“There’s no reason for you to be here.”

He frowned down at me, thick brows shadowing his eyes, and my mood improved. I’d gotten rid of his smile. Was I really that petty? Hell, yeah.

“Look, if Daddy’s mad because I didn’t invite anyone to graduation, he can tell me himself. I don’t need an emissary to let me know he’s pissed.”

“He sent me to bring you home.” My expression hardened, and Marc held up one hand to cut off the argument he knew to expect. “I’m only following orders.”

Of course he was. That’s all he ever did.

I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, shaking my head. “Forget it. I’m not going.” I started to walk away, but he grabbed my arm. I jerked free of his grip, but only because he let me.

“Sara’s gone,” he said, his face carefully blank.

I blinked, surprised by what seemed to be a random comment.

Sara had left? Good for her. But if they thought they could blame me because she wanted more out of life than a husband and half a dozen babies, they had another think coming. Sara had a mind of her own; all I’d done was dust a few cobwebs from it. If she’d decided not to get married, so be it. That was her choice.

“She didn’t run out on the wedding, Faythe.” Marc’s eyes burned into mine like amber fire, and his meaning was unmistakable. It was always the same old fight with him, no matter where we were or how much time had passed. Some things never changed, and the rest only grew more irritating.

“You can wipe that smug look off your face,” I snapped. “You only think you still know me well enough to read my mind.” So what if he’d been right? That wasn’t the point.

Marc gave an exaggerated sigh, as if talking to me was exhausting, and not really worth the effort. “She didn’t leave. She was taken.”

My pulse jumped, and I shook my head, giving in to denial as it surfaced. All around us, crickets chirped, filling the silence during my pause as I tried to formulate a coherent thought. “That’s impossible. No human could take a…” There was no need to finish the sentence, because that was one thought he most definitely could read. Sara might have been petite, but she was far from weak. She would have shredded any man who laid a hand on her. At least, any human man.

But she hadn’t been taken by a human, which was why Marc had come for me.

The stray, I thought, my hands curling into fists around the strap of my backpack. He wasn’t just trespassing; he was collecting. Daddy had sent Marc to make sure I didn’t become the stray’s next acquisition.

I knew then that there would be no arguing, and no negotiation. Marc would take me home if he had to carry me over one shoulder, scratching and hissing all the way. As much as I would have loved to resist, I would spare myself the indignity, because ultimately, he would win a physical fight, no matter how dirty I played. It was just one more of those things that never changed, like Marc himself.

By the time I’d changed out of my citrus-scented pants and packed what clothes and books I couldn’t do without, Sammi was back from the library. She dumped her books on the counter in our tiny galley-style kitchen, already chattering about her latest misogynistic conspiracy theory. She hesitated when she saw Marc, and her words sputtered to a stop. It was kind of funny; I’d finally found something to shut her up. Too bad I couldn’t stick around and enjoy the silence.

Marc laughed from behind my desk, where he’d made himself at home. Beneath him, the straight-backed chair looked no more substantial than a stack of toothpicks, as if it might collapse into a pile of kindling at any moment. “I’m impressed, Faythe,” he said, leaning the chair back on two legs. “I didn’t think you could find someone who talked more than you do, but I’ve obviously underestimated you. Again.”

Well, he did make a habit of it.

“Sammi, this is Marc Ramos. Marc, my roommate, Samantha.”

Sammi’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly as she tried—and failed—to come up with something intelligent to say. I rolled my eyes. Yeah, he looked good, but her reaction was a little over the top. But then, Sammi had a flair for melodrama.

Marc laughed again and the chair thumped to the ground as he rose to shake her hand. When Marc came toward her, Sammi took a step back, bumping her leg against the edge of an end table before she took his hand in brief, wide-eyed greeting.

“What’s going on?” she managed to say, eyeing the suitcase open on the couch. I’d packed more books than clothing, which meant the bag would weigh a ton, but Marc could probably lift it with a single finger. He wouldn’t, because that would draw attention. But he could.

“Daddy pulled the plug,” I said, snapping the latches on the front of the suitcase. “I’ll be back in the fall, but he won’t pay for grad school unless I spend the summer at home.” It was the closest I could come to an explanation Sammi would believe.

“And Marc would be…?” She left the question open-ended, glancing at him during the pause.

Good question. There was no easy way to describe Marc’s role in my life, because he usually had none. He was no longer my bed warmer, my confidant, or even a fond memory, and he didn’t fit any definition of “friend” she’d understand, so how to explain…?

“My ride.” That should do it. Marc had been demoted to chauffeur, and his only reaction was a wink and an I’ve-got-a-secret grin. Great. He thought it was funny.

Sammi nodded slowly, as if she didn’t believe me, but that was her problem, because I was done thinking up explanations. At least until the fall term.

“You’re leaving now?” She fingered the hem of her blouse, glancing around the apartment at several piles of my belongings that hadn’t made the single-suitcase cut.

“Yeah, sorry about the mess. We’re paid up through the first, and I’ll send you a check for my half of next month’s rent. Can I leave my stuff here till I get back?”

“Sure,” she said. “What about Andrew?”

I felt Marc’s focus shift to me, and I bit my lip to keep from saying something I’d regret. I hadn’t told him about my new boyfriend, and obviously neither had any of my father’s spies. No doubt their silence was out of respect for him, rather than me.

Marc stiffened, and only the slight flaring of his nostrils betrayed him as he tested my scent. He scowled, and I stifled a groan, suddenly thankful that Andrew and I had had…um…lunch in his apartment rather than in mine. Smelling a man’s scent mixed with mine was one thing, but smelling it on my sheets would have been quite another.

The lingering smell of stray on me was probably the only reason Marc hadn’t already noticed Andrew’s…um, place in my life. And in my bed. The stray’s heavy mix of earthy musk and mixed blood easily overpowered Andrew’s simple blend of light sweat and untainted humanity.

I would have told him, eventually. Really. However, I pride myself on having marginally more tact than Sammi. But then, I hadn’t been honest with her about who my ride actually was, so what did I expect?

“I’ll call him,” I said, zipping up my suitcase.

Marc snatched the bag from my grip and stomped out the front door, leaving it open into the hallway.

I hugged Sammi, breathing in the floral fragrance of her shampoo. If my parents had their way, it would be a while before I smelled my roommate’s wholesome femininity layered with Herbal Essences and cherry Bubble Yum. Assuming I ever made it back to school at all. And where my father was concerned, there were no guarantees.

“Study enough for both of us,” I said, releasing her reluctantly. She smiled, more confused than sad, and I returned the look. I didn’t really know what was going on, either.

In the corridor, Marc said something rude to my neighbor across the hall, just loud enough for me to hear. Sighing, I plucked my keys and cell phone from the coffee table, glancing around the apartment one last time. Why is it that goodbyes always feel so final? Except when I leave home. I always know I’ll be back at the ranch eventually, not because I want to go home, but because they keep dragging me back. It’s a small difference, but an important one.

I followed Marc down the wide hall to the stairwell, and neither of us said a word. Outside, I stayed several steps behind him, trying to gauge his mood as he marched down the sidewalk. He gripped the handle of my suitcase with knuckles white from tension. His stride was long, each step firm and heavy. But most telling was his posture as he wove between the cars in the parking lot. Head high and shoulders squared, his bearing was stiff and formal, as if he were truly nothing more to me than my chauffeur.

And in case I missed any of those more subtle signs, when I moved up to walk alongside him, Marc favored me with a growl, low and angry, and too soft for anyone else to hear.

Great. Nothing beats several hours in a car with a pissed-off werecat. Welcome to my life.

Two

The drive home from the University of North Texas seemed interminable, even with Marc driving. He took out his anger at me and Andrew on the car, and by the time we merged with the highway traffic, he was going twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. At that rate, the drive from Denton to Lufkin—220 miles across the Texas prairie into the lush eastern woodlands—would take him two and a half hours. It should have taken more than four.

When we left the interstate loop around Dallas for state highway 175, the traffic noise ebbed, leaving an awkward silence. Marc glanced at me, his mouth set in a grim line. “Tell me about Andrew.”

“Not for all the money in the world.” Although freedom was the currency I truly valued. I stared out my window at moonlit fields and defunct oil wells. Northeast Texas had few trees, fewer hills and way too many miles of empty highway.

“Why not? You ashamed of him?” Marc’s eyes flashed with smug satisfaction.

Damn him! Five years, and he still knew exactly how to piss me off. My fist clenched around the “oh shit!” handle built into his car door. The plastic casing cracked, falling apart in my hand to expose the steel frame inside. Oops.

I brushed shards of plastic from my lap onto the floorboard, but a few slivers protruded from my palm like spines from a cactus. I plucked them out one by one, dropping them at my feet with the rest.

My palm was dotted with several tiny spots of blood and one long, shallow cut. Such minor wounds would likely heal during my next Shift, if not before. That was one of the advantages to spending half your life on four paws, along with increased metabolism, strength and hearing. No superhuman lifespan, though, as cool as that would have been. In fact, in some places, many toms die young, in fights over territory or mates.

Marc glanced at my hand, his face impassive. He didn’t care about the broken handle. His driver’s seat was missing an armrest and his steering wheel resembled a dented hexagon more than it did a circle. My little accident couldn’t begin to compare with the damage he’d done to his own vehicle in past fits of anger.

“I’m not ashamed of him, Marc.” I snatched a tissue from the box he kept on the center console and wiped the blood from my palm in short, angry strokes. “I just don’t want to talk about him.”

“To anyone, or just to me?” His voice was strained, and his eyes flicked to my face quickly, then back to the road before I could read his expression.

To anyone with fur and claws. But I couldn’t say that. “Does it matter?”

“I guess not.” However, the tense lines around his mouth argued otherwise. “Aren’t you going to call him?”

I flipped my phone open and closed, considering. As much fun as it might have been to make Marc listen while I spoke to Andrew, it certainly wouldn’t make the ride home any more bearable. “I’ll wait till we stop for gas.”

“We won’t be stopping for a couple of hours. Won’t he worry before then?”

I almost laughed out loud. As if he gave a damn whether or not Andrew would worry. “No, he won’t. He’s my boyfriend. Not my conscience, my conjoined twin or my father.”

Marc frowned, and I looked away, dabbing at my palm again, though the bleeding had already stopped. His question was typical of Pride mentality. A tomcat’s strongest instinct was to protect the women at any cost, with no consideration for our desires for privacy or independence. Or for whether we wanted, or even needed to be protected.

As I’d demonstrated an hour earlier, I did not need his protection. What I needed was a life of my own, which was exactly what I’d found on campus. My decision to live outside the Pride confounded the entire werecat community. Including my parents, which I’ll probably never understand. After all, they taught me to think things through and to defend myself. Then they seemed genuinely surprised when I fought for the very independence they’d prepared me to handle.

While a tomcat would be labeled strong and self-sufficient for pursuing his own interests, I was considered stubborn and selfish for abandoning my Pride in favor of an education and a life of my own.

My parents had decided to humor my “phase,” indulging me on the assumption that I would either grow out of it or come home after graduation. They thought they would lose, at most, four years of manipulation and micromanagement. They were wrong.

I’d intentionally spent an extra year as an undergrad, then applied to the graduate program without telling anyone. The day after graduation, I enrolled in two summer classes. The only notice my father got that I’d completed my B.A. was the bill for grad school tuition. He’d underestimated me. Like Marc.

I scanned the car for somewhere to put the blood-smeared tissue but couldn’t find anyplace that didn’t involve making Marc bend over. Stifling a laugh at the thought of where I’d like to shove the tissue, I dropped it on the floorboard, making a mental note to clean up my mess when we got home.

“What about you?” I asked, thinking of the sorority girls in the food court. “Have you been dating?”

“No, I haven’t been dating.” He spat the word as if it tasted bad, and I suppose it did. Marc had never been one for casual relationships, which had been a big part of our problem. Everything he did, he did with his whole heart and soul. Including me. It was sweet for about the first ten minutes. After that, it got old quickly.

“Do you really think that’s healthy?” I asked, still irritated by his prying questions. “It’s been years, Marc. You can’t be my father’s hired muscle forever. You need a plan for your life, something to give it meaning.” Like I was one to talk. My grand scheme, which consisted of avoiding my family for as long as possible, had already failed. But that didn’t stop me from dispensing advice I couldn’t follow.

“I had a plan.” The gold specks in Marc’s irises flashed at me in the glow of passing headlights. I started to respond but he cut me off with a look. A very angry look. He was mad enough that I almost felt sorry for the steering wheel. “My personal life is none of your business, Faythe. Not anymore.”

“That’s a two-way street.”

“No, it really isn’t.” He glared at me, ignoring the road long enough that I wanted to grab the wheel. “Your personal life is the business of the entire Pride, by custom and by necessity. You can’t change that, no matter how long you hide out at school pretending to be human.”

I growled, deep in my throat; it was a sound no human could have made. Some people think only dogs growl, but cats growl too, mostly in warning. For once, Marc took my warning and shut up.

For the next two hours, I faked sleep, beyond caring whether or not he bought the act. Just as my eyes were starting to close for real, Marc jerked the wheel to the right and veered across two lanes of highway—both empty, fortunately. He sped down the off-ramp and swerved into an all-night service station, sliding in front of another customer in line for the only available pump.

I twisted in my seat to see the unfortunate driver—a chunky man in ill-fitting slacks and a dress shirt—burst from his Volkswagen Passat and slam the door. His face was comically red in the fluorescent light from the awning overhead. He was yelling before he’d taken two steps, his gestures becoming more and more animated with each word.

Marc watched in the rearview mirror. His grip on the steering wheel tightened. The metal began to groan.

“Play nice with the other boys,” I warned, watching his jaw tense and relax.

He ignored me. Without a word, Marc opened his door and set first one foot, then the other on the concrete. He stood slowly and smoothed his black T-shirt, giving the other man a chance to realize that he lacked both the size and the build to back up his big talk. When that didn’t work, Marc took a single step forward.

The other man dove into his car, pulled the door shut, and slammed his hand down on the lock.

Satisfied, Marc nodded politely at the man, as if in greeting. The Passat pulled out of the parking lot as Marc lifted the nozzle from the pump.

Shaking my head at the near-toxic level of testosterone, I headed for the convenience store. While Marc pumped, I called Andrew from the one-man restroom, standing to avoid any contact with the filthy toilet seat.

“How ’bout pizza?” Andrew said by way of answering his phone. He never bothered to say hi, but spoke as if continuing the same ongoing conversation we’d been having for the entire four months of our relationship. I thought it was cute, but also wondered how he answered when someone else’s number showed up on his caller ID. Did he ask the guy selling magazine subscriptions whether he wanted mushrooms or pepperoni?

I glanced at my watch: 11:04 p.m. “It’s too late for dinner, and too early for a midnight snack.”

“It’s never too early for pizza.” He sounded a little stuffy, as if he had a head cold.

“You okay?” I eyed the scum-coated cinder-block walls for a spot clean enough to lean against. No such luck. “You sound a little nasal.”

“I think I’m getting a cold. It’s not affecting my appetite, though. I’m starved. I’ll pick up a large with everything. Unless you’re afraid of catching my germs.”

I smiled. “No, I don’t mind your germs.” I probably couldn’t catch them anyway. “But it’ll take you a while to get here.”

“Why, where are you?” he asked, sniffling. Over the phone, loud grunge music echoed with a reverberation apparently unique to thin apartment walls.

“Twenty miles north of Waco.”

No pause, and no questions. “Okay, but it’ll be cold by the time I get there.”

The grimy concrete seemed to absorb the sound of my laughter as soon as it left my throat. Andrew’s sense of humor was contagious. It made him very easy to be around, which had become my only prerequisite for boyfriends lately. Not that he couldn’t set the jokes aside when he needed to. But his smile was genuine, and it was always lurking on the edge of his other expressions. Talking to him never felt like work, as it did with some people. Andrew knew how to take things in stride, such as my sudden departure from campus.

I glanced at my face in the grease-streaked mirror. I looked tired, but it was probably just the thick layer of dirt. On the mirror, not on me. “I think you’ll have to eat without me tonight. And tomorrow. And maybe for the rest of the summer.”

“Why, what’s up?”

