by Celia Kyle
“Hate to break it to you, but I’ve been alone for most of my life. I’ve never had a ‘partner in crime.’ There has only ever been one person I could trust—me,” she snarled right back at him.
“There’s a fucking reason SHOC has us running in teams.” His eyes no longer bounced between blue and amber. They were now fully tiger yellow. The scent of his beast swirled in the damp air, amplifying the hints of damp earth, crisp sun, and Cole’s natural musk. It was tinged with his anger—the taint of burning wood.
“The shit we do is dangerous. This op is dangerous, and you just…” He sighed, and his shoulders slumped as he lowered his head, chin to his chest. “You can’t pull shit like that.”
He stayed in place, his breath coming in deep, even intervals. She lowered her head slightly, just enough so that her nose tickled his hair. She breathed deep, testing his scents while trying to pick apart his emotions.
The anger was easy to find. It overrode everything, running roughshod over all others. But her cat was tenacious, and she dug deeper. There had to be more.
And then she found it.
Her breath caught in her chest, heartbeat stuttering for a moment as her mind processed what she’d discovered. She lifted her hands and placed them on his arms, sliding them over his wet skin, up his biceps, over his shoulders and along his neck until she cupped his face. A small hint of pressure had him lifting his head, and she didn’t stop until his gaze met hers.
“You were scared.”
“I…” He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the silent bathroom.
“For me.”
Cole shook his head, denying her, but she saw the truth in his eyes. She’d worried him. Something she hadn’t ever thought twice about—doing recon and breaking into a building—had frightened the badass tiger.
That…touched something inside her. Something deep that she’d hidden long ago. A part of her she’d tucked away out of sight so it couldn’t ever be hurt again—her heart.
“Cole…”
He shook his head again. “You can’t pull that shit, okay? You can’t…” He clenched his teeth, jaw working while he fought to keep silent. “Running off half-cocked will blow the mission.”
“Right.” She didn’t believe a word of what he said. Somewhere between a quick grope in James Walters’s study and this moment, their odd acquaintance had turned into something else. She didn’t have a name for whatever they’d become, but it was different. New. Odd. And…welcome.
“You like me a little bit.” Stella grinned, and he glared. She darted forward and pressed a kiss to his nose. “I promise I won’t tell anyone.” His narrow-eyed stare remained. She rubbed the pad of her thumbs along his cheekbone, his afternoon scruff scraping her skin. “No one’s ever been worried about me before.”
Stella wasn’t sure where that admission came from—it wasn’t usually something she talked about with anyone—but there it was.
“Your parents…”
She shook her head. “No. I was little when…” She swallowed past the knot in her throat. “You’re the first in a long time.” Ever.
Stella held him steady while she brushed her lips across his. Just the tiniest of caresses. “Thank you.” Then another. “Thank you.” And yet another, though this time she added a hint of tongue. “Thank you…”
Chapter Twelve
Grant
Grant was bored as hell and tired of listening in on Cole’s bullshit conversations with smarmy Unified Humanity–supporting assholes. And he sure as fuck wasn’t listening to Cole fucking.
Grant pushed to his feet and bent side to side, cracking his back with each tilt. Damn he was getting old.
He padded through the bungalow, thankful it’d been emptied in anticipation of the construction work to come. There were no pieces of furniture to trip over. Unfortunately, that also meant he didn’t have a couch or a coffee table to prop his feet on.
And no refrigerator. How the hell did a male survive without cold beer? He was a shifter—it wasn’t like the alcohol would impede his mind or body—but sometimes a man just wanted a cold one after a long day of listening to assholes.
He’d have to settle for a nice breeze and crisp ocean air instead. Gag.
He went to the back of the bungalow and into the kitchen nook, pausing to peer through the window and into the darkness beyond. He beckoned his wolf from the back of his mind, and it readily came forward, eager to do something. The beast was just as bored as his human half.
