by Eve Langlais
When A Tigon Weds
A Lion’s Pride #9
Eve Langlais
Copyright © 2019/2020, Eve Langlais
Cover Art by Yocla Designs © 2019/2020
Produced in Canada
Published by Eve Langlais
http://www.EveLanglais.com
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction and the characters, events and dialogue found within the story are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, either living or deceased, is completely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to digital copying, file sharing, audio recording, email and printing without permission in writing from the author.
E-ISBN: 978 177 384 1342
Print ISBN: 978 177 384 1359
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Also by Eve Langlais
Introduction
‘Til death do us part. That’s what Dean, her accidental husband is insisting on, and if he doesn’t change his mind, Natasha might grant his wish.
A mob princess is used to getting what she wants, and she wants out of their marriage, so why is she so mad that someone keeps trying to kill Dean?
Dean always knew his not-so-innocent wife would return one day, and it’s been nothing but explosions since. But this tigon won’t merely bounce off. He made a vow, and he’s not about to break it—not when he knows she’s his mate.
When a tigon weds, it’s for life.
Previous books in A Lion’s Pride, a USA Today Bestselling series:
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Chapter One
Twas’ a clear and lovely night. Unlike Dean’s mood, which churned with memory.
On a night much like this one, he’d gotten his lovely, striped tail with its fantastic tuft, royally yanked. Not literally. He’d have shredded anyone who even dared to pull his most excellent tigon tail. Yank…figuratively. He’d been fooled by someone he thought he could trust. Blame a lack of blood to his brain. He was always hard around her. Perpetually stupid.
In his defense, Natasha had a way of moving. A certain smile. A tilt of her head. The way she cocked her hip... All of it designed to enflame. To render him witless.
But he was wise to her games now. Knew her strengths and weaknesses. He couldn’t wait until the rematch.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey—the expensive kind that he could sip all night long, given how smooth it tasted. He paced himself. It wouldn’t do to get drunk or to pass out too soon. Tonight was the night.
Natasha was coming. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones. He just needed to be patient. Wait for her to make a move. Given what he knew about her, surely it wouldn’t be long now.
He’d been following her movements ever since she’d played him for a fool. It proved easier than expected, given she was quite active on social media. Although, that didn’t mean much given staged photos could be scheduled to release ahead of time to give the appearance of an active life.
Dean knew how easy it was to fake. For example, according to one very popular site that just allowed pictures with hashtags, Dean was currently in a bar, having a few drinks.
Would she fall for it? Would she think him away from home?
Doubtful. Just like he didn’t believe the last image he’d seen of her on a beach soaking up the sun’s rays. She didn’t vacation in some tropical place. She was nearby. Getting closer.
Or was that just wishful thinking?
Dean grabbed his phone and pulled up her profile, still displaying that same beach pic. She wore a sleek one-piece bathing suit with a single shoulder strap. Over it, she’d loosely tied a sarong. She’d barely changed since he’d last seen her. Her hair was the same style, her skin just as fresh. She looked so youthful, and yet, she was only five years younger than he.
Despite what he knew of her, she remained beautiful. While he liked to think her betrayal would render him immune to her charms, one look, and he immediately became stupid.
Case in point, look at him, having a few drinks, expecting Natasha to stop by. He knew she’d come to find him eventually. But waiting took patience. Good thing he’d practiced for hours at a time. Hours he’d spent hunkered in the tall grass, a hiding tigon ready to pounce. He’d learned to never scare his aunts like that, given the one time he’d made Aunt Marni pee herself, and she chased him down and shaved his mane. One did not irritate the aunts. Or the cousins either for that matter. They would plot the most heinous revenge.
Another glass of whiskey, and still no Natasha.
More than three days had passed since he’d seen the announcement online. Proud to announce the upcoming nuptials of… In black and white text with a colored image of the smiling couple as proof.
Natasha was getting married.
Maybe.
Dean had a thing or two to say about it, which was why, after pounding back a large bottle of whiskey, he’d sent her a note. A reminder of their unfinished business.
The next day, he’d received a registered letter, addressed to him from a lawyer, demanding his signature. An impersonal way of concluding matters.
Nope. Dean burned the letter and didn’t bother sending a reply. The tigon waited some more. He had his home cleaned top to bottom. Got a haircut. A new suit.
Two more demands arrived from the lawyers. He set those documents on fire too, in the yard with a can of lighter fluid and a match. He used more fuel than necessary, on purpose. As it flared bright, he lit his cigar from the dancing flames, and when it puffed nicely, he used it to salute the hovering drone that had been watching his property all day. He winked before pulling out a gun and shooting it out of the sky.