“My dad’s mad ’cause I didn’t invite my family to graduation. He threatened to yank my funds unless I spend the summer at home.”

Andrew laughed. “So the mysterious Faythe Sanders does have a family. And where is home?”

I hesitated long enough that anyone else would have commented on my reluctance to answer. Not Andrew. He never acknowledged an uncomfortable situation, unlike Marc, who wallowed in tension like pigs roll in the mud. “A ranch near the Louisiana border,” I said finally.

For years, I’d carefully avoided any conversation that might have led to questions about my childhood, because it had always been easier for me to pretend I hadn’t had one than to try to explain the Sanders family dynamic. From a human perspective, we didn’t make sense, and struggling to explain it only made things worse.

As children, humans learned to compromise, share and make friends. I learned to identify animals by scent and to stalk them without betraying my presence. While normal parents discussed political elections and spiking interest rates, mine discussed expanding territorial boundary lines and how harshly to deal with trespassers. Humans just didn’t understand my childhood, so I generally avoided the subject altogether.

Andrew coughed, but the sound was muffled, like he’d covered the mouthpiece. “So you withdrew from school?”

“Not yet.” I cringed at the very idea of withdrawing, as if my absence from school wasn’t real as long as I was still enrolled in a class. “I’ll do it over the phone tomorrow, but it’s only for the summer. I’ll be back in September. Maybe earlier. It depends on how long it takes me to talk some sense into my father.” Yeah, right. Like my father and I had ever had a sensible discussion. Or even a calm one.

“No problem. I’ll come see you during the break between summer sessions.”

My stomach lurched at the thought of introducing Andrew to my parents. And to Marc. “Um, let me talk to my dad first, okay?”

“Sure. But don’t worry, parents always like me.”

Not my parents, I thought, leaning against a sink jutting from the wall like a porcelain ledge. Not unless you’re hiding fur and claws beneath your Abercrom-bie khakis. But he wasn’t. I didn’t know every cat in the country personally, but I’d know one if I met one, and Andrew was one hundred percent certifiably human. Which, of course, was the attraction.

“I have to go now, but I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I glanced in regret at the bathroom door. If the facilities had been nicer, I might have considered staging a sit-in, in protest of being taken home against my will. But one glance at the filthy floor drove that thought right out of my head.

“Sure. I’ll give you a wake-up call before my first class,” he said. “Or do you farm girls get up with the roosters?”

“Not this farm girl,” I said. “We don’t have roosters.” Or any other livestock, for that matter.

“Good to know,” Andrew said. “I’m going to go eat now, all by myself. Talk to you tomorrow.”

I said goodbye, and my stomach growled as I hung up. I thought of Andrew’s pizza with envy. Maybe I could talk Marc into swinging by a drive-thru on the way back to the highway. But I’d probably have to say please.

Suddenly I wasn’t that hungry.

Back at the car, Marc was nowhere in sight. I was searching the glove box for a spare key when I noticed him walking toward me from the burger joint next door. He carried a grease-stained paper bag in one hand and a cardboard tray of drinks in the other.

Damn. Now I’d have to say thank-you.

“Four double cheeseburgers, extra pickles,” he said, sliding into the driver’s seat with a creak of leather. “But two of them are mine.” He dropped the bag in my lap and settled a drink into each of the cup holders in the center console.

I opened the bag and stuck my nose inside. Warm, fragrant steam engulfed my face, and my mouth watered. The meat was grilled, my preferred way to have a burger. Marc had probably chosen this particular gas station just so I could have my favorite fast food.

“Thanks,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush with guilt. Maybe he’d think it was the steam.

He almost smiled. Not quite, but almost. And his eyes practically glowed when they met mine. “So how do you manage to eat enough at school without looking like a pig?”

“The same way I did in high school.” I tore into the first cheeseburger, barely bothering to chew before I swallowed. “Carry snacks, eat on the way, then again when I get to the cafeteria. And tell everyone I’m bulimic.” I snorted, doing an uncanny impersonation of a pig, if I do say so myself.

His eyes widened for an instant. Then he laughed. The sound of pure amusement caught me off guard, and I smiled, leaning back against the headrest as I watched him. For a moment, that old familiarity crept in, like the comfort of my favorite well-worn T-shirt. Then I remembered I didn’t want to be comfortable with him, and my smile died on my lips, even as his laughter faded from my ears.

Marc watched the change in my expression with mounting disappointment. He knew what it meant. Jaw tight with tension, he slammed the car into gear, reversing in a tight arc across the empty parking lot.

I bit another chunk from my burger, staring out the windshield as he shifted into First gear. The beef, so appetizing moments earlier, was suddenly bland and difficult to swallow.

Marc snuck one more glance at my face and tore from the parking lot as if we were being chased. And we were, but you can’t outrun your own memories. Not for long, anyway.

Three

I’d fallen asleep for real by the time we got home, but the crunch of gravel and the unmistakable sway of the car on our quarter-mile-long driveway woke me. I sat up, staring out at an impressive display of stars as we pulled through the open wrought-iron gate. Marc poked at the remote clipped onto his visor, and I turned around in my seat to watch the gate close. At the top was a capital S lying on its back, as if at rest.

Ours wasn’t the only Lazy S Ranch in the country, or even in Texas, but it was the only one I knew of which housed cats instead of cattle. I’d told Andrew we didn’t keep roosters, but the truth was that we couldn’t keep them or any other livestock, because when animals smelled us, they smelled natural predators and they reacted in panic.

Years ago, in an uncharacteristic burst of optimism, my father bought a horse for my brother Owen, but it took one whiff of him and went crazy, charging the gate of its stall and running into the walls. They had to shoot the poor thing because no one could get close enough to sedate it. So, ours was a ranch in name only.

I sighed, staring through the windshield at land and outbuildings I hadn’t seen in years. Nothing had changed—at least, nothing I could identify in the dark. Waist-high grass grew in fields to the east and west of the main house, destined to become hay when the season changed. I smiled as we passed the barn in the eastern field, empty but picturesque in the moonlight with its peeling red paint and gabled roof. As a child, I’d spent entire summers playing in there, hiding from life in general and my mother in particular.

And directly ahead lay the main house, stretched across the yard like a lion at rest.

Marc parked in the circle driveway, behind the Volvo my mother hardly ever drove. I got out and looked around, glancing at the guesthouse, where Marc lived with three of my father’s other enforcers. All the lights were out. No one was home.

Gravel shifted beneath my feet as I passed the cars lining the drive, trying to identify the owners. I’d been gone a long time, having spent vacations at school for the last two years, and I could no longer say for certain what each of my brothers drove. But I could guess.

The Porsche—solid black and gleaming in the glare of the floodlights—had to be Michael’s. No one else was that ostentatious, except maybe Ryan, who would never come home voluntarily. He’d left when I was barely thirteen and wouldn’t be back, because for him, that was an option.

Ethan drove the convertible, no doubt about it. But if I needed further evidence, there was plenty to choose from in the front floorboard, littered with fast-food wrappers and empty plastic soda bottles. I grinned, staring through his driver’s-side window at the collection of CDs, ranging from nineties grunge to the latest hip-hop.

The truck, a three-quarter-ton Dodge Ram, as clean on the inside as it was dusty on the outside—that was Owen’s. I hadn’t seen this particular model, but it was close enough to the last one to make me smile. Owen was a frustrated cowboy at heart, and only he would drive a work truck.

Marc led me through the front door and into the foyer, where I turned left out of habit, surprised to find the kitchen dark and empty. Huh. Usually all the guys hung out around the tiled peninsula, snacking and talking over one another with full mouths.

“Go wait in the office,” Marc said, pointing the way as if I could possibly have forgotten. “I’ll tell your father we’re here.”

That wasn’t necessary, of course, because just as I could hear them speaking in whispers in one of the back bedrooms, I knew they could hear us. They’d probably heard the car from a mile away.

I considered arguing with Marc but couldn’t think of a good reason, so I complied. See? I could play nice when I wanted to. I just didn’t want to very often.

My shoes squeaked as I walked across the kitchen tile to the dining room, and back into the foyer. To my left, across from the front door, was a long straight hallway, dividing the house in half and ending at the back door. In front of me was my father’s office.

I crossed the hall and entered my father’s haven, savoring the darkness of a room with no windows. The air smelled like my father, like leather furniture, polished wood, and expensive coffee. To my right was a sitting area arranged around a rectangular rug: a love seat across from a couch, with Daddy’s armchair at one end, facing them both. In one corner sat a massive oak desk, covered—though not cluttered—in neat stacks of paper, notebooks and ledgers, arranged at perfect ninety-degree angles.

On one side of the desk, its flat-screen monitor turned toward the desk chair, was a state-of-the-art computer, equipped with the latest in drafting software. On the other side sat an antique lamp with a pewter base. I turned the knob on the base, and soft light washed over the room, leaving the corners thick with shadows.

Behind the desk, the glass display cabinet caught my eye, and I moved forward to examine it. My mother had ordered it for my father, to showcase his awards. I opened the right-hand door and flipped a tiny hidden switch on the end of the last shelf. Fluorescent light flickered to life inside the case, and I closed the door, pressing gently until I heard the latch click.

Each shelf was lit from above, so that the trophies and plaques shined, the words glaring almost too brightly to be read. Most were in appreciation of his charity work, but those on the top shelf were in recognition of his buildings, his best ones. My father’s buildings graced the skylines of five different U. S. cities, and in my opinion—admittedly biased—they improved the view from every angle.

Wood creaked behind me. I froze, trying to interpret the blurred reflection in the glass. Another creak as he came closer, and I smiled, in recognition and in breathless anticipation.

“You still have the sweetest ass this side of the Rio Grande.” Hot breath caressed my neck, and lips brushed my earlobe.

I spun around to find my body pinned between the glass case and someone tall, hard and tauntingly masculine. Jace. I inhaled his scent. Bar soap, fabric softener, and something meaty, maybe beef jerky. But under those was something more, something wild, and pungent, that woke up my instincts and made my heartbeat echo in my throat. It made me crave things my human form couldn’t accommodate, things my brain couldn’t even articulate, but my heart and my nose recognized instantly.

I tilted my face up to look at him. “What about the other side?”

He grinned, showing two rows of perfect white teeth, framed by lips that would have been wasted on mere speech. “I’ve never been south of the river, but I bet you could hold your own down there, too.” Jace bent his face toward my ear. I closed my eyes as he sniffed the length of my neck, trailing the tip of his tongue along my skin as he came back up. I shivered and gasped, and he responded with a moan as he pressed his hips against mine, nipping the flesh at the base of my neck.

“Get off my sister.”

Jace hissed in my ear, and cool air brushed my stomach where his body had been a second earlier. I opened my eyes. My brother Michael stood in front of me, holding Jace at arm’s length by the back of his neck.

“I was only saying hello,” Jace purred, his lazy smile still aimed at me.

“Do it without your tongue.” Michael enunciated each word carefully and slowly to make sure he was understood. He shoved Jace to one side, a little too hard to be playful.

Jace stumbled, catching himself on the edge of Daddy’s desk. “If I were Marc you’d let me greet her properly,” he said, a hint of resentment in his voice.

“There was nothing proper about that.” Michael frowned, but I glimpsed amusement behind his stern, I-mean-business face. “And if you were Marc, she’d have tossed you off herself. But you’re not Marc.”

“If I were, she wouldn’t have left us in the first place.” He turned his back on us both, slinking to the door with a fluid grace no human could have duplicated.

I blushed, thinking of the carnal promise in his casual words. No one else would have gotten away with such a comment, much less the intimate greeting, but I took a lot from Jace that would have lost anyone else an ear. Or worse. Jace got away with it because I secretly suspected he was right, that his body could really do what his teasing kisses and caresses hinted at. And because he’d never really tried. Our relationship had always been fundamentally platonic, a safe zone for playful flirting, which Michael either couldn’t or wouldn’t understand.

High heels clicked briskly on the tiles in the hallway, and I turned toward the door, steeling myself to face my mother. She stepped into the office, pausing for effect in the doorway as she spread her arms in greeting. “Faythe, we’re so glad to finally have you home.” As if I’d returned for a friendly visit, instead of for a command appearance.

My mother looked exactly as I remembered, down to her gray pageboy and charcoal-colored slacks. She had a closet full of them, hanging right next to a collection of novelty kitchen aprons, printed with not-so-funny sayings, like “I’d give you the recipe, but then I’d have to kill you.”

She came toward me, pausing almost imperceptibly when she realized I wasn’t going to rush forward to meet her. Michael and Jace stepped back, making way for my mother, a tiny life raft of estrogen bobbing amongst the waves of testosterone.

She hugged me, her embrace bringing with it the scent of homemade cookies, with cinnamon and nutmeg. Who cooks with nutmeg in the middle of the summer? Only my pretty-kitty version of a mother, a remnant of the June Cleaver days of intact families and repressed emotions.

Over her shoulder, I watched Marc come in, followed by my father, who pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to polish the lenses of his glasses while he waited patiently for my mother let me go. Daddy was always the last man to enter any room, so he could take charge of everyone all at once. Tall, and still firm at fifty-six, my father commanded respect everywhere he went, and it was all innate. He could never have explained why people did what he wanted, but his authority was undeniable, and unless I was at home, unquestioned.

I frowned at him, preparing to argue my case. “Daddy, what—?”

He smiled, cutting me off with a wave of one thick hand. “Give me a hug first, before we let business get in the way of family.”

I hugged him, but was bothered by his statement, because the business was family. Always. No matter how much he loved creating beautiful buildings, and how many days a year it took him away from home, his true passion—his life’s calling—was the Pride. We were his family, some by blood and others, like Jace and Marc, by association and employment.

Daddy released me, leaving one heavy hand on my shoulder as he turned to Jace. “Go unload Marc’s car, please, and let everyone know the prodigal daughter has returned.”

Again, this was unnecessary; everyone knew I was home. It was just Daddy’s polite way of getting rid of Jace. I took it as a good sign. If my father had been mad or upset, he wouldn’t have bothered with tact. He’d have merely started shouting orders.

Jace nodded and left without complaint. Marc closed the solid oak door behind him, cutting off the masculine buzz of conversation coming from the back of the house.

Suddenly nervous, I wiped sweat from my palms on my pants. I’d never been comfortable in Daddy’s office when the door was closed. Unlike the rest of the house, the walls of the office were made of solid concrete, which made them virtually soundproof, even for us. At least in human form. Most families use rooms like that as an indoor tornado shelter, or as safe rooms in case of home invasions. My father used it for privacy, a hot commodity in a house full of people gifted with a cat’s hearing.

Marc leaned against the door frame with his hands in his pockets, apparently relaxed. I wasn’t fooled. Daddy hadn’t forgotten to post a guard at the door since the summer I turned eighteen, and considering how long it took them to find me that time, he probably never would again.

My mother sat on the leather love seat, patting the cushion next to her—not for me, but for Michael. He glanced at me for a moment before sitting, and I couldn’t resist a tiny smile. Michael was what you’d get if you mixed a Chippendale dancer with a Law Review editor: a handsome face crowning an athlete’s body, all dressed up in a hand-tailored suit, with silver, wire-rimmed glasses added for effect. Seriously. His vision was better than perfect, but he thought he looked more like an attorney in the spectacles. And maybe more like our father, who’d been fitted with prescription lenses three years earlier.

Daddy sat in his armchair, where he could see everyone. And they all stared at me.

Shrugging, I plopped down on the couch, all alone. I glanced back at Marc, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. Once again, it was me against the world. Or at least against the Pride, which, unfortunately, was my world.

I took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then let it out all at once. Time to get it over with. “So, tell me about Sara.”

“We don’t know much yet,” my mother said, crossing one ankle over the other. “She went shopping in downtown Atlanta, and never came back. Your father sent Vic home to help with the search, and he’s promised to keep us informed.” Vic was Sara’s brother, and one of my father’s enforcers.

“That’s it?” I ignored my mother and frowned at my father. That couldn’t be all they knew.

“So far.” Daddy nodded, and I noticed absently that the gray streaks at his temples had broadened since I’d seen him last. “From the credit card bills, they know where she actually made purchases, and her brothers have been in all the stores, discreetly questioning the salespeople. Most of the clerks remembered her, but no one saw anything unusual. Bert has his men out looking, but so far they haven’t found anything.”