This late at night, the moon hung high above the ocean, light glinting off the dark, gentle waters. The sea lapped at the pale beach, and the murmur of the waves beckoned him to leave the small building. The bungalows on either side of him hadn’t been assigned to any guests for the weekend, which meant they were empty as well.
The wolf nudged him, urged him to at least open the back door and test the wind. If they didn’t scent anyone nearby, then maybe…His animal whined and prodded him again.
It wasn’t like it asked to run. It simply couldn’t remain cooped up any longer.
They’d had enough of that in their life. More than enough. Five years too long in the hands of—
An echoing snarl reverberated in his mind, Grant’s beast cutting him off before his thoughts could travel back to that time. He still suffered from those years in captivity, but there was no reason to dwell on it now. Not when SHOC—his team specifically—was so close to finding and destroying the organization responsible for his lingering agony.
He went to the back door and flicked the dead bolt, then silently twisted the knob. The door swung open on silent hinges, and the sea air swept in and washed away the stagnant smell that pervaded the bungalow. He stepped onto the back porch, weathered wood firm beneath his bare feet. Sand scratched his soles and beat at his exposed skin, the wind whipping the small grains through the air.
He tugged the door closed just as quietly as it’d opened and silently made his way across the patio. He slowly tromped down the creaking steps and breathed deep, letting the briny air fill his lungs. Fresh air—of a sort—filled him, and his muscles slowly relaxed. Being cooped up really had been hell. More so than he’d realized.
Grant followed the worn, sandy path to the expansive beach and glanced to his left. In the distance, bright lights shined and broke up the darkness. In that direction lay the occupied homes, now sparkling with activity. To his right, the beach remained dark—empty. Just the way he liked it.
He moved toward that darkness, letting it swallow him whole. If he shifted, he’d easily blend with the shadows—his near-midnight coloring hiding him from human sight. His wolf wagged its tail and nudged him in encouragement, wanting to feel sand beneath its paws.
Eh, his wolf wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box sometimes. It didn’t seem to care that they were on a Unified Humanity–owned island and that every single person on the island would happily kill them.
It chuffed and reminded him of Cole’s and Stella’s presence.
He rolled his eyes and continued his walk. Okay, everyone but two people would happily kill them.
The breeze tugged at his dark hair like insistent, determined hands. Like fingers demanding he tilt his head back and stare into the bright light as doctors checked his eyes. He shook his head, reminding himself he wasn’t strapped to a stretcher and beaten half to death.
The beast snarled and scraped him from inside out, sharp claws dragging along his forearms. Ripples traveled beneath his skin, the animal making its presence known.
It didn’t want his mind going there, dammit.
Yeah, well, it wasn’t a picnic for Grant’s human half, either, but it knew what happened when Grant was alone. When he didn’t have the distraction of his teammates and the frenzy of training or a mission to keep him occupied.
Grant followed the coastline, the sand gradually giving way to rougher pebbles, then rocks, and finally a stone cliff. Aerial imaging showed that this area remained uninhabited, while the rest of the island h
ad been developed. Leaving a barren outcropping of stone. No trees, either. Just some random bits of undergrowth that managed to cling to the rough ground.
Stubborn bits of grass.
Kinda like him—determined to survive even when he was told he should be dead.
He followed the next bend, his attention on the water, when he heard a gasp barely louder than the waves. A woman was sitting nearby.
Eyes wide, he froze in place and flared his nostrils as he breathed deep. His wolf fought past the scents of the sea and nature. It sought the natural aromas of the interloper and found sweet merciful deliciousness.
Honeydew with a hint of bright citrus on a hot summer’s day.
Dayum.
Grant’s wolf whimpered and chuffed before giving his mind a soft prod. For once the animal didn’t make a demand—it begged.
He stared at the stranger—the delicate female looked as if a strong wind could send her tumbling over the cliff. The pictures he’d compiled as part of the mission profile hadn’t told the full story. She’d appeared slight in the surveillance photos, but this…She looked like an ethereal fae—otherworldly despite her humanity.
