Shifters Forever Worlds Epic Collection

by Elle Thorne

  He held his hand up, stopping her protest mid-sentence.

  “What about all the shifter babies before these? Is there an existing database?”

  “There is. Elsewhere. Now we start fresh again.” He glanced at Mae.

  Mae nodded.

  “You have a home for the girls, make sure MacKenzie has the contact information. They’ll still be kept together? Not separated?” he asked.

  Mac found herself holding her breath, waiting for Mae to answer. It would suck for the little ones to lose each other, now that they were orphaned.

  Mae nodded. “We’ve got the same home for both.”

  “Good. I like to see siblings kept together.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The day of the tattoo…

  After setting up the records for the twins, Mac had tried to settle into her routine at work. She’d tried not to look at the paper with the number and the address and directions to Larsen’s cousin.

  She couldn’t concentrate though. Her eyes constantly drifted to the paper she’d folded in half and stuck to the side of the filing cabinet with a magnet. She needed to get moving on this. Every day was as hard if not harder than the day before. Missing Lance was eating her soul.

  It didn’t take Mac long to make arrangements to visit Larsen’s cousin in Seattle. She’d wrapped up her plans and headed out the door before dawn. Misha, her sheepdog would spend the weekend with the clinic’s help.

  A few hours later, the GPS said she was ten minutes away. She followed the directions, a little bit nervous and a little bit excited about the visit.

  And a whole lot of sad filled her, leaving Mac with a void.

  This is it. After this, my bond with him will be broken.

  Did she really want that?

  He broke our bond when he left us.

  But why?

  She fought the reflex to call Lance. Her fingers itched with a desire to dial him—see if he had the same number—tell him what she was planning, find out if he had any feelings on the matter.

  Of course, he has no feelings. If he had, he’d have reached out. He’d have told me why he’s doing this.

  Yeah, he didn’t give a shit.

  It was time for her to move on.

  She took a left. And another. And another.

  Jesus, where the hell am I going?

  She wasn’t going into Seattle. She was going farther from civilization.

  The GPS quit showing a route, instead, proclaiming it was searching for satellite reception.

  “Just fucking great.” She fumbled for the paper she’d put in her purse. It had a few directions from Larsen.

  Pass the owl mailbox.

  She’d seen that.

  Turn left when the road dead ends.

  Okay, that hadn’t happened yet. She was still good.

  The road ended less than thirty yards farther. She should have slowed. Mac slammed on the breaks, sending the contents of her purse pitching into the floorboard on the passenger side.

  “Lovely.” Battery acid sarcasm reflected in her voice.

  She ignored the spilled contents, and clutched the note.

  Fourth house on left.

  House?

  What the fuck?

  That was not a house. That was a hut. A shack. Made of tin and wood, and probably spit.

  The grass had grown tall, waist-high, except for a narrow path’s worth of real estate leading to the front door.

  Here goes nothing.

  She stepped into the path, feeling more like she’d stepped into another world, another time, even. At the end of the path, past the tall weeds, she could see her ultimate goal. The hut.

  Step by step, mindful of snakes, Mac made her way, finally stopping at a front door that looked like it couldn’t withstand a knock, for fear the wood might collapse.

  Mac rapped her knuckles on the doorjamb instead, feeling certain it, at least, could withstand a bit of pressure.

  The door opened to a woman unlike any she’d ever seen.

  This is his cousin?

  Long white-blond hair. Eyes so light a blue that they were almost indistinguishable from her whites. Her skin was a dusky tan color, offsetting the eeriness of her irises.

  She was attired in a long white gown, flowing to her ankles. Her feet were in sandals composed of strings—or weed cuttings.

  She returned Mac’s stare, not saying a word, not moving, no expression on her face.

  Mac regained her composure, tried to hide her shock at seeing the woman. “Larsen sent me.”

  “You’re MacKenzie Clarity.” Her voice was accentless, her tone remained neutral.

  She wasn’t asking a question. She was telling Mac she knew who she was.

  Creepy.

  Mac nodded. “Larsen said you could help me.”

  “Yes. He mentioned. The bear shifter’s woman.”

  Ugh. Thanks for the reminder.

  “That’s right.”

  “Your aura is strong. The bond is strong. Why do you need it dissolved?”

  Is that really any of your business?

  But she couldn’t say that, so she opted for, “He had other plans.”

  The cousin—what the hell is her name?—narrowed her eyes. “Odd.”

  “You are…”

  “Ciara.”

  “So, can you help me?”

  “I can give you what you need.”

  That’s what Larsen said.

  Ciara motioned her inside.

  The inside was much better than the outside. Clean, state of the art accessories—coffee machine, fridge, stove. For a one-room shack, someone had spent quite a bit to make the inside as comfortable as possible.

  So why the dilapidated, deteriorated outside? Why make it look like something you’d never want to go in? To discourage thieves, trespassers?

  “You live here?”

  “No.”

  That’s it? That’s all she’s going to say?

  Ciara wore a forbidding look on her face, clearly in place to dissuade more questions and prevent prying.