Bert was Umberto Di Carlo, Sara’s father, Alpha of one of the neighboring territories. And one of my father’s closest friends.

“How long has she been gone?” I asked.

“Since the night before last.”

“I assume they’ve questioned Sean.”

Daddy shook his head.

“No one can find him,” Marc added, and I twisted around to look at him. “He was staying near Chattanooga, right outside the southeast territory, but now his apartment’s empty. The landlord said he moved out a couple of weeks ago.”

I shrugged, turning back to face Michael and my parents. “So, what are we going to do?”

“Nothing.” Disapproval traced deep lines on my father’s face; I was intimately familiar with that expression. “Bert hasn’t asked for our help. We only have details because Vic called last night.”

I frowned at my father. “If we’re not going to help, why drag me home from school?” Silence greeted my question, and I glanced from face to face, anger building in a slow, hot crescendo. My mother looked away, but Michael stared right at me.

“What would you suggest?” he asked, narrowed eyes daring me to answer. “You want us to go in uninvited?”

Did I?

Bert and Donna Di Carlo controlled the southeast territory, encompassing everything east of the Tombigbee River in Alabama, and south of the Tennessee River and the southern edge of the Smokies. My father was Alpha of the south-central territory, which was south of the Missouri River and east of the Rockies, running all the way to the Mississippi. The unclaimed portion of Mississippi between the two territories was considered free range, where strays and wildcats of any lineage could live and run without having to secure permission.

My father and Umberto Di Carlo were friends—very old friends. But in the werecat community, even the strongest of friendships was defined by strictly observed boundaries, both geographical and personal. Breaching a territorial boundary, even with an offer of assistance, would do more harm than good, because the Di Carlos—and likely the rest of the werecat community—would see it as an insult. Our interference would undermine Umberto’s authority and call his leadership into question. We might as well announce to the world that we don’t think the southeast Pride can handle its own problems. No Alpha could afford to let such an insult go unpunished.

Did I want my father to breach another Pride’s territorial boundaries and risk breaking the peace, just to reassure me that everything possible was being done? Just so I could return to my life as soon as possible?

Hmm. Tough call.

Though my father was clearly disappointed by Umberto’s failure to seek his aid and advice, without being invited to help, he would take no action. Our boundaries were older than the U. S. Constitution and written in stone—almost literally, in the case of several mountain ranges.

According to tradition, werecats preceded the European colonists to the new world by several hundred years. Of course, we migrated on foot from the jungles of South America, rather than crossing the Atlantic by boat. Out of instinct, we formed territories, and out of necessity those territories overlapped areas occupied by the already-native humans. As is often the case with human boundaries, our borders followed naturally occurring lines of division: mountain ranges, rivers and large lakes.

Over the centuries, our boundary lines shifted slightly along with the evolving landscape, but they remain much as they were originally. Those lines are the basis for the fragile structure which keeps us civilized. To preserve that civilization, Daddy would not breach a territorial boundary line without permission for anything, even a missing daughter.

I turned back to my father, preparing to state my case. “If there’s nothing we can do, let me go back to school. The term just started.”

His frown was impenetrable. “You’re not going back until we’re sure you’re safe.”

“I am safe,” I said through clenched jaws, praying Marc hadn’t already told him about the stray on campus. Yes, my father would find out eventually; there was no stopping that. But hopefully he wouldn’t find out until I was back on campus and out of the direct line of fire.

“Sean took her,” I continued. “He’s mad because she accepted Kyle’s proposal, and he’s either trying to change her mind, or get back at her.” Like most tabbies, Sara’d had several suitors to choose from when her parents decided it was time for her to marry. Unfortunately, one of those she turned down hadn’t taken the news very well. Sean had thrown an embarrassing public fit, then left the territory in protest. “It’s horrible, and scary, and infuriating. But it has nothing to do with me.”

I was starting to panic at the idea of sitting home all summer with nothing to occupy my time but chaperoned runs into town for groceries. If I was lucky. I’d been free far too long to ever go back to the way things used to be.

“Faythe, give it a rest,” Marc said. Everyone turned to look at him, including me. I stared at him, begging him with my eyes to keep his mouth shut. As usual, he ignored me. “You know it wasn’t Sean.”

“How would she know that?” My father’s voice was deep with anger. He clearly realized he’d been kept out of the loop.

I watched Marc, still pleading with him silently to keep his mouth shut. Just this once. Daddy would never let me out of his sight if he knew.

Marc gave me the slightest shake of his head. “A stray tried to grab her on campus.”

“Yeah, but I kicked his trespassing ass!” I whirled around to face my father.

“Faythe!” my mother cried, horrified more by my language than by what had actually happened.

“What? It’s true. Tell them, Marc,” I demanded, turning on him angrily. “I can take care of myself.”

Marc shrugged. And he conveniently forgot to mention where he was while I was kicking serious ass. I briefly considered ratting him out, as he’d done to me, but decided my secret might be worth more to him down the line.

“You’re not leaving,” Daddy said, completely unmoved by the news of my first victory in battle.

“The hell I’m not.” I clenched my hands together in my lap to keep them from curling into fists, which he would see as a sign of aggression. “I’m never alone anyway, so what does it matter? I know you have the guys watching me, even though you promised me privacy. I’m just not sure whether it’s to protect me or to spy on me.”

“Faythe, your tone is unacceptable.” My mother never raised her voice, because she never needed to. Until I came along, it had apparently never occurred to anyone to disobey. As children, my brothers were typically loud and raucous, managing to find trouble in the most benign places, but none of them ever thought to openly defy either of our parents. No, rebellion was my sole territory to explore, and I’d pushed the very limits of what would be endured.

“That’s old news, Mom.” Claustrophobia constricted my throat at the very thought of being confined to the ranch for an unknown period of time. “I’m old enough to vote, I’m old enough to drink, and I’m damn well old enough to make my own decisions. And I’ve decided to go back to school.”

My father nodded to Marc, who stepped in front of the door and leaned against it, both arms crossed over his chest. It would take a bulldozer to move him, and heavy machinery I was not. “Don’t make threats, Faythe,” Daddy said. “We’re only trying to protect you.”

One look at his face told me things were going downhill. Fast. If I couldn’t keep my cool, I’d wind up stuck in my room until I was thirty. “I’m not making threats, Daddy. I swear I’m not. But I truly don’t need your protection. I proved that tonight.”

My father sighed and met my eyes. “I know you think you can take care of yourself, and I think that with a little more training, you just may be right. If you’d like to take advantage of this opportunity to get in some more practice with the guys, I’m sure they’d all be happy to oblige. But you are not going back to school. At least not now.”

Furious at being patronized, I stood, and so did my father. He stared behind me at Marc and nodded again. They thought I was going to run and were prepared to stop me. Wonderful. “How long?” I asked, trying to keep defeat from my voice. It was too late for my face.

“Until they find Sara and whoever took her. You can speed up the process by giving us a description.”

“Get it from Marc,” I snapped, daring him to admit he’d barely seen the stray.

I took a step forward, and Michael stood, preparing to stop me. I rolled my eyes. “Relax, I’m just going to my room. Otherwise known as my prison cell.”

He glanced at my father. Daddy nodded, and Michael sat back down.

Spine stiff and chin high, I marched toward the guarded exit. Marc averted his eyes as he held the door for me, but I could feel his gaze on my back as I plodded down the hall.

In my room, I slammed the door and leaned against it, my eyes roaming walls I hadn’t seen in years. I crossed the floor in an instant, using speed I hadn’t had the nerve to display in front of my father. When I pressed the power button on my stereo, music blared to life through speakers Marc had mounted for me on my seventeenth birthday. My hand hovered over the volume knob as I considered turning it down. But then footsteps clomped down the hall outside my door. I turned the music up instead and flopped down on my stomach on the bed.

Welcome home, Faythe, I thought, eyeing the brand-new security bars on my window. For now.

Four

A soft scratching sound came from the hallway. I rolled onto my back, staring at the door. The scratching came again, and I sat up on the bed, sniffing the air. My nose works much better in cat form, but even on two legs I could identify each of my brothers’ scents.

“Go away, Ethan,” I yelled, not bothering to screen irritation from my voice. My misery didn’t want company.

The knob turned, as I’d known it would, and I leapt to my feet as the door swung open. A dark head appeared in the gap, and I found myself looking into eyes barely a shade greener than my own. “Damn it, Ethan!” I propped both hands on my hips, in unconscious imitation of my mother’s angry stance. “You can’t waltz in here anytime you want, just because my door doesn’t lock.” Daddy had snapped the lock the time I shut myself in and tried to sneak out the window. And he’d steadfastly refused to replace it.

“I didn’t waltz. And I’m not technically in.” Ethan leaned against the door frame, naked from the waist up, a half-eaten Granny Smith apple in one hand. He wore his typical lopsided grin, the one that said nothing in the world could ever really bother him. When we were kids, his inescapable optimism had frayed my nerves, but now I found myself welcoming that distinctive smile with one of my own. I couldn’t help it. His attitude was contagious.

“You still mad, or can I have a hug?” he asked. I shrugged. It wasn’t his fault Marc had dragged me home.

Ethan set his apple on my dresser, and before I could blink he’d enveloped me in his long arms, my cheek resting on a chest smooth enough to be mistaken for a boy’s, if not for an obviously mature physique. And it wasn’t just his chest. Ethan was two years older than I was, but you couldn’t tell it from his cherubic face, all dimples, wide eyes, and long, gorgeous lashes.

He squeezed just a bit too hard, to show me how much I’d been missed. Then he swung me in a complete circle as I squealed, taking me back to my childhood, when I’d spent every summer tagging along behind him and Jace, just in case they decided to let me play.

He set me gently on the floor, then plopped down on my bed and leaned back, propping himself up on his elbows. The pose was familiar enough to send a pang of nostalgia ringing through me. As children, we’d spent hours sprawled across my bed, making fun of Michael’s latest girlfriend and laughing at Owen’s most recent attempt to sneak a terrified pet past our mother.

“So,” he said, still grinning. “Got your escape planned yet?”

“Like I’d tell you if I did.” I curled up at the head of the bed and pulled a small, frilly pillow into my lap. It was one of those worthless, decorative things that do nothing but get in the way. My mother bought it, assuming I’d like it because I had ovaries. She was right, but for the wrong reason. I used it when I needed something to punch.

“You think I’d rat you out?” Ethan asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“I know you would. That’s your job.” He didn’t deny it, and I couldn’t work up any real indignation. Trying to hold a grudge against Ethan was like trying to catch a fish with your bare hands. Not impossible, but damn near.

A soft shuffling sound from the doorway drew my attention. At the threshold stood Owen, my third brother. He was just tall enough that a chunk of his perpetually tousled hair brushed the top of the door frame. Dark eyes met mine and a smile spread across his face, slow and sweet as his Texas drawl. “Hey, sis, I heard you were home.”

“Owen!” I crawled off the bed, tossing the pillow aside, and ran toward him. He met me in the middle of the room, scooping me up into a hug to shame all others, the kind that pops your spine and steals your breath, all in the name of brotherly love. Owen was our resident farm boy, cowboy hat and all. He smelled like the land, like dirt, fresh water and hard work. His jeans were torn and permanently stained, which meant he hadn’t changed out of his work clothes yet. But then, he hardly ever did. Or, more accurately, he hardly ever stopped working, which eventually turned all his clothes into work clothes.

“Aren’t they feedin’ you up there?” he asked, holding me at arm’s length for a better view. “You’re lookin’ kinda skinny.”

“She looks good to me,” Jace said from the doorway. He dropped my suitcase on the floor and snatched Ethan’s apple from the dresser. Grinning, he took a big bite and sank backward into my desk chair, his arms crossed over the arched back.

“She is thin.” Ethan sat up to scratch one tanned shoulder. “But it wouldn’t be quite so noticeable if you’d wear actual clothes, Faythe.”

“I am wearing actual clothes.” I glanced down at myself, trying not to see his point. Okay, maybe my shirt was a little low cut. And tight. And my jeans didn’t quite reach my belly button, but that’s how everyone on campus dressed in the summer. We lived in Texas, for crying out loud. It was hot. “Besides, it’s not like you have any room to talk,” I said, eyeing his bare chest.

He shrugged, as if to say he didn’t make up the rules. “It’s different for guys.”

A double standard. Shocking, really.

“Leave her alone before you scare her off again,” Owen drawled. “You know how sensitive women can be about their clothes.” He put his arm around my waist and squeezed me affectionately, a gesture as smooth and gentle as his temperament.

“She’s no woman, she’s our sister,” Ethan said. I twisted in Owen’s embrace to stick my tongue out at him. Ethan reciprocated and moved to sit on the edge of my bed, feet brushing the thick taupe carpet.

“She’s not my sister,” Jace said around a mouthful of half-chewed apple. His easy grin spoke of casual teasing, but his eyes met mine with enough heat to make me pause with uncertainty for a moment before replying.

I smiled to soften the coming blow. “I’m not your anything.”

“Ouch!” He leaned back against the desk with one hand over his heart, covering an imaginary wound. Then his smile reached his eyes, and he took another bite of the apple. Clearly I’d dealt him a fatal blow.

Owen hugged me one more time, brushing the top of my head with his chin full of prickly stubble, then let me go, backing up to lean against my wall. On the radio, the first notes of “Miss Independent” played, and I smiled at the irony of listening to it from inside my tumbleweed prison. Lucky bitch, I thought, turning it up to give my father every opportunity to hear the song through the walls.

I sank onto the bed next to Ethan and leaned my head against his bare shoulder. “What’s this about you fighting a stray at school?” he asked, draping one arm around my waist. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s not ladylike to pick on boys?”

Had she ever. “It was nothing. Just a scuffle.”

Jace tossed the apple into the air and caught it behind his back. “Marc thinks it was the same guy who took Sara.”

Like he’d know, I thought. But what I said was, “Couldn’t have been. He was too easily frightened. It was just some asshole intruder looking for a little excitement.”

“Sounds like he found it.” Owen drawled.

I grinned. “Damn right.”

“Looks like you found a little too,” Jace said, his gaze focused on my stomach.

Shrugging out from under Ethan’s arm, I looked down at the gap between the hem of my shirt and the waist of my jeans. An amorphous purple blob had taken shape on my left side, over the lowest of my ribs. “Beautiful,” I said, standing to get a better view in the mirror. “Just lovely.” It hadn’t looked anywhere near that bad when I’d left campus. Sammi hadn’t even noticed.

“Where’s everyone else?” I asked, tugging my shirt down to hide the bruise as I sank back onto the bed.

“Vic’s out looking for Sara,” Jace said. He tossed the apple core into my trash can and held both fists up in victory. I rolled my eyes. Guys may get bigger, but they never really grow up.

“Yeah, I heard.” I pulled away from Ethan, rolling my head on my shoulders, trying to ease the tension that had been building since the moment I’d smelled the stray on campus. It didn’t work, but it did give me a pretty good crick in my neck. “What about Parker?”

“He’s around,” Ethan said. “Marc has him out playing foot soldier.”

“On our own property?” My eyebrows arched in surprise as I rubbed my neck. Then the implication sank in, and my hand fell into my lap, my discomfort temporarily forgotten. “Daddy must be really spooked by all this.”

Ethan and Owen exchanged looks, but I wasn’t fast enough to interpret them before their expressions were gone. Something else was up, but they weren’t talking. Wonderful. I hate secrets I’m not in on.

“We better go,” Owen said, shooting Ethan a stern look. “We’re supposed to help Parker.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ethan mumbled, pulling himself off the bed with one hand wrapped around the corner post.

Owen slapped him on the shoulder and shoved him toward the door, turning back to look at me from the threshold. “We’re going huntin’ later, if you wanna come.”

“We’ll see,” I said, careful not to commit myself. I loved hunting, and he knew it. But if I appeared too eager to go, they might think I was glad to be home, and I certainly couldn’t have a dangerous rumor like that floating around unchecked.

Owen gave me a leisurely, knowing smile and disappeared into the hallway. I listened until I heard the back door slam shut, then turned to look at Jace.