Pale blond curls were snared by the breeze, long golden tendrils flowing behind her. Shining blue eyes met Grant’s, and he waited for sexual interest to fill her gaze. He wasn’t an arrogant bastard, but shifters weren’t exactly hit with the ugly stick. Combine that with being shirtless and in a pair of jeans that hung low on his hips?
Yeah, he was sex on legs. At least, that’s what he’d been told in the past. Now he wanted to hear those words fall from the blonde’s lips.
Of course, that required talking to her first. Something he hadn’t done quite yet. Instead, he’d stood there and stared at her. He panted like a pup looking for a scratch behind his ear.
“Good evening,” he murmured, just loud enough to be heard over the rolling waves and rustling wind.
“Uh…” Her eyes widened, and her small pink tongue darted out to wet her plump lips. “Hi.”
Grant took a step forward and then another, gradually closing the distance between them. The nearer he drew, the more her fear seemed to grow, until the next gust filled him with the overwhelming stink.
He froze in place and softened his expression. The smell was enough to banish his growing interest. His growing sexual interest anyway.
He’d give the elfen woman a moment to get used to his presence while he…tried to reconcile his desire with the identity of this alluring woman. The profile contained page after page of intimate details, but not a one said that she’d steal Grant’s breath. That her beauty would make him consider getting involved with someone connected to Unified Humanity.
She didn’t look like her father, but Grant knew the truth. This woman called Richard King “Daddy.”
“I’m Grant.” He tipped his head toward the water to his left. “Nice night, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s…” She turned her attention to the sea once more, giving him a look at her delicate profile. Her focus remained split between him and the water—watching him as if he was a dangerous predator. Which he was.
She must have decided he wasn’t too dangerous because she finished her thought. “It’s beautiful.”
He tucked his hands into his pockets and followed the direction of her stare. “It is.” He nodded. “The sea is hard and soft at the same time. She can be forgiving but just as quickly turn around and kick your ass.”
That had her looking at him again, her lips tipped up in a teasing smile. “She?” She quirked a brow. “What makes the ocean a ‘she’?”
She was calming but still uneasy. With any other woman, his wolf would cut its losses and tell Grant to move on. They shouldn’t bother with a skittish female. But with her… the wolf urged him to stay.
He lowered himself to the ground in a single fluid move. He leaned back on his palms and forced his body to relax—to convey that he wasn’t a threat. Yet anyway.
The wolf reassured him he’d never be a threat to this delicate female. Ever.
The wolf, apparently, didn’t recall exactly who she was—Charlotte King, daughter of Richard King, the suspected brains behind Unified Humanity.
His inner beast chuffed and rolled its eyes. Apparently, her father didn’t matter in its opinion. It wanted to lick Charlotte from head to toe. Twice.
“What makes the ocean a ‘she’?” Grant repeated the question and winked at her, smiling when those pale cheeks flushed pink. He didn’t miss the way her gaze strayed, sliding down his toned body. He didn’t have to work too hard to get his muscles, but he liked being appreciated. “Well, men aren’t exactly soft and gentle.”
She tipped her head to the side. “Some are.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Most aren’t.”
“Point conceded.” She’d used one of those two-dollar words, and damn that was sexy.
“Men are rough and hard. Obstinate as hell and just as stubborn. Most of us take a stance and there’s no give.” He patted the ground. “We’re like this cliff. Solid and unmovable through and through.”
Charlotte’s lips parted, and she gave him a wide smile. “I can agree with that.”
“The ocean there”—he tipped his chin toward the waters—“she’s soft and sweet when the weather’s nice, but you get her mad…” He shook his head. “Whoo boy, you better watch out. She gets a storm raging, and then she’s stronger and meaner than anyone you’ve ever met. Those waves will kick this cliff’s ass from one end of the island to the other and still be ready for more.” Charlotte snorted, and he winked at her, matching her smile. “Nothing I fear more than a pissed-off woman…or a storm on the sea.”
