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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.”