He smiled back at me from my desk chair, showing no inclination to leave. Big surprise. I considered kicking him out so I could pout in private, but then he turned those bright blue eyes on me—the playful sparkle mingling seamlessly with a hint of that earlier heat—and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kick him out and watch the light fade from his eyes.

Instead, I returned his smile, running my hand over the bed to smooth out wrinkles I didn’t really mind in the first place.

Jace leaned back in my desk chair, his Kentucky Wildcats T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders. He was descended from the original Kentucky wildcat, which, of course, was more than just a mascot. “Don’t be mad at me,” he said. “None of this was my idea.”

“I know.” I tilted my head to the left, still trying to work out the muscle cramp. “You can stay. Until you start to bore me.”

“Why, thank you, Your Highness.” He stood to perform a deep, highly sarcastic bow. But instead of returning to the chair, he sat down behind me on the bed, brushing my hand away from my neck. Careful not to tug, he gathered my hair and laid it over my shoulder, then began massaging my neck at the base of my skull.

His touch was firm and warm, and his fingers moved with confidence, seeking the tensest muscles. I moaned with relief, then stiffened and flushed from embarrassment. Jace only laughed and rubbed harder until I relaxed again.

“So, how ya doin’, kid?” he asked, moving down to work on my shoulders.

“Not too bad, for a prisoner.”

He chuckled, sounding distinctly unsympathetic. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

“You could be a hostage.”

I huffed, plucking imaginary fuzz from my comforter as he moved lower, kneading the muscles between my shoulder blades through the thin cotton of my shirt. “At least a hostage has hope of a ransom.”

His hands hesitated for a moment, his breath stirring my hair as he sighed. “Your dad’s only trying to do what’s best.”

“For whom?” I pulled away, turning to half face him.

“For everyone.”

“What’s good for the gander isn’t always good for the goose, Jace,” I said, resorting to a mutilated cliché. It didn’t help. He couldn’t understand. Tomcats were immune to my particular plight, a fact I’d envied all of my adult life.

“You’re not poultry,” Jace said, grinning as he brushed a strand of hair from my shoulder. “And anyway, after everything that’s happened the last couple of days, you have to admit us watching out for you was a good idea.”

“The hell it was.” I beat Jace over the head with that stupid fancy pillow as I spoke, punctuating each word with another harmless blow, even when he brought his arms up in defense. “I…watched… out…for…my… self.” After one final whack, I dropped the pillow into my lap and sat frowning at Jace. “Marc wasn’t even there. But don’t you dare tell Daddy. I’m getting ready to try my hand at blackmail.”

“A new hobby? What, you get tired of the disappearing act?”

“Funny.” I smacked him one last time with the pillow. “But I’m not kidding. He has no right interfering in my life. For that matter, neither does my father.”

Jace’s grin faded slowly. “My father died when I was three, and my stepfather never gave me anything but a hard time. Your dad gave you five years of freedom. Why isn’t that enough?” With nothing appropriate left to rub, his hands settled aimlessly into his lap, and I stared at them to avoid seeing the dejected look in his eyes. He was taking it too personally. It wasn’t like I’d left him in particular.

“Because my life isn’t his to give,” I said, my words clipped short in frustration. “It’s mine, and I should be able to do whatever I want with it.” Why is that so hard for everyone else to understand?

Jace shrugged. “So, what do you want to do with your life?”

My hand clenched around a handful of my comforter. “I don’t know yet.”

Instead of laughing, he nodded as if he understood. He probably did. If Jace had any long-term goals, surely he wouldn’t have still been working for my father.

He ran a hand through his straight, light brown hair, and my eyes tracked the movement automatically. “Your dad never sent Marc, you know. He could have, but he didn’t.”

“Until today.” I tried not to pout. I really did, knowing I’d never be accepted as an adult as long as I acted like a child. But old habits really do die hard.

“Today’s different.”

“No, today’s the same.” I straightened out of my slouch, drawing his gaze up with me. “It’s the same as tomorrow will be, and the next day. It’s the same as it was when I left.”

“Not quite,” he said, and the grin was back. He shifted into a more comfortable position, wrinkling my comforter, and leaned forward, blue eyes gleaming. “You’re out of practice now.”

Out of practice? A slow smile spread across my face. He wanted to run.

“Is that a challenge?” My pulse quickened at the thought of a race, my heart already preparing to increase the blood flow to my muscles. I leaned forward in anticipation, my breath coming fast and shallow. My aggravation was gone, overwhelmed by my love of the chase.

“It’s a fact.” Jace’s eyes sparkled as he edged subtly toward the side of the bed. “There’s no way you could have kept in shape up there, with nowhere to stretch your legs.”

I flashed him a smile, brazen and cocky. “You’d be surprised.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’d be astonished.”

“To the tree line?” I asked, and he nodded. “Let’s go.” Pulling the barrette from my hair, I hopped onto the floor, kicking off my shoes one at a time. I was already halfway to the hall when Jace tackled me from behind. My knees and elbows hit the carpet with a rapid series of thuds. He fell on top of me, pinning me to the floor on my stomach, his body stretched the length of mine.

My breath whooshed from my lungs, and I struggled to replace it for a long moment, until Jace realized the problem. He propped himself up with one elbow, giving me just enough room to breathe. Irritation blossomed, and I opened my mouth to demand that he get up. But my words were forgotten at the first tentative brush of his fingers against my bare skin.

Jace and I had always enjoyed a very casual physical relationship, trading chaste smooches and the occasional rump pinch with no more significance than a hug from a brother, which he practically was. However, this was a new kind of touch, different even than his boldly seductive greeting in Daddy’s office. Before, he’d acted with confidence, almost arrogant in his certainty that I enjoyed his attention. But now he was hesitant, his touch featherlight and slow, as if he expected me to stop him at any moment.

I probably should have.

“No head start for you,” he whispered, running one hand over my hip and up my side. His fingers tickled, sending promising shivers all over me. I squirmed beneath him and heard his breath catch.

“I don’t need a head start,” I breathed, my cheek pressed into the floor. His stomach was warm against the curve of my lower back, bare between the seam of my shirt and the low waist of my jeans. On the radio, a new tune played, intense, and heavy on guitar and drums. My heart raced along with its rhythm, and my legs ached to run. But instead of glorying in the freedom of speed, I was trapped, immobile. “I’ve always been faster than you, and a few years with limited practice time isn’t enough to give you an advantage.” I twisted my neck, trying to see him. “Besides, you can’t run while you’re holding me down.”

His fingers eased beneath the edge of my top, brushing the sensitive skin over my ribs and beneath my breast. I gasped, fascinated by the curiously delicate sensation and my own conflicting impulses. One was to fight, to claw at the carpet in a bid for freedom. But the other was to lie still in anticipation of what might come next. Because whatever it was, knowing Jace, it would be good.

Okay, maybe today was a little different after all, I thought, more puzzled by my body’s reaction to him than by anything he’d done.

“I’m just slowing you down to give the guys a chance,” he whispered into my ear.

I froze, listening, and heard laughter and footsteps coming from the backyard. They were already heading for the trees.

Damn it! How could I have forgotten? As teenagers, Ethan and Owen had taken turns “delaying” me by tripping me or distracting me through even less honorable means. Apparently they’d now recruited Jace to do their dirty work. If I couldn’t get out from under him, they would start the hunt without me.

Fueled by impatience and mounting aggravation, I bucked, trying to throw him off, but he rode me with ease. I couldn’t help being a little impressed, in spite of my frustration. I hadn’t been near another cat in ages and had forgotten how good our balance really was. “Whatever liberties you take now, you’ll pay for outside,” I panted, winded by my own struggle.

“Oooh,” he purred, his nose skimming the surface of my skin. “Say that again.” His fingers brushed the wire edge of my bra cup, but went no farther.

“You’re all talk,” I said, trying not to squirm. But my voice was throatier than I’d intended, and the hitch in his breath told me he’d noticed.

“Is that a challenge?”

“It’s a fact.” I threw his own words back at him, and he laughed, his body shaking against me.

“How ’bout a bet?”

“You’ll lose,” I warned, still listening for the others. I could barely hear them now; they’d already disappeared into the trees, their laughter blending into the chorus of sounds that defined the night. And as interesting as Jace’s distraction was proving to be, I was eager to join the hunt.

“Maybe,” he said. “But if I don’t, you owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

His voice deepened, and he grew still against me. “The chance to prove I’m not all talk.”

Five

My heart thumped in surprise, accompanied by a tiny, treacherous spark of curiosity. I’d expected him to ask for something typically lecherous—like me washing his car in a tiny bikini—but I was completely unprepared for his actual request. I was tempted to laugh it off as a joke.

But Jace wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even breathing. He lay on top of me, heavy and completely motionless, his pulse racing as he waited for my answer.

I strained again to look at him over my shoulder, trying to see if he was serious. Surely he was only teasing. But no matter how I twisted, I couldn’t see his face. I saw dust bunnies under my desk and the edge of a long-lost CD case jutting out from beneath my dresser. But all I could see of Jace was his shadow, stretching in front of me and into the hall through the open doorway.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, soft lips brushing my ear again. “Afraid you’re going to lose?”

Was I? I’d never lost a race to him, but I’d never bet on one either. And my body was a high price to pay for a stumble at the wrong time. But if I won… My reward would have to be huge to match the one he’d named. I could ask for practically anything.

Did he have anything I wanted?

An inkling of an idea formed in my head. I smiled, my decision made. Jace didn’t know it, but he’d just given me an opportunity I couldn’t pass up—assuming I won. And if I lost? I’d worry about that when and if the time came.

“What do I get if I win?” I asked.

Jace purred in anticipation, trailing a finger slowly across my neck as he brushed back a strand of hair. “Anything you want. Name it.”

“First, let me up.”

He started to get up, then hesitated, considering. “Promise you won’t bolt?”

“I don’t make promises.” Anymore, I amended silently.

Jace chuckled. “Glad I asked.” He wrapped one hand around my right wrist, holding tight as he got to his knees, in case I made a dash for the hall. Pulling my arm forward with him, he knee-walked three steps to the door and swung it shut, then sat down and leaned against it, pulling me toward him by the arm he held captive.

I let Jace tug me down into his lap, my back resting against his chest. He moved my hair to one side and propped his chin on my shoulder, making a small sound of contentment deep in his throat. “So, what am I wagering?” he asked, wrapping his arms around my waist.

Okay. No big deal, I thought. I’ve been in his lap before. We’d wrestled on mats in the basement and fallen asleep on the couch watching old horror movies. We’d even shared a sleeping bag once, on a camping trip. This was just more of the same. Friendly cuddling. Riiight.

I took a deep breath and held it, preparing to set my newly hatched escape plan in motion. “I want you to take my side. Convince Daddy to let me go back to school.”

Jace stiffened against me, lifting his chin from my shoulder. The back of his head thunked against the door. “Faythe…you know I can’t do that.” His arms were gone, as was the heat in his voice, drenched by the cold wash of reality.

I smiled, glad he couldn’t see my face. Ask for the impossible, then settle instead for what you really wanted in the first place. My father had taught me that lesson years ago. He probably never suspected I’d put it to good use.

“Are you afraid?” I asked, daring Jace to say yes and own up to a weakness.

“Of you or your father?”

I laughed. Good question. “Of losing.”

“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate. “Pick something else, anything you want. But I can’t go against orders.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“It’s the same thing.” His tone pleaded with me to understand. “I swore myself to him.”

I nodded, and his arms snaked around my waist again, a gesture of relief that I’d accepted his decision. I’d counted on him saying no, and he hadn’t disappointed me.

Like all adopted Pride members, Jace had sworn allegiance to my father when he joined the Pride, and again when he became an enforcer shortly before I left for college. Any violation of his oath would end his association with the south-central Pride, and without endorsement or acceptance from another Alpha, he would not be welcomed into any of the others. He would become a wildcat—a natural-born werecat who either left his birth Pride or was exiled from it, usually for the commission of a crime. Such as breaking an oath of allegiance.

Wildcats have no recognized territory, no companionship, and no protection. They are vulnerable and alone. Wildcats are rare, because unlike the adolescent-rebellion version of freedom I’d claimed—the kind where Daddy still paid my tuition and rent—true independence is difficult to achieve in total social seclusion. Isolation from the Pride is most tomcats’ worst fear, and Jace was no exception.

I sighed for effect, and my eyes roamed my room as I pretended to try to think of an alternate prize, something worth risking my body for. After passing over my desk, bed, and dresser, my gaze settled on an old family photograph hanging on the wall. It was the last we’d ever taken. In it, a thirteen year-old version of me stood between Ryan and Owen, looking shinier and happier than I remembered ever actually being. After Ryan left, my mother refused to pose for another family picture. She took his absence very personally. I think she felt guilty for something I didn’t understand.

Ryan was one of those rare toms who wanted independence badly enough to leave the security of Pride life for the freedom of an existence with no supreme authority figure. He considered the rewards to be worth the risks, and more often than not, I thought he was right. But not Jace. He’d known since before his tenth birthday that he wanted to serve my father, if for no other reason than to be near Ethan, who would never consider leaving. Ethan and Jace were two halves of the same coin, and as such, could not be separated. Even by me.

Jace had sworn his oath to my father, but he kept it for Ethan.

Leaning my head against his chest, I took another deep breath, as if an idea had just occurred to me. “Fine, if I win, I get your keys.”

“My house keys?”

I tilted my face up, rubbing my cheek against his shirt as I tried to look at him. “No, Jace. Your car keys.”

“Why do you want—?” He stopped, shaking his head in sudden understanding. “No. I can’t help you run away again.”

“You wouldn’t be.” I removed his arms from my waist gently and turned around to sit facing him, still encircled by his long legs. “I’d say I took the keys. All you’d have to do is leave them lying around where I could grab them.”

From the hall came the creak of hinges and the whisper of wood sliding across carpet. Someone had just opened a door, probably to better hear our conversation. I tensed, listening for some sound with which to identify the eavesdropper, but heard only the quiet, steady rhythm of Jace breathing as he considered my proposal. If he heard the door open, he gave no sign.

I was a little surprised by how sincerely he considered my request. I could almost hear the argument between the devil atop one of his shoulders and the angel hovering over the other. As an enforcer, Jace took his vow to my father very seriously, and for him to even consider endangering his connection to the Pride meant that he wanted…what he wanted from me very, very badly. That realization was almost enough to make me reconsider my plan. Involving emotions added a dangerous edge to our little game. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. I just wanted a little liberty.

“We’d catch you,” he said finally, meeting my eyes as he brushed a strand of hair from my face with warm fingertips. “You know we would.”

His words faded into silence for a moment, as I debated how to answer in front of the secret listener. In the end, I decided it didn’t matter. Daddy was the only person I was worried about, and he was above spying, even on me. “Yeah, but I might get a long weekend out of it.” I smiled up at Jace. “And even if I don’t, I’ll be making a statement.”

He snorted. “Saying what, that you’re stupid, or just plain crazy?”

“That I’m an adult.”

“You want to prove you’re an adult by stealing my car for a joyride?”

I sighed. He would never understand, but at least he listened, unlike the others. “I’ll take what I can get. What are you driving these days, anyway?”

“A Pathfinder, and it’s new.”

“Great, so we’re on?”

He hesitated, searching my eyes, and I used the opportunity to practice my innocent look. He smiled. It was working. He was going to say yes. I knew it. And finally he nodded. Yes!

“You’d better come through if I win,” he said, his hand just above my elbow.

“About that…” I tugged on the hem of my shirt, avoiding his eyes.

He took my chin in one hand, lifting my face until I had to look at him. “Backing out already?” His tone was casual, but again his eyes didn’t match. He was disappointed and trying to hide it.

“No.” I jerked my chin from his grasp. “I’m not backing out. Just…clarifying.” But man, I didn’t want to clarify, because that meant stating out loud what I was agreeing to, which would make it official, with no room to wiggle out of my promise. And I just couldn’t look at him while I promised to sleep with him.

I’d never considered myself shy until that moment, but our wager had made me reconsider several things, including Jace himself.

“Okay, clarify away,” he said, running his hand slowly up and down my bare arm. Goose bumps popped up all over, reminding me that even if I lost, I wasn’t really losing. This was Jace, and if I was truly honest with myself, I’d have to admit I’d always kind of wondered…

That was enough honesty for the moment. I was much better at manipulation. It was a natural gift.