If Natasha wanted to see him, she could come in person. He waited some more. Painted his bedroom. Pumped some weights. Stripped the wallpaper with his claws and then replastered the whole thing.
At nine thirty-two, his watch buzzed. A glance was all it took for him to grin. “Showtime.”
The empty glass needed a top-up. Once he’d filled the tumbler halfway, Dean chose to sit in the gray club chair in the center of his living room, which implied a livelier place than reality. White walls to his left and right with a lofty, white ceiling. To his back, the kitchen, with its massive island and wood cupboards. In front, an enormous sliding glass window that opened to a patio.
The interlocked stone was faintly visible due to the illuminated infinity pool. Built on a cliff, he enjoyed floating on the surface, feeling as if he were part of the sky—he could only hope the rock face would never shear away, although the danger did add to the enjoyment of his backyard oasis.
He’d chosen to wait inside in comfort, reclining in his chair, placing his glass on the metal column beside it, shaped to appear as a log, that acted as a table. If he pressed a button on the armrest to his left, a screen would drop from the ceiling, allowing him to watch television. He left the tele off, though he did momentarily debate throwing on some tunes. But what wo
uld he play? Something soft and sensual, or hard and action-packed?
He took another sip of whiskey, enjoying the heat of it as it went down, and waited.
Smash.
The sliding glass door shattered as something hit it hard. Glass sprayed over the hardwood and rolled across the buffalo hide carpet—a real one he should add. Dean had taken it off a sadistic hunter—right after Dean made him repent every animal he’d tortured.
Despite the hole in his window, Dean took another gulp of whiskey. Liquid courage that hopefully might slow down the flow of blood from his brain elsewhere.
Stay smart. He feigned nonchalance he didn’t feel. Hummed with adrenaline.
It was time.
A figure swung into the room, concealed head to toe in dark garments including a face mask and a swaddling hood. The rope snapped loose as they landed on their feet. Interesting tactic, using his roof. A good thing he’d installed sensors there last year.
The slight figure didn’t hold any weapon, and their features were masked but he didn’t need to see to know. He tingled. His beast shivered and almost uttered a rumbling noise.
“Hello, Natasha. Long time, no see.”
She swung her hips as she stalked towards him. “Don’t you mean since our wedding night?”
Less wedding, more hoax. Natasha hadn’t married him because he was the best thing since peanut butter and chocolate got together. She used him.
He tamped down his anger and remained cool as he said, “What’s it been, five months? Six?” He could have quoted the exact time down to the minute had he wished. He kept his tally to himself. He’d never give her that kind of power. And, so far, so good. He still had his wits about him.
Her hands tucked behind her back. “Too long and overdue. I’m here to ask for a divorce.”
Despite expecting this, he couldn’t help a growl. Given the lies she’d told him, he should be happy that she wanted to end the false marriage. Yet, a part of him had known then, and knew even more strongly now.
She is mine.
More than ever, he was convinced of it, and yet she didn’t appear to have the same struggle as he did. He’d been fighting the urge to hunt her down ever since that night. He wouldn’t be the one to go begging. The one to admit weakness.
Which was why he waited. Why he bided his time. He’d wagered that one day she’d return if only to ask him for a divorce.
He had pictured this moment in so many different ways, some of them ending in naked passion. But in every instance when she asked him to sever their marriage, his answer remained the same. No.
Never.
He wouldn’t agree even if she seduced him right this second and made him purr.
He arched a brow. “Is this where I say I believe the vow was until death do us part?”
“If you insist.” The hand behind her back emerged, lifting a gun that she held level with his face.
“I take it you got my note.” The one that was basic and said, Here’s a copy of our marriage certificate. Signed, Your husband.
“We are not married.”
“I see you’re surprised. So was I when I realized you weren’t who I thought.”
“That wedding was a sham,” she growled.
“Perhaps to you. And yet, vows were exchanged.”
“I left before it was done.”
“Apparently not soon enough, given I received a certificate in the mail two weeks later.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when you got the notice?” Natasha shoved up the face covering, revealing her full-lipped glory. Her eyes a stormy sea.
His resolve began to slip. Still so damned gorgeous. He had to remain strong. He took another sip of liquid courage before saying, “I would have told you, but you disappeared and then didn’t keep in touch.”
“Because I was done with you,” she exclaimed, waving the gun with clear exasperation.
“Maybe you were, but I still have unresolved issues with you, wife.” He said it quite deliberately and enjoyed the spot of angry color that appeared in each of her cheeks. She was a liar and a fake, but he remained steadfast in his certainty that she belonged with him.
“Is this a male ego thing? Because I don’t do those. I used you. Get over it. Don’t get pissy with me because you didn’t do your homework.”