  Ciara handed her a robe that reminded her of the one she’d worn the last time she’d visited a day spa. “Put this on.”

  A few questions buzzed in Mac’s mind. Starting with, why? Yet for some damned reason, she couldn’t get any of the questions to come out of her mouth.

  Ciara pointed toward a door. “You can change in there.”

  The restroom was the same as the rest of the interior. Modern. Clean. Untouched. Unlived in.

  With quite a bit of trepidation, Mac shrugged out of her top, left her bra on, and slipped the robe over it.

  She came out of the restroom, the questions on the tip of her tongue.

  Ciara had taken out a kit. It looked like a tackle box, the biggest she’d ever seen. And she had a table that reminded her of the ones she’d lain on when she’d been to the day spa.

  “What are we going to do?”

  Ciara was plugging in an instrument.

  Mac eyeballed it. She’d seen enough TV to know what the hell that was.

  A tattoo gun.

  What the hell is she doing with that?

  Mac gave the instrument the stinkeye. “I’m not sure you’re—I’m not—what are—?” She couldn’t even put a phrase together, much less a whole sentence.

  “This is part of the procedure. The formula is in the ink. The tattoo will keep it sealed in.”

  None of this made sense to Mac. Then again, a couple of years ago, being mated—couplebonded, even—to a grizzly bear shifter wouldn’t have made sense. Nor would it have been believable.

  “And it will work? You’re sure of that?”

  She wasn’t exactly willing to go through the pain of a tattoo for nothing. Anyway, what guarantee was there it would work?

  Ciara was facing away, fiddling with the instrument. She turned toward Mac. “Would you rather not go through with this?”

  And be forever stuck in this state of love for Lance?

  Not a c
hance.

  “Just do it.” She sat in the chair, leaned back, and tried to take her mind somewhere else. Somewhere that didn’t feel the sting of the needle. Somewhere that didn’t feel the sting of tears—not for the physical pain of it—but for the emotional pain of being torn asunder from what she had shared with Lance.

  A million times Mac thought of Lance during her time in that chair, staring at the sterile white ceiling above. A million times she wanted to stop the procedure, get in her Jeep and find Lance—if only to get answers.

  That day was hell for her. A hell that fueled her emotions to this very day.

  Chapter Twelve

  Except now, Mac was so very near Lance.

  Though her body was fighting to recover from the exposure to the cold—

  Though her head throbbed from being hurt.

  Though her mind was pushing him away—

  That damned tattoo felt like it was on fire. Then it felt like it was moving, undulating in waves against her skin.

  What the heck?

  And her body ached with the need for him. Not just sexually. Not just emotionally. It was an ache that transcended all the different planes of need. It encompassed her very core in a grip tighter than she could bear.

  “What have you done, MacKenzie. Why? Why this tattoo?”

  His words reverberated, bouncing in her mind, echoing in the chambers of her emotions.

  What had she done? No different than he’d done. He’d tried to cut her out of his life by leaving. She’d tried to cut him out of hers in a different way.

  She opened her eyes. Lance loomed in front of her. A large vision that still took her breath away, still made her heart beat.

  His head was buried in his hands, his profile one that mirrored desolation. The same fucking desolation she’d felt in her heart every day since he’d left.

  Mac put her hand on his arm. The surge of energy that traveled through her body and culminated in her nerve endings gave her an awareness as if she’d just opened her eyes to a new dimension.

  Lance turned his head slowly, as though dreading what he’d see.

  “What is that about?” His voice was a tortured croak.

  Mac exhaled. “Don’t worry. It didn’t work.”

  “Work?” His brow furrowed. “How was it supposed to work?”

  “What does it matter?” She closed her eyes, shutting him out.

  “I won’t make it that easy for you.” His words broke through her barrier and hit the bull’s eye of her fury.

  Mac’s eyes flew open. “Easy? What did you make easy for me at all? Leaving me to pick up the pieces of my broken heart?”

  She cursed herself for telling him he’d left her brokenhearted. Struggling to sit up, she pushed herself only to find she was weak.

  Lance tried to help her, his hands on her shoulders.

  She shoved his hands away.

  “I don’t need your help. I don’t need anything from you now.”

  Except…

  She didn’t want to admit to herself she did need something. She so did. She needed his love. Despite the failed tattoo, despite Ciara’s failed solution.

  First thing I’m doing when I get home is contacting Ciara or Larsen. Someone had better have an explanation why this was such an epic failure.

  “You may not need anything, but I owe you something.”

  She glanced at him sideways, from the corner of her eye. What did he think he owed her?

  “And that would be…”

  “An explanation. Why I did what I did.”

  “Is that your way of trying to change the way things are?”

  Lance glanced down at his hands. She noticed they were clenched into fists, his knuckles white, the forearms she’d loved had tendons popping out, muscles hard with tension. He looked up from his fists, his eyes locking with hers. The tormented deep blue color had shards of amber swimming within. “No. We… I… my bear and I… we both know we’re done. We know you don’t want us and what we did was unforgivable.”

  “Go on. Why? Why did you shatter everything we had?”

  His gritted his teeth, the sound was painful, a harbinger of the emotions within him.