I made myself meet his eyes, strengthening my resolve to win the race. If I had trouble looking at him, how was I ever going to go through with anything more? “If I lose… Well, I mean…” I glanced away, trying to gather my thoughts, but again he tilted my chin up. He grinned, clearly flattered that thinking of him along forbidden lines had me so flustered.

“You’re talking about one time, right?” I asked, blurting it out all in one breath, before I could chicken out again. “A one-night stand, of sorts.”

“Standing, huh?” he teased. “What are they teaching you at that school?”

I flushed, and could actually feel my cheeks burn.

He ran one knuckle down the side of my face, leaving a cold trail in its wake. “I was just kidding, Faythe,” he said, but his wistful tone made me doubt his words. I cringed inwardly, wondering how I always managed to bury myself so deep in trouble. Daddy would kill me if I started something with Jace. Ethan’s best friend was a great enforcer and practically a member of the family, but my father had made it clear early on that Jace was not suitable husband material for his only daughter. And neither of my parents understood a relationship, for me at least, that led to anything less than marriage and lots of babies.

Jace’s knuckle followed the line of my jaw, then trailed down my throat to the hollow between my collarbones, sending a fresh wave of shivers through me. “Once it is, if that’s what you want. After that, it’s up to you.” He paused, tilting his head down to catch my eyes. “It’s up to you anyway. We can forget the whole thing right now, if you want.”

I seriously considered it. Really. But if I said no, I’d be turning down my best chance of escape. Daddy wouldn’t let me have a car, for the same reason he’d installed bars on my bedroom window: I was a flight risk. So, if I wanted freedom, it would have to come behind the wheel of someone else’s car, and everyone knew better than to leave their keys unattended.

Digging deep inside myself, I recovered my determination to win. I needed those keys. “No. I’m still in.”

Jace’s smile brightened his whole face, turning his eyes into blue stained glass, lit from within. “Great. Let’s get the race out of the way so we can get down to the good stuff.”

I blushed again, and something low and sensitive clenched. I couldn’t help it. I had no intention of losing, but I was only human—well, mostly human, anyway—and subject to the same temptations as the rest of my gender. And what a temptation Jace was.

Could Marc’s overwhelming presence in my life be the real reason I’d never seriously considered Jace before, even though dating him would have seriously irked my father?

Marc. Shit. Marc would throw a fit if I lost and held up my end of the bargain. And there would be no way to hide it from him. Not in a house like ours, where we were lucky to shower in private. Screw Marc. I no longer cared what he thought. Really. Yet I was suddenly terribly eager to be on my feet, earning Jace’s keys and absolving myself of any obligation to him.

“The good stuff, huh?” I teased with newfound confidence, already backing out of his lap. “Then you’d better catch me.”

“You’re on.” He jumped to his feet with a speed and dexterity that would have shocked a human. But he was too late. Despite pausing to open the door, I was already halfway down the hall and looking back over my shoulder when Marc stepped out of the den to block Jace’s path. He’d intentionally let me go by.

“Move, Marc, she’s getting away,” Jace groaned. I slowed enough to turn around and jog backward, watching them uneasily as I went.

“Yes, she is.” Marc lunged to block Jace’s dart to the right.

“But if she wins—”

“I’m more worried about her losing.”

I cringed, but kept going. I should have realized the eavesdropper was Marc. Anyone else would have shown himself. Cats have amazing ears, and we were lucky my parents hadn’t heard us. How was I sure they hadn’t? Because my father would have already locked me in the basement and ground the key into steel powder.

Spinning in midstep, I shoved the back door open and raced for the trees, letting the screen slam shut behind me. I ran at top speed, glorying in the taste of freedom, temporary as it was. Grass tickled my bare feet, and the sultry night air caressed my skin. If I hadn’t been racing, I would have stopped to look at the moon. It was full, which wasn’t necessary for Shifting, but made for a very scenic run.

Standing at the tree line, I could still hear Jace and Marc arguing in the house behind me, but more interesting was what I heard in the woods.

Our ranch and its adjoining twenty acres of woodland backed up to the north side of the Davy Crockett National Forest, with nothing more than an imaginary boundary separating the two. What that meant for me was a freedom unlike anything I could ever gain in civilized society. It was the freedom of grass, and trees, and fallen leaves, and pinecones, and most important, the freedom of speed. With speed and our natural stealth came the power of life and death. It was an intoxication alcohol could never match. And it was my birthright.

Obviously, prudence demanded the use of caution during the tourist season, which included all three summer months, as well as most of the fall. But we could hear and smell humans long before we saw them, and we could see them before they saw us, so it really wasn’t difficult to avoid contact. In fact, it was kind of fun, like a one-sided game of sight-tag.

Deep in the forest, I heard the guys weaving among the trees, occasionally pouncing on one another, or on a rodent or small rabbit. Behind me, at the front of the house, Michael’s car growled to life, followed by the crunch of gravel beneath his tires and the biting odor of exhaust. He was going home.

I spared a moment for disappointment that my homecoming hadn’t meant more to my oldest brother, but only a moment. I sympathized with his obligations and respected them. Michael had a wife. He was the only tomcat I knew who’d married a human woman, and even though Holly was a model—an honest-to-goodness runway model who spent most of her time in New York, L.A., or Paris—maintaining his marriage when she was home required a delicate balance of secrecy and creative planning. Even better than most, I understood. Though I’ll admit to being curious about how he interacted with her normal, human family.

Jace burst through the back door with Marc on his heels while I was still unzipping my pants. I let them fall to the ground as I pulled my shirt over my head, then dropped my underwear on the small heap of clothing on the grass.

Both men ran toward me, pulling their shirts off as they came. I paused for a moment to enjoy the view as generous moonlight highlighted every hard plane on their chests and cast shadows beneath each ripple of their abs. Very nice. Almost worth being dragged home for.

The guys never bothered with neat piles. They left their clothing scattered all over the yard, draped across bushes and sometimes hanging from tree branches. It would have been quite a sight for the unaccustomed eye. Fortunately, we had no close neighbors and never had human visitors, other than Michael’s wife, who visited rarely enough that it was easy for us to keep our inner cats on their leashes. So there was seldom anyone around to be scandalized by our behavior.

Naked, I ducked beneath the branches of the nearest tree and into the forest, twigs and thorns scraping my bare skin. Relief rushed through me to ease tension I hadn’t even realized I’d felt. My impulse to rush was gone now; in crossing the tree line, I’d won the race. Jace’s car was mine, if and when I had the nerve to take it. I’d have to remember to thank Marc. Yeah, right.

My means of escape secured, I was ready to relax and stretch my legs in the forest, a luxury I’d sorely missed at school.

As soon as the guys were out of sight, I dropped to all fours and closed my eyes in concentration. Shifting always begins for me with a moment of quiet relaxation or meditation. It sounds like a page from Zen for Dummies, but it really helps and only takes a couple of minutes. It’s just a moment for my mind to acknowledge and submit to what my body wants.

Shifting is possible during moments of extreme stress, but I wouldn’t recommend it. If your brain hasn’t had a chance to adjust to what’s coming, it responds by sending your body more pain signals than necessary. No one wants to experience avoidable pain. Okay, maybe masochists do, but I harbor no fondness for pain. No fondness for experiencing it, anyway.

Dimly, I heard leaves rustle as Marc and Jace entered the woods, but I made no effort to acknowledge them. I didn’t need to. They dropped to the ground, one on either side of me, and began their own Shifts.

On my knees, with my nose less than two feet from the ground, I breathed in the fragrances of the forest, letting the pine-scented air trigger my Shift. Just as certain notes played on the piano can bring to mind an entire melody, so the smell of last year’s pine needles and leaf mold called forth the cat from inside me. An undulating wave of pain and change, the Shift rolled through me, tensing and relaxing my muscles with no pattern I could discern.

As a teenager, I’d struggled to try to prepare myself for each phase as it came, determined to master the art of Shifting. It didn’t work. In the end, Shifting mastered me. When I gave up trying and relaxed, I realized that while I couldn’t control my discomfort, I could anticipate it, from the first sharp stab of pain to the last nagging bone-ache. With anticipation came acceptance, and that turned out to be enough.

My spine arched and joints popped. I ground my teeth together as my fingernails hardened and grew into claws, remembering to unclench my jaw before the first ripple of pain lapped at my face, announcing the arrival of the tidal wave just behind it. Mouth open, I stretched my chin as far forward as I could, gasping as my jaw buckled and bulged with the ingress of new teeth, pointed, slightly curved, and very sharp. My tongue itched briefly but unbearably, as hundreds of tiny, backward-pointing barbs budded from it in a prickling surge from the base to the rounded tip.

And finally, just as I was starting to catch my breath, my skin began to tingle as fur sprouted across my back, flowing to cover my limbs and stomach, before moving on to my face.

The only good thing about the pain was its brevity, and the worst by far was its intensity. It was like being ripped open and rearranged, without so much as a capsule of Tylenol. Immediately following a Shift, I felt like all my bones had been broken and allowed to heal wrong, like I didn’t quite fit into my new body. Fortunately, it only took one good stretch to improve the fit. I extended my front paws, claws piercing ground cover to grip the fragrant earth while I presented my rump to the sky, my tail waving slowly in the air.

There was a time when Shifting on a regular basis was a normal part of my life, just something else I did, like I slept, showered, and ate. Along with other, normal physical changes, my initial Shift was brought on by puberty. But unlike other biological processes, it could be repressed or initiated, though I’d pay a severe physical penalty for doing too much of either.

Away at school, I Shifted when I had to, or when an irresistible opportunity presented itself, like my yearly camping trip with Sammi’s family. While slinking undetected through a forest swarming with humans is exciting in a forbidden kind of way, it can’t compare to the sense of belonging I felt each time I hunted with the members of my Pride.

And it’s been so long, I thought, watching Marc and Jace writhe, each in the grip of his own Shift. Far too long.

Six

By the time Marc and Jace stood, their Shifts complete, I was ready to greet them on four legs. I weighed a healthy one-hundred-and-thirty-five pounds, which is slim, with ample allowance for curves on a woman my height. As a human, that’s not very impressive. But a one-hundred-and-thirty-five pound cat always gets a second glance—and usually a panicked scream.

But if I was impressive as a cat, Marc was downright scary. Including his tail, he was just over six and a half feet of sleek black fur, sharp claws and jaws powerful enough to split the back of a deer’s skull with a single bite. He was a two-hundred-and-forty-pound mass of graceful, rippling muscles, just waiting to pounce. And few things pounced on by Marc ever got back up.

My father theorized that in cat form we have occasionally been mistaken for so-called “black panthers,” a term used to refer to melanistic jaguars or leopards. In short, black panthers don’t exist, but we do. All of us, regardless of our coloring as humans, have, as cats, the same short, solid black, glossy fur, completely devoid of stripes or rosettes. Length and weight vary with each individual, of course, but in general we are somewhere between the size of a jaguar and that of a small-to-medium lion.

Finished with his own Shift, Marc circled me slowly, stopping several times to sniff my fur in specific places, and once to give my nose a quick lick. Finally satisfied that all was well with me, he rubbed his cheek against mine and nipped tenderly at my neck. I let him. Social guidelines were different in cat form, when it no longer mattered who’d left whom, and why. As cats, we were part of a whole, like littermates.

Jace stood back, letting Marc have his way, because just as some rules changed, others stayed the same. Marc walked the length of my body, letting his tail drag across my back. Then he sat on the ground in front of me and roared.

My heart leapt to hear it. I hadn’t heard a roar other than my own in years. Ours is not the distinctive roar of a lion, though it’s nearly as deep and clearly feline. It sounds like a series of low-pitched bleats, rising and falling in volume, each blending into the next.

Deeper in the woods, the playful romping stopped as the others froze in place to listen. Marc had called, and he was their leader in my father’s absence. As the last of Marc’s roar faded from my ears, it was replaced with the sounds signaling their approach: snapping twigs, crunching leaves and deep breathing. Cats could be absolutely silent when they chose, but rarely bothered when there was no need. The guys weren’t stalking; they were responding to a summons.

In moments, Parker burst through the brush, followed by Owen and Ethan, three dark blurs soaring through the air in front of me to land with delicate, easy grace. Except for one. Ethan landed not on the ground, but on Jace, who rolled over onto his back at the last second. He caught Ethan’s throat between enlarged canines and the vulnerable flesh of his attacker’s stomach with exposed rear claws. They were only playing, so Jace neither bit nor slashed, but had it been for real, it would have been bloody. And it would have been over in a heartbeat. But then, if it had been for real, Jace would never have heard him coming.

Jace tossed Ethan to the ground, where he landed on his feet, hissing with his fur standing on end. They both joined the others in greeting me. In cat form, even more than as humans, our greetings were very physical. I found myself at the center of a writhing, purring mass of black fur and whiskers, tails curling over, under, and around me. The mingling of personal scents was both comforting and invigorating, as were the memories tumbling over one another in a bid for my attention.

When my patience dwindled, I nipped at whatever came near my mouth. I got a whiff of hay and dry soil as I bit down gently on Owen’s tail. Jace’s ear came with the faint scent of the Granny Smith he’d finished for Ethan. But no one paid any attention to my warnings until I growled, and even then they were slow learners. Marc came to my rescue, which I thought was the least he could do, since it was his fault they’d converged on me in the first place. And since even the smallest of them—Ethan—outweighed me by forty pounds.

Marc hissed, and I turned to look at him across someone’s back. He stood several feet away with his neck straining forward and his jaw open to expose a mouthful of sharp teeth, ears flat against the top of his skull. He wasn’t really mad; he was just posturing to get their attention. It worked.

All eyes were on Marc, and since I was never one to pass up an opportunity, I launched myself over Parker and through a thin clump of brush. The chase was on.

I heard them behind me, pursuing me for the thrill of speed, and not because they had any hope of catching me. Surely they knew they had no chance. Maybe in a car on a long stretch of highway, but not in the woods where I’d grown up. And never on four paws.

My pulse racing, I darted between trees and vaulted off fallen limbs, sending small creatures fleeing ahead of me. Everywhere were the sights and sounds of the woods. The undergrowth grew thick and green, and pine trees soared to over one hundred feet high, with the red birches not far behind. My ears were on alert, catching and instantly cataloging the various nocturnal forest creatures as I passed them. Mice squeaked, owls hooted, and possums waddled off in search of safety. I ignored them all.

For fun, as my heart beat a syncopated rhythm against my rib cage, I climbed a broad oak tree, gripping the trunk with my claws over and over again, leg muscles tensing and relaxing as they propelled me upward until I gained a low, thick branch. With a glance at the ground below, I leapt onto a limb extending from a neighboring trunk. From there, I worked my way along, leaping from branch to branch, tree to tree, until I finally thumped to the ground, already running.

My eyes were perfectly suited to roaming the forest at night. They made good use of generous pools of moonlight pouring through gaps in the canopy of leaves and heavily laden pine branches above. Light reflected from the eyes of potential prey, and I could easily distinguish the dark coats of nocturnal animals from the shadows nestled in every niche and crevice, and hiding beneath curtains of fern and blankets of poison ivy. Dry leaves crackled beneath my paws and thorns tugged at my fur as I sprinted, my lungs relishing the luxury of such fresh, fragrant air.

Our forest was home to any number of woodland creatures, the largest of which were deer. But we were the biggest predators around for miles. Dogs—and especially cats—knew to avoid our territory thanks to Marc’s obsessively organized system of scent marking. We had the run of the forest, and we liked it that way.

On my right, something slithered beneath a pile of leaves, but I didn’t pause to identify it as I ran. The only things I chased that night were my personal demons. Or rather, they were chasing me. For the first time in years, I felt the hot breath of my past on the back of my neck. It was the carnivorous spirit of everything tradition demanded I become, and the only way to escape was to run, to beat the ground with my paws, in a furious race for the right to control my life. And I would not lose. Not again.

Finally, when my lungs burned, my legs ached, and every muscle in my body insisted that I must stop or collapse, I had to admit that at least for now, the demons were only in my head. My pursuers were my fellow Pride members, and they only chased because I ran. It was a cat’s instinct to try to catch anything that moved, like a kitten pouncing on a piece of string trailed across the floor. And I’d trailed my string all over the forest, practically daring them to come get me.