“So, you’d be afraid of little old me?”
“Absolutely.” He gave her a straight face, eyes wide while he nodded.
“Now I know you’re full of shit.”
“Honey.” He couldn’t help but call her that, her honeysuckle scent urging him to get closer. “I’m more afraid of you than anything in my life.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Unlikely. And it’s Lottie, not ‘honey.’”
“Lottie? Short for Charlotte?”
She curled her lip. “There are only a few people who call me Charlotte, and they’re…” She shuddered, and the sweet scent was replaced with something like disgust. “I prefer Lottie. My friends call me Lottie.”
“We’re friends?”
“Well, we’re not enemies.”
As far as she knew, anyway. He wasn’t about to correct her.
Their status as enemies couldn’t be determined until Richard King discovered he’d been infiltrated by a few shifters and Grant discovered whether Lottie harbored the same level of hatred as her dear old daddy.
“Or are we enemies?” She lifted her eyebrows in question. “I don’t remember you at the reception or dinner.”
Grant shrugged. “Don’t like parties. Don’t like people, really.”
“Don’t like…them?”
The way she said that word—them—told him who she referred to, and she wasn’t talking about rich assholes. Them as in, shifters. Her tone didn’t tell him how she felt, though. There was no heat or coolness in her voice. He couldn’t figure out whether she hated shifters, liked ’em, or flat-out didn’t give a fuck.
Now he had to craft a response that didn’t get his ass exposed. Maybe leaving the bungalow had been a mistake. But then he never would have gotten to meet this little package of near perfection.
“Like, dislike…” He shrugged. “Life sucks all around. Only difference is that we’re in a position to know that sometimes the reasons for shitty situations aren’t always laid at the feet of a human. Some can be attributed to them.”
Lottie’s voice trembled when she spoke. “What if it’s rarely—hardly ever—shitty because of someone who isn’t quite human? If they’re not always at fault or dangerous no matter what others say? What if they’re not totally…?”
“Evil?” Sure, his kind had
evil-as-a-motherfucker shifters. His team was made up of ’em, after all. But they were mostly good. Sometimes. More so now that Declan was mated. No one on the team wanted to call Abby to get bailed out of jail. Especially since she was pregnant.
“Yeah. What if they’re not evil like they say?”
Grant leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, staring out at the rhythmic waves. He appeared relaxed, but he remained tense and on alert. “Then that needs some thinking.”
“Thinking that ends in opening a checkbook for Unified Humanity?”
She was testing him, and he couldn’t exactly say hell no. Instead, he shrugged. “We’ll have to see.” As in, he’d have to see how quickly he decided to kill the bastards who wanted to kill Grant and his kind. “We’ll just have to see.”
Chapter Thirteen
Olivia Walters wouldn’t quit looking at Cole as if he were a wagyu steak and she were a starving woman. It made Stella want to release her claws and slit the woman’s throat. Not that she was bloodthirsty. Much.
Stella sighed and stuffed her jealousy aside. After getting caught yesterday, she needed to prove more than ever that she was nothing more than pretty arm candy. Like all the other women on Walters’s yacht. Every woman was dressed up in tiny little skirts, tight tops, and utterly inappropriate shoes. Heels on a boat? Stella, at least, sported sparkly ballet flats.
Olivia’s friend—Charlene. Or Cheyenne? Wait, it was Charlotte—stared at the passing waves while Stella pretended not to notice Olivia’s presence. Mainly because if she acknowledged the chick, she’d be tempted to cut her into tiny pieces.
Stella leaned against the railing and turned her head, letting the breeze brush her hair from her face. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, letting the clean air fill her lungs. She couldn’t deny her cat’s happiness at being outdoors. Even if they were on the water and she spent her time alternating between puking and wanting to gut Olivia.