  “I’ve had questions.” Lance rose to his feet, he paced in front of her, quads flexing in those legs that belonged on a professional athlete. He passed in front of the light, eclipsing it, then releasing it to shine as he kept pacing. “I thought I would get the answers when I joined the Compliance Unit.”

  Did you?

  She was dying to ask but didn’t, because it was clear he still had more to say.

  “No. I didn’t but…” He froze, turned to face her. “The recruiter said the Enforcer Unit had a high mortality rate—”

  Mac cocked her head. She was sure from the way he paused that something important was coming next.

  “I didn’t want to die and leave you—our love—behind.”

  “But you didn’t die.” Her voice carried all the poison of four painful years.

  “I’m guessing you wish I had.” Creases of frustration and worry lined his face.

  Not in a million years. I’d have given my life for yours. She couldn’t say that. She couldn’t say anything.

  The only thing she could do was find out what went wrong with Ciara’s procedure and have it rectified.

  “I’d like to go home.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lance bit back a response. A damned angry response, at that.

  That’s all she has to say?

  “You can’t go home now. There’s a blizzard underway. I could barely see well enough to get you here, and now it’s a thousand times worse.”

  Mac glared at him.

  “I’m not lying. Call Mae. Call Ariadne. Call anyone you want to verify.”

  Her look as much as told him to fuck off. She looked around.

  “This is the cabin you bought? The one I never got to see?”

  “Damn.” He fought to contain his temper. “You don’t have to make it sound like that. When I bought it, it wasn’t much more than a shack I ignored for years. Judge set it up for me. Everything you see here, it’s courtesy of Judge. Well, I paid for it, sure. But he arranged for the renovations and the setup.”

  “So you’re back? For good?” She threw her legs over the side.

  Lance moved to get out of her way, but not too far, because he wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to stand.

  For good?

  Was it for good? Maybe. It would depend on her answer. If she wanted nothing to do with him, then he’d re-up with the Compliance Unit. What else could he do?

  Lance loved his mountain, loved his cabin, and he loved the valley. But none of those mattered if Mac wasn’t a part of his life.

  “Never mind.” She spat her sentiment out as she put her weight on her legs.

  Clearly he’d taken too long to reply.

  He studied her silhouette. The curves he’d loved so much four years ago still had the same effect on him. He couldn’t imagine anyone else with her.

  “MacKenzie.”

  “What?” She snapped her head to face him. “What? I don’t want you saying something you don’t mean. I don’t want anything from you.”

  “I’m not going to say something I don’t mean. You know me better.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’d stay in a heartbeat.” He paused. “I’d stay if you didn’t hate me.”

  “I can’t be with you. I’m not doing heartache again.”

  Again.

  First her parents disappoint her. Now I did. I don’t blame her.

  She studied him, looking up and down. “What happened to you?”

  Shit. He’d forgotten to change clothes from the fight. Gaze stayed focused on the blood and ripped shirt, the abrasions on his arms, a scratch on his lip that had already begun its shifter-quick healing.

  “It’s nothing. No big deal.”

  “Tell me.”

  Why? Yes, he wanted to be hostile. To ask her why
. To know what she wanted from him since she clearly didn’t want him.

  The look on her face brought him up short, shattering his hostility, melting his resolve. The innocent, hurt Mac he’d met years ago, vulnerable from her parents’ neglect stared back at him, in the depth of her eyes, where she probably didn’t even realize it resided.

  “Cross. His bear. Mine.”

  “The same thing from before?”

  “The same thing from all my life. Our bears and their consummate hate, their determination to kill each other.”

  “I’d have thought that would have gone away. Have you seen each other much since you—he—since you both left?”

  “We haven’t seen each other at all.” Lance moved and leaned against the bed. “His bear is hell-bent on killing mine.”

  “And you still don’t know why?”

  He didn’t know five years ago when he’d discussed it with Mac, and he didn’t know now.

  “No clue. He attacked me when I was coming after you. It caused Mae a bit of distress.”

  “I thought your bears couldn’t shift without you allowing them to?”

  A long exhaled breath was ripped from his lungs. “There seems to be a time when we can’t control them. I know my brother wouldn’t want to kill me. But his bear does. And so his bear clearly wrestles control from him. My bear does the same. I can’t stop his appearance when Cross’s bear comes out.”

  Definitely a good thing, since Cross’s bear could kill me in my human body.

  “Still no clue why that happens?”

  MacKenzie’s pulse changed. Her scent had changed too. Lance’s bear realized it before Lance did, and alerted him. Gone was the scent of her intense displeasure with being around him. Her scent was friendlier; her pulse had normalized—almost completely.

  Could they at least be cordial? Could Lance hope for a friendship?

  “None. What’s the tattoo about? What do you mean—it didn’t work?”

  MacKenzie eyed him, reminding him of a wild animal that wasn’t sure if it could trust.

  She strode toward the desk he had set up in the corner and sat in the chair, leaned forward, elbows on knees, knuckles on chin. This was the farthest place she could sit in the whole room.

  So much for the cordial and friendlier thing.