I slowed to a stop, listening between ragged pants as I calmed my racing heart. The guys had fallen far behind, and the evidence of their pursuit faded into the symphony of shuffles, rustles, cracks, hoots and squeaks that defined the forest at night. Satisfied that I’d proven my point, that I could outrun them all, I sank to the ground to rest at the base of a pine tree. I glanced around, taking in even the most minute shift of leaves in the warm night breeze. The night was mine for as long as I wanted it, and I finally had the privacy I’d sought for so long at school. It irked me that I’d found what I wanted in my own backyard, when I’d searched for it fruitlessly for years, hundreds of miles from home.

Content, I licked the dirt from my paws, giving my ears a good swipe while I was at it. Grooming was always relaxing. It gave me a chance to think, which I could never do without something to occupy my hands. Or paws, as the case may be. As I set to work on my whiskers, a gurgling sound caught my attention, and my ears perked up—literally. I’d paid little attention to direction as I ran, more intent on escaping the tomcats and my personal demons, which became harder to tell apart with each passing moment. But the sound of running water was unmistakable. I was near the stream.

Unlike house cats, we swim very well and love to fish. And unless something had changed in the last two years, the stream was full of fish practically tripping over one another for the honor of filling my stomach. I stood and listened carefully, my ears rotating in unison as I searched for the direction of the sound.

There. Southeast, and not very far away. I could already smell the mineral-rich water.

Still tired from my run, I turned in the direction of the stream and took my time, batting at every firefly I saw on the way. At the water’s edge, I peered down at the rippling surface. My own face looked back at me in the moonlight. It wasn’t my human face, of course, with dimples and slightly ruddy cheeks, but the reflection wavering in the stream was no less familiar. My fur was solid black, with no distinguishing marks and no variation in color except for whiskers, which stood out as startlingly white against the dark background.

My eyes were the same color in either form: pale green, almost yellow in the moonlight. At school my friends said they were distinctive, but in cat form they looked normal, even average. Of course, the shape was completely different than my human eyes; as a cat, my pupils were slits, rather than circles. At least in the daylight. At night, they dilated almost all the way, leaving only thin rings of color around broad black disks.

I leaned forward and lapped at the water, quenching the scorching thirst I’d worked up during my sprint. And fluid wasn’t the only thing the race had cost me. Cats have a higher metabolic rate than humans do, and we seem to have a higher rate than even most large cats, possibly due to the calories used up during the process of Shifting. Simply put, Shifting makes us hungry. Immediately.

Motion from the stream caught my eye. Something darted just beneath the surface of the water, too big to be a frog, and too fast to be a turtle. I hunkered low to the ground, preparing to charge into the water after my dinner. When everything felt right—a feeling I couldn’t verbalize because it had no human equivalent—I jumped. But I never hit the water.

Something smacked into me in midair, ending my forward momentum and driving me to the right. I hit the ground on my side. A crushing weight pinned me down. I saw nothing but black fur, but even with my eyes closed I would have known who it was. On two legs or four, I knew his scent better than I knew my own and had every inch of his body memorized, in both forms. I knew every line, every scar, and even every striation in his irises. As a teenager, I’d gazed into those eyes for hours at a time, wondering if they were as bright by moonlight as they were in the sun. It turned out that they were.

But those days were behind me, by my own choice.

Get off me, Marc! I thought, but what came out was a growl. It was a damn fine growl, in my opinion. Low and threatening, and very serious. But he ignored it with a blatant disregard for my will that would have been uniquely his, if not for the fact that he’d learned it from my father.

Marc lowered his face to mine slowly. He rubbed his cheek against my whiskers and my head, making his way slowly to my only exposed shoulder.

Great job, Faythe, I thought, as furious at myself as I was at Marc. You’ve been pinned twice in less than an hour.

Marc bit me softly each time I tried to throw him off or get to my feet, and I never stopped growling. He was marking me with the scent glands on either side of his face.

I hate being marked.

He would go no farther; we both knew that. And he was being very gentle, even seductive for a cat, but that couldn’t have been further from the point. The point was that he had no right to mark me. None at all.

Marking was an overt declaration of possession. Of territorial rights. Werecat instinct led us to mark our personal possessions, our kills, and the boundaries of our property. By rubbing his personal scent on me, Marc was claiming me for himself like he might claim the front seat or the biggest slice of pizza. The implication was that I belonged to him. Which was far from the truth.

His behavior would have been perfectly acceptable, even expected, if I were his mate—a wife, or even a long-term girlfriend. In that case, it would be appropriate for me to reciprocate. But I was not his mate, therefore I was not his to mark. Not anymore. Not ever, if we were being completely honest.

Trapped in a cage formed by his legs and pressed to the ground by his weight, I could do nothing but wait for him to finish. That, and feed the rage mounting in every bone in my body. In every shadowed corner of my soul. I passed the seconds with thoughts of retaliation, of the pain and humiliation I would unleash on him at the first available opportunity.

Yep, that’s me. Sugar and spice, and everything nice.

Finally he made a mistake. He moved lower to reach my rib cage, but wasn’t willing to back off of me for fear of my escape. Instead, he turned, placing his left hind leg within reach of my muzzle.

I lunged. My teeth sank into his leg, an inch above his paw. I withheld nothing, giving in to my instinct to bite through to the bone. Marc deserved only my best effort. After all, that’s what I was getting from him, in a bizarre, gently insistent kind of way.

Marc yowled and tried to jump away, hissing in pain and anger.

I refused to let go. It took every ounce of self-control I had to keep from snapping his bone. My canines met around his leg. My back teeth sank through fur and into muscle. I growled, my claws gripping the ground for stability. Blood flowed into my mouth, threatening to choke me if I didn’t swallow. Still, I held on.

Marc turned on me, with that peculiar feline flexibility, and roared almost directly into my ear. But I didn’t let go until he nipped my shoulder just hard enough to draw blood. I’d had a potentially crippling grip on his leg, and he’d held back from hurting me. Some might call that sweet. I called it poor judgment. I only played for keeps, and if Marc wanted to play with me, he’d have to do the same. I was finished making exceptions for him. I’d moved on, whether he realized it or not. And hopefully he would now.

Four more shapes burst through the thick undergrowth, all large and black, the edges of their fur melting into the shadows. Daddy’s other loyal tomcats had come to rescue his right-hand man from a tabby half his size. If I could have, I would have laughed. As it was, I could only huff, but that was good enough to make my point. Marc hobbled off, settling on the ground several feet away to clean his wound, pausing to glare at me periodically and to growl.

As I washed Marc’s blood from my face, Ethan approached me warily, his head hanging low. He sniffed the air as he came, as if he wasn’t quite sure it was actually me. If my scent didn’t convince him, one look at my eyes would. Cats can communicate anger through their expressions just as people can, and I was really good at looking pissed off. I’d had lots of practice.

My appetite was gone, along with any peace I’d gained from my run in the forest. I shot one last contemptuous glance at Marc, then turned my back on them all and jumped over a tangled clump of brush and vines, landing silently on a bed of pine needles on the other side. I was too tired to run, and the walk back to the house took much too long to suit me. The sights and sounds I’d rejoiced in half an hour earlier now grated on my last nerve. Each owl’s hoot seemed to scold me; each rodent’s squeak mocked my plight.

At the edge of the trees, I sank my teeth into my neat pile of clothes, managing to get everything but my panties. I hesitated, uncomfortable with leaving my underwear exposed on the lawn, but abandoned it in the end because I didn’t have any hands and was too pissed off to try Shifting immediately.

Luckily, I didn’t need hands to open the back door, because it was equipped with an oblong handle, easily depressed by cat paws. As long as someone was home, we never locked the doors, because a cat has no place to carry keys. Also, we figured that anyone stupid enough to trespass deserved to be eaten and probably wouldn’t be missed.

I’m kidding, of course. Mostly.

Pawing open the screen-door latch, I trudged into the back hall. The tiles felt cold and smooth against my paws, and the air-conditioning ruffled my sensitive facial whiskers. The only sound other than the whistle of air through the vents was the hum of the refrigerator. It sounded oddly mechanical to my cat ears.

I padded into my room through the open doorway and dropped my clothes on the carpet. Still fuming, I jumped onto the bed and curled up with my tail wrapped around my body. I was hungry and thirsty, and too mad to Shift. Great.

And it only got better when Jace leaned around the door frame, waving my panties from one finger like a white flag. I growled at him, but he only laughed. He knew I wouldn’t hurt him in human form, because that wouldn’t be playing fair. But then, neither was waving my underwear around for the whole world to see.

“You want them back?” he asked. I bobbed my head, and he laughed again at my approximation of a very human gesture. “Come and get them.”

He stepped into the doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of black bikini briefs, and I was suddenly glad to still be a cat. Anyone else might have looked ridiculous in so little material, but Jace was temptation personified. If I’d been human, he couldn’t have mistaken the look in my eyes for anything less than lust. But as a cat, while I had a healthy appreciation for what lay, rather obviously, beneath that tiny triangle of cloth, I was distanced from it by the boundary of species. Jace was much less a possibility than he would have been had I not been sporting fur and claws.

“Come on, if you want them,” he repeated, and I cocked my head, trying to look curious since I couldn’t just ask why he wouldn’t bring them to me. It worked. “Marc said he’d use me as a scratching post if I ever went into your room unchaperoned again.”

Aah. Yes, that sounded like Marc, though he would never have said it in front of me.

Jace grinned, eyes glinting suggestively. “He didn’t say anything about you coming into my room.”

I snorted air through my nose at him and thumped to the floor, landing more delicately on four feet than I ever could have on two. He held out my panties, and I padded over to him, taking the waistband between my teeth. I blinked up at him.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “You really did some damage to his leg, you know.”

I bobbed my head again. I did know. I’d meant to.

“Your father’s going to be pissed. Marc was supposed to make a run up to Oklahoma tomorrow to check out a report we got yesterday about a stray.”

I blinked again and yawned, dropping the underwear on the floor. So Owen would go instead. Or Parker. I didn’t really care about my father’s plans to patrol the territory, unless they meant taking prying eyes away from me. Of course, by injuring Marc, I’d inadvertently guaranteed that he’d be around to watch me for a while. Great job, Faythe. That was me, always careful to plan ahead.

“Shift back,” Jace said, smiling down at me. “I’ll get you something to eat.” He closed the door without waiting for my response. Not that I could have said no. But it would have been pretty satisfying to nudge the door closed in his face.

The Shift back to human was harder than it should have been, and took longer than normal because I couldn’t help thinking about Marc and dwelling on my own anger. I could still taste his blood, which made me simultaneously hungry and furious, a decidedly bizarre combination.

Jace’s last comment ran through my head as I Shifted. He’d said a stray had been reported in Oklahoma, well within the boundaries of our territory. That made at least two such reports, that I knew of, in the last two days. What was going on?

Strays are humans who became werecats after being scratched or bitten by one of us in cat form. Not every bite or scratch produces a werecat, but in spite of centuries spent observing the process, no one seems to know for sure why. Or why not. But there are plenty of theories.

Some werecats believe the size or severity of the wound is directly proportionate to the chances of “infection,” if that’s even the right term. Others, mostly the older generation, believe that transmission is more likely to occur under certain phases of the moon. I’d even met one sweet old dam years earlier who believed that fate determined who would join our ranks and who would not—that those meant to Shift would, and those who were not meant to would not.

According to her theory, human women were not meant to be werecats. Ever. In my entire life, I’d never heard of a female stray. Naturally, nearly everyone had a theory explaining the transformation’s apparent gender bias, and the reasons were just as ridiculous as the prevailing theories about conduction in general. The most popular of these was the conjecture by an elderly former Alpha that women—as the weaker sex—weren’t strong enough to survive the initial Shift.

I thought that particular old man was full of shit. My personal theory was that something in a woman’s physiology, maybe in her immune system, kept the werecat “virus” from getting a grip on her body. But until I could prove it, which wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon, no one gave a damn what I thought. As usual.

Either way, the only thing we know with any certainty about contamination is that humans can only be infected by one of us in cat form, just like with werewolves in the movies. Hollywood got the transmission part right but missed the species altogether. By a long shot.

As a child, I once saw two thunderbirds, flying in tandem across a brilliant blue sky too large to hint at their actual size and strength. And we’d all heard my father recount his infamous run-in with a bruin—a werebear, if you will. But to my knowledge, werewolves are pure fiction. Stray cats, however, are undeniably real, and they posed a constant problem for the rest of us.

Since they were not born into any Pride, most strays could claim no territory of their own and had no system of support. Along with wildcats, who either left their birth Prides or were kicked out, strays lived their lives in seclusion from the rest of us, wandering within the free territories, struggling to either accept or end a life they never asked for or even imagined.

From all accounts, strays lived a miserable existence, so it was no wonder they sometimes crossed the border into our land looking for companionship, and sometimes for answers. When that happened, our enforcers were glad to fill in the many blanks—as the strays were escorted back to the border. Unfortunately, most strays who crossed our boundaries were looking for something else entirely: revenge, or even a slice out of the territorial pie. As a result, the territorial council had long since passed laws forbidding strays from crossing Pride borderlines. Marc was the exception. But then, Marc was exceptional, so that was really no surprise to anyone who knew him.

And now I’m back to thinking about Marc… Damn it.

By the time I stepped back into my pants, I could smell beef cooking. Hamburgers. It had to be, because Jace’s culinary skills were limited to burgers and spaghetti, and I didn’t smell tomato sauce. Oh well, a girl can never have too many burgers, right?

I padded down the hall on bare feet, my steps silent as I passed several closed doors on the way to the kitchen. Jace’s off-key whistling met my ears, accompanied by the sizzle of meat on the stove. I paused in the doorway, glad to see that he’d donned a pair of jeans, if nothing else.

A smile slid into place as I watched him. Jace was comically out of place in front of any household appliance, particularly my mother’s six-burner, stainless-steel behemoth of a stove. He subscribed to the Jackson Pollock theory of cooking, which had somehow led to the creation of an abstract masterpiece out of the formerly spotless, white-tiled kitchen.

As I watched, he turned from the stove toward the peninsula, dripping grease in an arc across the floor from a plastic spatula gripped loosely in one hand. He dropped the spatula on the countertop—without the benefit of a spoon holder—and began slicing tomatoes with a six-inch smooth-bladed butcher knife. I covered my mouth to stifle a giggle as tiny seeds and red juice spurted across the countertop tiles, mingling with a tangle of discarded onion skins and outer lettuce leaves.

“Shit,” he mumbled under his breath, still oblivious to my presence. Grinning, I slipped silently into a chair at the breakfast table. I inhaled deeply, tempted by the aroma of beef and onions. Beneath those were the usual kitchen smells: disinfectant, most notably, mingled with the faintly lingering scents of lemon and rosemary, my mother’s favorite ingredients.

Jace turned back to the stove, still whistling as he piled seasoned beef patties on a plate lined with paper towels. Then he spun gracefully on one foot, the plate balanced on the fingertips of one hand, and stopped in midstep, his eyes wide with surprise to find me watching him. Laughter bubbled from my throat; I couldn’t stop it. The look on his face was almost enough to cure my bad mood.

“I’m glad you’re pleased with yourself,” he said, his voice full of self-deprecating amusement. He set the plate on the table in front of me and went back to the counter to finish butchering the tomatoes. “Why were you spying on me, anyway?”

“Goldfish syndrome,” I said, pinching a chunk from the nearest beef patty.

Jace paused in midslice to glance at me quizzically.

“You guys have been watching my every move for years, and I couldn’t resist the novelty of being the observer for once, rather than the observed.”

“Oh.” He resumed hacking apart vegetables with the butcher knife. “I wouldn’t say we watched your every move…”

“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes at him. “I’m surprised my father didn’t commission a big glass bowl for me to move into.”

He laughed, scooping a double handful of smooshed tomato slices onto a clean plate.

“Speaking of which, where are my mighty sire and dam hiding out tonight?” I asked, my voice thick with sarcasm. “Have I already scared them into submission?”