The sassy rebuke kept his blood where it belonged. “I would have eventually gotten around to doing a background check.” Said in a grumble. Way to remind him of just how monumentally deficient he’d been. He’d not taken any kind of precaution. Hadn’t once even thought of checking Natasha out more deeply. She’d fooled him so well. He admired her skill.
“If it makes you feel better, I never dug too deep with you either. I fell for your lazy playboy act.”
That brought a smile to his lips. It turned out they had more in common than either of them realized.
“Who says it’s an act?”
“Because I’ve been looking into you, as well. You’re an interesting fellow, and your name isn’t actually Dean.” The gun she’d relaxed steadied in line with his heart.
It was a nickname given to him because some of his female family members decided that he reminded them of the television heartthrob on that show about the paranormal. He preferred it over his real name Neville Horatio Fitzpatrick.
“Would you really shoot me, Natasha?” he asked, not the least bit worried despite the steel in her expression. Surely, she felt the connection pulsing between them. The electricity. Or was that just pure hate? She certainly didn’t seem to be softening.
“Either you agree to a divorce, or I’m going to suddenly become a grieving widow, Neville.” She did on purpose to use the name he hated.
“You are more violent than I recall. What happened to the soft-spoken university student I met?” She’d been wide-eyed and shy in the bar where he’d first seen her. Sipping on her virgin piña colada, her shirt buttoned to her neck, her skirt covering her knees. Her hair hanging loose with just a barrette holding it out of her face. She’d seen him looking and smiled, ducked her head. He’d completely fallen for her innocent act.
“You saw what you wanted to see. Just like every other man.” Said with disdain, and he couldn’t blame her. She was right. He’d only ever seen the luscious woman who made him feel like a big, bad tigon. She smelled just right, and even though she’d never shown him her beast side, he could sense the feline inside her, was attracted to it. Wanted to rub himself against her and smear her with his scent. Cordon off an area around her with some urine to mark her as his. Roar to everyone looking that she belonged to him.
She’d really fooled him.
“I’m surprised guns are your weapon of choice.” Because he would have said her most dangerous weapon was her gentle touch. She had a way of rousing his passion and blinding him to the truth. And damn did it feel good.
“Guns. Knives. Pressure points. Poison.” Her bow lips curved. “I had an interesting childhood.” As the daughter of a renowned Russian mobster, of course, she had. Not that he’d known of her background when he met her. As far as he knew, he’d met Natasha Smirnoff, foreign student from Russia, orphaned and currently in America on a scholarship. A lone tigress with permission to be in the territory to study.
More lies. The Pride knew nothing about a Ms. Smirnoff. So many balls dropped, and rules broken.
As she listed off her mercenary capabilities, he lifted his glass in salute. “To the hidden depths of Natasha Tigranov. Anything else you’d like to add to the list?”
“I like to compete in archery and axe throwing competitions.”
“But the question is, can you cook?” He already knew the reply.
“No.”
“Then how on earth do you feed yourself?”
She scowled. “I have a chef.”
“A chef?” He snorted. “Do you even know how to boil water?”
“Of course, I do. Scalding is one of the techniques I learned in my lessons on torture. Would you like me to show you?
”
“Only if you’re planning to make some fresh egg noodles. I do love my pasta.” He patted his tummy.
“As if I’d cook for you.”
“I’d say that’s the wrong attitude to take, wife. Isn’t pleasing your husband your job?” He deliberately threw out the most sexist thing he could think of. He was sure she’d shoot him. Her hand did shake a little, but she had great control.
“I am not your wife.”
“I have proof claiming otherwise.”
“I see I was correct in filing for divorce stating irreconcilable differences. A divorce I shouldn’t even need, given that the wedding probably wasn’t even legal.”
“If it wasn’t legal, then why couldn’t your lawyer quash it?” He took another sip of his drink.
“He tried.” Her lips flattened. “You ignored the letters we sent.”
“You don’t say.” His glass was empty. To refill it would require walking closer to her. It might be enough to tilt her over the edge. “Are you pouting because you didn’t get your way?”
“I’m feeling murderous because you’re being deliberately aggravating,” she yelled. “I can’t be married to you.”
“Maybe you should have thought of that before you used me to get to my best friend!” He finally lost a bit of his temper. It wasn’t enough that she’d fooled him and jilted him at the altar. She’d never been interested in him at all.
The smirk on her lips deepened. “Ah, are you still miffed over that teeny, tiny misunderstanding?”
He almost made a sound. “Tiny? You held a knife to Lawrence’s throat.” Which was surprising for a few reasons, the first being that she’d had a blade strapped to her leg in the first place.