“Hardly. It’s late for old folks. They went to bed an hour ago, with orders for us to keep an eye on you.”

“Oh.” Of course they had. And wouldn’t my father love to hear himself described as old.

In the silence that followed, Jace’s ham-fisted sawing captured my attention, and my eyes narrowed in suspicion. He was slicing way too many tomatoes. I glanced from the plate of condiments on the counter to the huge stack of burgers in front of me, my smile fading quickly. “You can’t fatten me up in a single meal, Jace.”

“I’m not trying to.” Finished with the tomatoes, he began fishing pickle slices from an economy-size jar. The combined scents of dill, garlic, and vinegar made my mouth water. Jace turned, a pickle slice halfway to his mouth. “You’re going to have to share and play nice.” He popped the slice into his mouth and crunched into it.

I gripped the tabletop in irritation as his meaning sank in. “The guys aren’t invited.” I wouldn’t have minded eating with Parker and my brothers, but they’d bring Marc, and I didn’t care if I didn’t see him again for another five years.

Jace shot me a stern look, catching me off guard. It was my father’s expression. “They’re giving you time to cool off, but they’re hungry too, and you ruined the hunt. So, we’re all going to sit down like civilized adults and enjoy a meal together. Fresh deer would have been nice—” he glared at me pointedly “—but burgers will have to do.”

I scowled, but he turned around to keep from seeing it. I hadn’t ruined the hunt. Marc had, but it would do no good to explain that to Jace, so I kept my mouth shut. When the battle lines were drawn, the guys would stick together, and I’d be left with only my thick skin to protect me from testosterone-laced barbs and daggers. Unfortunately, the nearest tabby other than my mother was several hundred miles away.

No, wait. Sara was missing, which was the reason for my unscheduled trip home.

Tense laughter and the shuffling of bare feet on tile preceded the guys as they filed into the kitchen, in varying degrees of undress. As usual, Owen was the only one who did justice to the phrase “fully clothed.”

Marc limped in last, his hair damp and smelling of shampoo. I glanced at his left ankle but couldn’t see the wound because his foot was wrapped in a clean white gauze bandage, extending beneath the cuff of his jeans. He crossed his arms over his bare chest and leaned against the wall, staring past me with flushed cheeks. He was either embarrassed or mad, and probably both.

So what? Screw him. He’d brought it on himself.

The other three stood clustered around him, avoiding my eyes. “Grab a plate, guys,” Jace said, ignoring the obvious tension. He set a stack of my mother’s everyday plates on the table, but I made no move to take one. The guys came forward one by one, beginning with Ethan, who had half of his first burger eaten before he settled into the chair next to me.

While the others filled their plates, all except Marc, who still scowled from the doorway, Parker knelt next to my chair, smiling up at me. “How long has it been, Faythe?” he asked. We’d already greeted each other as cats, but it was hard to catch up on lost time with a purr and a lick on the cheek. “What, two years?” His eyes twinkled at me, daring me to disagree.

“More like two months.” I swatted his shoulder fondly. “I saw you at the concert, you know. You don’t exactly fit in with the college crowd.”

He smiled and shrugged, running one hand through prematurely graying hair. “I had my orders. You know that.”

I did know. Everyone always had orders, and for some reason the guys felt honor-bound to follow theirs. I felt no such obligation. But then, I wasn’t getting a paycheck, either.

Parker stood and leaned down to give me a chaste kiss on the cheek before going to fill his plate. Marc followed him, limping past me without so much as a glance in my direction.

Looking around the room, I took in the familiar faces one at a time. It was just like old times, pigging out on junk food after my parents went to bed and arguing about who had to clean up. Even the tension between me and Marc felt familiar; we’d been one of those couples for whom one kind of passion was as good as another. We’d fought as often as we’d made love, and one often led to the other.

“So, Jace,” Owen said from his seat at the bar. “Did Burger King blow up in here, or what?”

“I didn’t see you sweatin’ over a hot stove,” Jace said around a mouthful of food.

“He was sweating?” Ethan glanced at me for confirmation.

I shrugged. “I didn’t see any sweat, but I did see some dancing.”

Parker raised an eyebrow, bemused. “There was dancing?”

“No. There was no dancing.” Jace scowled at me.

I grinned. “Not only was he dancing, he was twirling.”

Parker snickered, and Ethan laughed outright, nearly choking on the last bite of his first burger.

“Okay, I may have taken a graceful step or two,” Jace admitted, a barbecue-flavored chip halfway to his mouth. “But it’s not like I was doing Vic’s rain dance.” He crunched into the chip, and for a long moment his chewing splintered a tense silence.

It was a harmless reference to a very funny night several summers before, when Vic had danced naked in the backyard, appealing to the heavens for some much-needed rainfall. But mentioning Vic had brought to mind his sister, which reminded me forcefully of just what I was doing there, surrounded by my brothers and lifelong friends.

I was home because my parents saw a strike against one North American Pride as a strike against us all. They were closing ranks, circling the wagons to protect the women and children, and as insulted as I was to be included among those in need of protection, I seemed to be the only one who considered their precautions unnecessary.

Could I be wrong? I’d assumed my parents had seized upon Sara’s vanishing act as an excuse to bring their stray sheep back into the fold, where they thought I belonged. But what if they were right? What if someone had taken her?

That one thought changed everything.

All at once, the gravity of Sara’s disappearance hit me like a fist in the gut. Air whooshed from my lungs, and I gasped, trying to draw more in. Doubled over, I panted, near panic. I’d been convinced that she had run away, but what if I was wrong? What if Sean had taken her? If he was crazy enough to snatch her from her own territory, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t hurt her.

A hand settled on my shoulder, heavy and warm. I looked up, fighting back tears. Marc stood in front of me, with a plate in his other hand and concern in his eyes where there had been only anger moments earlier.

Embarrassed by my near collapse and still furious with Marc, I slapped his hand from my shoulder. The sound echoed throughout the room for much longer than I thought it should have. His eyes widened in shock as his arm dropped to hang at his side.

“Don’t touch me,” I whispered through clenched teeth, glaring at him. He had no right to try to comfort me after the stunt he’d pulled in the woods.

Marc’s cheeks flushed with humiliation as his expression hardened into anger.

The others stared openly, their food apparently forgotten.

My chair made a harsh scraping sound as I shoved it back from the table. All eyes were on me as I stood. I turned away from them, letting my hair fall to shield my face. The only thing worse than having the guys witness my little breakdown would be having to accept their comfort. I didn’t want comfort. I wanted solitude. I had to get away from them all, but especially from Marc. “Excuse me, guys,” I mumbled. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

I’d taken two steps toward the doorway when a warm, strong hand closed around my wrist. I glanced back at Marc, trying to jerk free. His fingers tightened around my arm, grinding the bones together. I whimpered, hating the sound of weakness even as I made it.

Owen stood, and I thought he’d intervene on my behalf, but one look from Marc stopped him in midstep.

Marc’s plate crashed to the table. His pickle spear landed on its side on my mother’s floral tablecloth. A tomato slice dangled from the raised edge of his plate. He stomped out of the kitchen with one hand clamped around my arm, and even with his limp I had to jog to keep up. He pulled me down the hall, past a half dozen closed doors, then tossed me into my bedroom with one hand.

I stumbled and kept putting one foot in front of the other to keep from losing my balance. My momentum took me all the way to the bed, where I banged my thighs against the footboard, and fell forward on my face.

I came up hissing.

Seven

I spun around to face Marc and found my bedroom door closed. Anger, already scorching a path through my veins, blazed all new trails in the face of his audacity. Beyond the capacity for rational thought, I stormed toward him, my right hand curling into a fist.

Marc limped backward, bringing his arm up to ward off the blow. He was too late. My fist slammed into his jaw. His head snapped back and to the left. But before I could even consider taking a second shot, he’d wrapped a hand around each of my forearms, the gold sparks in his eyes glittering in fury.

I tried to pull free, but his fists tightened around my arms. He took a step forward, pushing me ahead of himself. Then his left foot hit the ground, and he grimaced in obvious agony.

The pain seemed to clear Marc’s head, and his eyes regained focus. He struggled visibly to get control over his temper, his gaze shifting back and forth between my eyes. I tried to jerk my arms away again, and he blinked. Then he shoved me. Hard.

I staggered backward, all the way to my bed. Again.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I spat, gripping the footboard to recover my balance. Since my claws were temporarily unavailable, I scrambled for words sharp enough to wound him. “Don’t you ever lay another finger on me,” I said, the calm surface of my voice hiding a churning current of rage. “You lost the right to touch me a long time ago.”

Hurt flickered across his face, and for an instant, my inner bitch was pretty happy. But then his expression hardened into anger once more as his hands formed fists at his sides. “If you have a problem with me, by all means let me know. In private. Throwing fits in front of the entire Pride was one thing when you were fifteen, but you’re an adult now, so start acting like it.”

I clenched the bedpost at a narrow section of the spindle, carving fresh grooves amid a tangle of older scars etched in the grip of a very different kind of passion. “You’re in for quite a shock if you thought that was a fit,” I said through teeth clenched hard enough to hurt. “Besides, four toms hardly make up the entire Pride. And there is no ‘in private’ around here, in case you haven’t noticed. They’re probably listening to us right now.” In fact, I knew they were because no one was talking.

Marc sighed, and eased his weight onto his good leg. I couldn’t resist a little silent gloating as he winced. “It’s been a long time, Faythe,” he said, his features twisted in pain. He probably wanted me to think his ankle was the only thing bothering him, but I knew better. This was a different kind of hurt, older and far more acute. “I was just trying to get reacquainted,” he continued. “Looking for a way to reconnect with you.” He stared at the floor, curling his toes in the carpet. “I made a mistake, and I’m sorry.”

I blinked, surprised by both his apology and the sudden change of subject. Weren’t we just talking about my “fit” in the kitchen? How had he made the leap to his forest faux pas?

Anyone else would have just accepted his apology and moved on, but did I? No, because I can’t see an emotional scab without picking at it to see if it will bleed. “What do you want me to say, Marc? That I’m sorry, too?” I paused, and he shook his head. “Good, because I’m not. You had no right to mark me. I’m not yours. I’m not anyone’s.”

The pain in his eyes bled into anger with frightening speed, and he clutched the top of my dresser for support. “I messed up, and you called me on it. Nearly took my foot off, in fact, so we’re even as far as I’m concerned.”

I started to tell him we would never be even as long as I was under house arrest while he was free to come and go as he pleased. But for once, his words came faster than mine. He was learning—and only five years too late.

“You can pretend you’re one of the guys all you want, but that means I outrank you. We all outrank you. And no tomcat would get away with punching me.”

Marc was right, though I would never admit that to him. And though he would never say it, he wasn’t just angry about being punched. I’d insulted and embarrassed him in front of his subordinate Pride members. Anyone else would pay for that. But I wasn’t anyone else.

“What do you want to do, drag me out back and beat the shit out of me?” I stuck my chin out and crossed my arms over my chest, daring him to come teach me a lesson.

He looked tempted for an instant, but then he exhaled softly and shook his head, leaning against the closed door. “You know what I want, Faythe.”

Closing my eyes, I counted to ten silently, hoping that when I looked again, I’d be back in my apartment at UNT, far from Marc, the emotional black hole. I opened my eyes. Nothing had changed. He was still watching me, waiting for my response.

Maybe I should have counted to fifteen.

“No,” I said, wincing as his face fell. Scarring him physically was one thing, but I’d decided long ago to keep my claws off his heart, which he typically left undefended.

“It doesn’t have to be like it is with your parents,” he said. “We could start from scratch. Make up the rules as we go.”

My heart thumped painfully, and I hated the fact that he could hear it, that he could discern temptation in the rhythm of my pulse and hesitation in the hitch in my breath. We’d only been together for two years, but they were a very intense two years, and at one point, I thought we’d be together forever. Then reality smacked me in the forehead and I realized that I certainly could have Marc for the rest of my life if I wanted. Him, and his children, and nothing else.

But now he was offering me more than he ever had, compromising on things he’d always sworn could never be changed. But it still wasn’t enough, and it never would be. If nearly biting off his foot hadn’t made that clear, I didn’t know what would.

“I don’t want to make up the rules,” I said, suddenly tired. This was the point where our old argument lost its vitality. The part where I turned him down. Again. “I don’t want any rules at all.”

Marc swallowed, and I could almost taste his disappointment on the air, bitter as unsweetened tea and painfully tart.

“There are rules for everything,” he said. “You follow the rules at school without a second thought, but you won’t bend to the few that could make you truly happy.”

He’d summed up my problem exactly. I wouldn’t bend. Not for him. Not for anyone.

“We are not having this argument again,” I insisted. Yet we seemed incapable of discussing anything else. No matter how our conversations began, they always came back to what went wrong with us and why I wasn’t willing to try again.

He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “You could run things however you want, with no one to tell you what to do. I don’t have to be in charge. I don’t even want to be.” He paused and I shook my head slowly. “Come on, Faythe, just think about what I’m saying.”

I didn’t have to think about it; I already knew what he was saying. According to traditions that were already well in place when the first colonists came to America, it was my responsibility to mate a man qualified to become the new Pride Alpha, someone capable of getting all the toms in line and keeping them there.

Marc was saying that if I married him, I could be in charge—that when Daddy turned the Pride over to him, he would hand it over to me. I would be my own boss, and his too. Sure, I would have the independence I’d always wanted, but it would come at a steep price: I’d be responsible not just for myself but for the entire Pride.

Not counting his enforcers, my father had more than thirty loyal tomcats spread across Texas, Oklahoma, and parts of Kansas, Louisiana, and Arkansas, each living his own life in his own way, just like Michael. They’d sworn loyalty to their Alpha and to the south-central Pride, and they would be available for more active duty should the need arise. But until then, they lived in relative peace under their Alpha’s protection, secure in his ability to lead and protect them.

And protect them he did—Daddy was a damn fine Alpha. But if Marc was right, and my father got his way, every tom in the territory would one day depend on me to lead him and keep him safe. Unfortunately, unless the job description included a translation of the prologue to The Canterbury Tales, I was dreadfully underqualified. And completely unmotivated to remedy the situation.

Marc thought he was offering me a deal I couldn’t refuse, but he didn’t understand. Giving me the Pride wouldn’t be giving me freedom. It would be chaining me hand and foot to a responsibility I didn’t want, and probably couldn’t handle.

Or maybe he did understand. Maybe he wanted me tethered to him and to a life I’d already rejected.

In the foyer, my mother’s antique grandfather clock chimed, and I counted along with the tones. Both of them. It was two o’clock in the morning, and I saw no end in sight for what had already been one of the longest evenings of my life.

“You’ll have to give them a leader one day, whether you like it or not,” Marc said on the tail of the last chime. “You can’t lead them by yourself.”

“The hell I can’t.”

Damn it! I stopped, squeezing my eyes shut in frustration. I’d been so ready to argue with him that I hadn’t actually listened to what he was saying.

Wood creaked as I leaned against the bedpost and rubbed my forehead, trying to clear away a thick mental fog. “I don’t want to lead them—with or without you.” Opening my eyes, I stared at him, letting him read the conviction on my face. “I don’t know anything about defending a territory, and I’m not interested in learning.”

Marc favored me with a patronizing smile, yet another of my many pet peeves. “You know, for a smart girl, you sure can act dumb.”

I frowned, unsure how to take the combination compliment/insult. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You already know most of what you need to know. All you need now is some experience.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I snapped, clenching the footboard behind me. I rubbed my fingertips over the polished grain of the wood, using the sensation to ground myself in reality, in the world where I spoke with poise and confidence, and Marc spouted his usual nonsense with the fervor of a true fanatic. My mind rebelled against the idea that Daddy had been cultivating me as his replacement for years and I’d never even noticed. That wasn’t possible. Was it?

“Shut up and think about it for a minute.” He pulled out my desk chair and sat, staring at me with an irritatingly smug confidence. “Have you ever taken dance lessons?”

“Is there a point to this question?” I put my hands on my hips, tapping my foot with exaggerated impatience.

“Just answer me. Have you ever had a dance lesson? Or a shopping spree? What about a manicure?”

My decidedly unmanicured hand clenched around a handful of denim, one finger snagging in my belt loop. “If this is a joke, it isn’t funny. You know me better than that.” Unfortunately.

“So does your father. He never encouraged your interest in anything frivolous, but he made sure you had a say in every decision about the Pride from the time you were twelve years old, even if he didn’t actually use your input.”

Marc let his gaze slide to the floor, clearly searching his memory for another example to support his harebrained theory. “He taught you how to fight.” His eyes snapped back to mine, as fast as a flash of lightning. “Why would he do that? None of the other Alphas teach their daughters to fight. You’ve never worn a tutu, but how many afternoons have you spent in sweatpants, sparring with the guys?”

I studied my fingernails, bitten to short, jagged edges. “Too many to count.” The sparring sessions had started when I was ten and wanted to take karate with a girlfriend from school. Daddy wouldn’t let me. He was afraid I’d really hurt someone. My first face-off against Ethan had proven him right, to my simultaneous horror and delight.

“Who taught you to control your breathing when you sprint and how to pounce from the trees?”

My father. There was no need to say it aloud because, like any good prosecutor, Marc never asked a question unless he already knew the answer.

“What about council diplomacy?”

I groaned and glanced at the clock on my stereo. Apparently time really could stand still. “What about it?” I asked, turning back to him reluctantly. My father had dragged me to at least one Pride council meeting a year until I left for school. After listening to two Alphas negotiate interterritory traveling rights for their college-bound sons, staving off boredom in Advanced Grammar class hadn’t even been a challenge.

“You know the details of every treaty negotiated by the council since you had your first Shift.”

“So what?” I tossed my hands into the air in exasperation. “What’s the point?” But understanding came even as I asked, and his next words only confirmed it for that last, stubborn part of my brain.

Marc stood straighter, barely pausing this time when his full weight hit his injured ankle. “Those are the things you’d have to know to lead a Pride. Your father doesn’t just want you to marry the next Alpha, Faythe. He wants you to be the next Alpha. To succeed him.” He searched my eyes, trying to gauge my reaction.

It struck me all at once, as if hearing it spelled out in small words made it real.

I’ll be damned. Daddy wasn’t teaching me to be independent. After all, how would that benefit the Pride? He was teaching me to be responsible.

Still staring at Marc, I sat down on the bed—not because I wanted to, but because my legs refused to support me any longer. Numb with shock, I let my gaze drift down from his face to the Berber carpet. I studied the familiar design, tracing the overlapping diamonds one at a time, as if the answers to every question floating around in my head must lie hidden somewhere within the pattern. But if they did, I couldn’t find them.

“All this time, I thought you understood,” Marc whispered. I glanced up to find him staring at me with wide eyes, the surprise in his expression bordering on disbelief. “I thought you knew what he wanted and were refusing on general principle. I can’t believe you never realized.”

“Yeah. Me neither.” I barely recognized my own voice. I sounded dazed, or maybe drugged. But then a deeper understanding hit me like a slap in the face. Everything he’d said was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Not by a long shot.

My eyes returned to him slowly. “You have all the same qualifications, Marc.” The stunned quality in my voice had been replaced by an unsettling calm, and as I watched, his face flushed. “You know everything I know, and you already have the experience.”

Yet without me, he would never be Alpha. And we both knew it.

Marc studied the collection of CDs lined up next to my stereo. “My training as an enforcer was very thorough, and my areas of study often overlapped yours.” He was hedging, covering up the truth with a thick layer of bullshit.

“How long?”

He met my eyes, his own carefully blank. “How long what?”

“How long has Daddy been grooming you? How old was I when he chose you for me? Eight? Ten?”

He had the decency to blush. “He didn’t choose me, Faythe. You did.”

I considered reminding him about a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, but didn’t think it would help. “I’m not an idiot, Marc. Daddy picked my boyfriend to be his top enforcer, and I’m supposed to believe that’s just a coincidence?” I heard my voice rise in pitch but couldn’t seem to stop it. “He wasn’t training you to defend the boundaries. He was preparing you to take over for him as Alpha.”

“No.” His denial was earnest and simple. “I’ve been trained to help and support you. To be your top enforcer, like I am for Greg.”

But I couldn’t believe it. Of course, that’s what Marc would say. He’d say anything to get us back together, and so would my father, but he had an ulterior motive.

I’d always known my father wanted me to marry Marc, but I’d assumed he was trying to make me happy, misguided though his efforts were. It had never occurred to me that because I was his daughter, Daddy was stuck with me. But he’d chosen Marc. My father wanted Marc as his heir, and the only way to accomplish that was through me.

Marc saw my thoughts on my face and shook his head at me slowly, as if I should have known better. “It wasn’t like that. You can’t train someone to be an Alpha. You know that.”

Of course I knew. You couldn’t teach a cat to utilize strengths and instincts he didn’t possess. But inherent talents could be molded if they were caught early enough, and that was exactly what Daddy had done with Marc.

An Alpha had to be fast, strong, and very good under pressure. He had to be able to make critical decisions quickly, with little information to go on. And most important, he had to have that indefinable something—akin to charisma, but infinitely stronger—which drew loyal tomcats to him and kept them true under even the worst circumstances.

Marc had all of that and more. He was decisive and evenhanded, but ruthless when he had to be. He’d been born to lead, and Daddy had guaranteed that his talents would never go unnoticed, especially by me. He’d made sure that the man closest to me—the only eligible man in the house during my formative years—was one he approved of and had, in fact, handpicked.

Staring into those gold-flecked eyes, I realized that my father had steered me toward Marc not to make either of us happy, but for the good of the Pride. Because everything Daddy did was for the good of the Pride, even if it wasn’t good for any one individual. Including me.

“You know he set us up,” I whispered, anger lending a bitter taste to my words. “You know neither of us ever really had a choice.”

Marc frowned, never taking his eyes from mine. “I had a choice, Faythe, and I made it years ago. I told you I’d never change my mind, and I haven’t. You’re the one who left.”

He had that right. I’d left, and spoiled all of my father’s careful planning. After all, even the best Alpha male was no good without a mate.

Unable to hold his gaze anymore, I let my eyes wander. They fell on a framed photograph on my dresser: Marc and me at my senior prom. My mother must have put it there, because I certainly hadn’t. That was the night he’d asked me to marry him. It was also the night I’d run away for the first time, terrified not by anything that went bump in the night but of growing up to be just like my mother.

Centuries ago, according to legend, our ancestors lived like true cats, with the biggest, strongest toms fighting for the right to mate the available tabbies. Unfortunately, there were very few tabbies. As I understood it, the problem lay not with the women but with the men. As with humans, the gender of our offspring is determined by the sex chromosome donated by the father. But in tomcats, the gametes carrying the Y chromosome are more motile than those containing the X chromosome. Simply put, the sperm cells that would produce male fetuses swim much faster than those that would produce females. This results in an average of five toms born for every one tabby.

To say that the competition for mating rights was fierce and bloody would be like saying the universe is pretty big. There are no words to describe an understatement of such magnitude.

Fortunately, in order to maintain the secret of our existence, most Prides were long ago forced to abandon instinct for the civilization of human society. In our modern Prides, each tabby chose her own husband. And almost invariably—whether through instinct, or deep-rooted social conditioning—she chose someone capable of leading her Pride.

However, even with civilized customs in place and a support system of enforcers, the Alpha had to be a strong leader in order to keep the respect and loyalty of his Pride. A weak Alpha wasn’t Alpha for long, even in the modern world. By contrast, like my father, Marc would have been a great Alpha.

Marc-in-the-picture looked so young, so happy. He was a triple threat: strong, charismatic and beautiful. Helen’s face may have launched a thousand ships, but Marc’s had sunk at least as many hearts, one of them mine.

When I’d asked him to choose, he’d picked the Pride over me. He wouldn’t get a chance to do it twice.

As he’d pointed out, I’d left, and just because he’d dragged me home didn’t mean I would stay there.

I turned from the photograph to the live version, for the first time noticing tiny age lines in the outside corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry, Marc,” I said, suddenly compelled to apologize, in spite of refusing to do so earlier. “I’m sorry about the way I left. And I’m sorry about your leg. But nothing’s changed, so please don’t make this any harder by refusing to believe me.”

He stared at me for almost a minute, as if waiting for me to break down and admit I was lying. Then, finally, he nodded, his face hardening with resolve. “Fine.” His eyes glazed over with the unreadable expression he wore at work, the one that reflected my own feelings but revealed none of his own. He’d cast me out and put up his defenses.

It was about time.

Marc pushed my chair back up to the desk. “You’ve always been stubborn, and I don’t know why I thought that might have changed.”

I smiled, more comfortable on familiar terrain. “I don’t know either.”

“Let’s just try to be civil to each other.”

“I’ve never been less than civil to you, Marc.”

He snorted, pulling his hands from his pockets in feigned exasperation. “What do you call slapping away my hand when I tried to comfort you?”

“Bad judgment?” I admitted, flushing with embarrassment.

“Damn right.” He didn’t smile, but the line of his jaw softened just a little; it wasn’t often I admitted to being wrong. “Let’s go eat.” He opened the door and gestured for me to go in front of him.

“You go ahead.” I picked at the edge of my comforter. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Yes, you are. Stop pouting. You’re hungry, so go eat.”

“You gonna make me?” I asked, trying to make it sound like a joke.

“If I have to.” Marc limped toward me with a determined edge to his lopsided gait. He reached for my arm again, but this time I dodged his grip. I was learning too.

“Okay, okay. I’m going.”

I smiled as I marched down the hall, convinced I was going of my own volition, in spite of the large tomcat walking at my back. Like I said, I find comfort in the familiar.

Eight

I polished off two burgers in spite of the tension. It takes a lot to get in the way of a cat’s appetite, and even Jace couldn’t screw up a hamburger. When the food was gone, we flipped a quarter to see who had to clean up. Owen lost a coin toss to Jace and got stuck doing the dishes. Ethan lost to Parker and wound up wiping down the cabinets and cleaning the stove. Marc was excused because of his injury.

No one asked me to lift a finger. I think they were afraid of losing a foot to my temper. It was kind of nice to be feared for once. Almost as nice as being respected. From what I can imagine, anyway.

I left the guys in the kitchen and wandered into my father’s office. In spite of our strained relationship, I was more comfortable in his sanctuary than anywhere else on the ranch. It was dark and kept just a little cooler than the rest of the house, and always made me think of evenings spent playing Candy Land or reading the Sunday-morning funny pages from my father’s lap.

As a little girl, I’d known of no more comfortable place to sleep than on Daddy’s love seat, and that was where I found myself, curled up with my knees touching my chest and my head resting against the cool leather cushion. The scent of leather conditioner brought to mind countless times I’d sat there in years past, listening in as my father conducted council business over the phone. I’d dripped jelly from my biscuit onto the cushion once when I was seven, and he hung up on the Alpha of the midplains territory to help me clean it up. I remember being awed by how important he’d made me feel.

But that was years ago, and a lot had changed since then.

I was almost asleep when the soft click of the door latch brought me instantly alert. My eyes flew open, frantically searching the dark room as my heart raced. Still lying on my side, I arched one arm over my head, fumbling on the glass end table for the lamp switch. My fingertips brushed over a notepad and a small, heavy statuette of a cat reared to pounce. But I couldn’t find the lamp.

Wood creaked beneath someone’s bare feet, but my human eyes couldn’t make out more than a man’s vague silhouette against the dim moonlight spilling in from the foyer.

Still feeling around on the table, I twisted silently onto my stomach, hoping for a better reach. Instead of the lamp, my fingers swept a path across my father’s marble-and-jade chess set, knocking off most of the hand-carved playing pieces.

“Shit,” I muttered, still stretching for the lamp as the last figures clattered to the floor. I held my breath, trying to determine from the sound whether any of them had broken. I couldn’t tell.

Another footstep whispered across the floor as the silhouette approached. I froze, sniffing the air. I identified his scent even as he spoke.

“Relax, it’s just me.”

Marc. Of course. “I’m not sure that’s any reason to relax,” I said, sagging with relief anyway. I let my head fall to rest against the arm of the love seat, my hand dangling above the chessboard. In two long steps, Marc was there, turning on the lamp.

I squinted against the sudden glare. “Why the hell were you sneaking up on me like that?” I demanded, frowning up at him. I pushed myself into a sitting position and glanced at the clock over the door. It was nearly three in the morning, and I couldn’t clearly remember why I’d come to Daddy’s office instead of just going to bed.

“I wasn’t sneaking up.”

“The hell you weren’t,” I snapped, swinging my feet onto the floor. My right foot came down on a chess piece, and I bent to pick it up. It was a jade rook, shaped like a traditional castle turret. And it was whole, thank goodness. I had no idea how to go about replacing one-of-a-kind chess pieces carved especially for my father by an associate in China. The artisan whose handiwork I’d sent crashing to the floor had died a decade before I was born.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Not now, Marc.” My voice was sleep-gruff and groggy. “I can’t deal with you anymore tonight.”

“It’s not about us.”

“Good, because there is no us.” The rook still nestled in my palm, I slid off the love seat and onto the floor to pick up the other pieces. Marc knelt across from me with the scattering of jade and marble figures between us, like slain soldiers on a miniature battlefield.

“I was supposed to go to Oklahoma tomorrow.”

“I know. Jace told me.” I set the rook on a corner square of the chessboard, next to a jade knight, a horse frozen in the act of tossing its mane.

“What did he say?”

“Just that you were supposed to check out a report about another stray.” I held a white marble bishop up to the light, looking for cracks. “Why?”

“Did he tell you who called it in?”

I shook my head slowly, suspiciously, my focus shifting from the bishop to Marc. Why should it matter who made the report?

“Danny Carver.”

I froze, my hand clenching around the cold marble, and met his eyes in dread. Dr. Carver. Shit. That means there’s a body.

Dr. Danny Carver was a tom born into one of the western Prides. When I was a kid, he worked as a part-time enforcer for my father as part of an agreement allowing him to complete his fellowship in forensic pathology at a school in our territory. He’d been a kind of last-minute backup, just for emergencies. After his fellowship, he’d taken a job as an assistant medical examiner in Oklahoma and my father had gladly accepted him as an adopted member of our Pride, just as he would later accept Jace, Vic, Parker, and several other toms now scattered across the territory.

After nearly ten years in the same office, Dr. Carver was promoted to senior assistant to the state medical examiner, which gave us a conveniently placed set of eyes and ears. We’d hoped never to have to use his position, and we’d been lucky for the most part. Until now.

“What happened?” I asked, my hand hovering over the prone form of a white pawn. I desperately didn’t want to know the answer, but I’d long since learned that ignorance was not really bliss. Not ever.

“They brought in a partially dismembered body yesterday morning,” Marc said.

I groaned, and let my hand fall into my lap, empty. I was supposed to be at school studying the classics, not at home hearing about abductions and dead bodies. This was the worst summer vacation ever.

When I realized he’d stopped talking, I glanced at Marc. He hooked one eyebrow at me like a facial question mark, and I nodded for him to continue as I picked up the pawn and set it on an empty square in the second row.

“The cops can’t figure out what happened to her, but their best guess so far is that she was attacked by some psychopath and left to die, then actually killed by a large wildcat. But it won’t take them long to measure the claw and bite marks and realize there shouldn’t be cats that big roaming wild in suburban Oklahoma. Or anywhere else in the U.S.”

My eyes were glued to his face as I waited for the rest, but nothing more came. “What happened to her?” I asked again, my hands tangled together in my lap. He was avoiding the details of the crime, probably hoping to spare me from the specifics. Far from finding that considerate, I found it annoying. If I needed to know, I’d rather get it all over with at once.

“There were finger-size bruises on her thighs and more mixed in with claw marks on her neck. Danny thinks he raped her, then Shifted to tear out her throat.” Marc glanced away, but I caught a glimpse of raw fear and outrage in his eyes before he could lower them. “Then he ripped into her stomach.”

My breath caught in my throat as I choked on my own horror. A jade pawn slipped from my fingers. Marc’s hand shot out, almost too fast to see, and the pawn fell into his palm before it could hit the floor.

That poor girl, I thought, watching as he carefully placed the piece on the chessboard in line with its comrades. I cleared my throat, drawing his eyes back to mine. “How old?”

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