Royal Guard Tiger (Shifter Kingdom Book 2)

by Zoe Chant

  Tristan couldn’t do anything but say, “Good. Figure out our fastest route there once we’re on the ground.”

  Peter’s smile faltered, and he cast a long, guilty look at Tristan’s scarred cheek before he bent his head over the computer again.

  Tristan looked away, though he was quite sure his own face would betray nothing of his awareness of having made a bad mistake. He had brought Peter on this trip in hopes of boosting his confidence, giving him a chance to feel that he had redeemed himself from his earlier terrible mistake. He would only make it worse, though, if he could do nothing but convince Peter that he still held a grudge.

  Well, at least Peter might be useful in persuading Poppy to accompany them, since there could be no doubt that she would dismiss Tristan from her bright and shining attention at once.

  The last miles of the trip stretched an agonizingly long time; even with their diplomatic credentials speeding them through the customs formalities, it took the better part of an hour to escape the airport and board the train Peter insisted was their quickest option.

  “Oh, no, they’ve split up,” Peter said, frowning into his phone. “Sasha’s...”

  Tristan raised his eyebrows slightly. It took a moment for Peter to notice his scrutiny and look up; he winced when he did.

  “I was tracking Miss Zlotsky’s friend,” he explained, a nervous flush rising on his cheeks, his hands shaking slightly as he tapped at the screen. “But they’ve... had some kind of falling-out, I think. From what I can tell, Miss Zlotsky remained at the club.”

  Tristan nodded briskly.

  Peter went back to staring into his phone, chewing his lower lip and making quick taps and swipes, becoming calmer the longer he went without having to look at Tristan.

  Tristan guided him by the shoulder when it came time to change trains and again when they emerged onto the street. People were everywhere, despite the late hour, and music poured out of a dozen different clubs along this stretch. Tristan struggled to filter out the noise, to focus his preternatural shifter’s senses on scanning for a slim redheaded woman amid the throng, a voice that sounded like the recordings he had heard of Poppy Zlotsky.

  “It’s this way,” Peter said, finally looking up from the phone in his hand. Tristan released his grip on Peter’s shoulder and stayed close at his side as he led the way; he did seem confident enough when he had a task, at least.

  Suddenly a single voice seemed to ring out over all the noise.

  “Okay, okay! I just thought we were having a good time dancing.”

  Poppy Zlotsky. Tristan turned his head, wishing he had his tiger’s mobile ears to better focus on the sound. He was barely aware of Peter beside him, utterly attuned to that voice.

  Tristan turned and jogged across the street, listening for that voice as he dodged through traffic, barely hearing the blares of car horns and shouts of drivers. Peter was only a step behind him as he reached the opposite side of the street, and he caught Tristan’s arm as they stepped onto the pavement.

  “Stay here,” Tristan said, shaking off Peter’s grip and keeping his eyes on the door of the club Poppy’s voice had emanated from. “If she gets past me, trail her.”

  Peter nodded hastily, shoving his phone into his pocket, and Tristan started up a half-flight of stairs toward the doors. The place was busy; there were a handful of other people heading toward the doors, and a double handful coming out, but they all made way for him.

  He stopped at the top of the stairs when he caught sight of a tumble of brilliant copper hair; Poppy was being towed along by a tall man in dark clothes. His build was big and broad, and Tristan tallied the few scars he could see, half-glimpsed tattoos, and combined them with the way he moved and the cold look in his eyes and knew that this man was dangerous.

  For a human, anyway. Tristan didn’t think he would have any trouble with him.

  He returned his gaze to Miss Zlotsky, intending to double-check his first assessment that she was not altogether pleased to be in the man’s company, but this time they were close enough that she could see Tristan. Their eyes met.

  It struck him like a storm wave out of nowhere, like a sudden impact from something as unyielding as a mountainside. He had found Poppy Zlotsky.

  And she was his mate.

  Tristan knew that his expression would reveal nothing, though his tiger roared within him, calling out for his mate. Tristan tore his gaze from her eyes to spot the grip her unwelcome companion had on her arm. When he glanced up to Poppy’s face again, she was still looking at him; as she reached the threshold she set her feet against the man’s pull and turned a dramatic frown on Tristan.

  “Did my sister send you?”

  Tristan was taken aback, but betrayed nothing. “Yes, Miss, so if you would come with me...”

  “What the hell is this?” The man with her jerked at her arm.

  “Sorry, Daniel, my sister must have hired him, she—it’s a long story, but she’s crazy overprotective sometimes,” Poppy said. “It’s easier if I just let this guy take me to see her so she doesn’t freak out.”

  Poppy, Tristan realized after a fraction of a second, was improvising. Of course she had no idea who he was. Signy hadn’t hired him, and certainly had never been in any position to send anyone after her before. But Tristan’s formal attire and professional bearing made the story plausible.

  He gave a faint bow, making his face even more inscrutable, and repeated, “Miss.”

  “Who the fuck are you, cuttin’ in on my patch?” Daniel demanded, stepping up to Tristan, which only made it obvious that some of the miasma of alcohol on the air was definitely coming from him. It also made it clear that Tristan was a few inches taller and had no intention of stepping back to give the man room.

  Tristan raised his eyebrows very slightly, letting his tiger’s utter unconcern with any human’s posturing show through. Daniel’s eyes darted down to the scars on his cheek and throat, and he let go of Poppy’s arm with an abrupt motion, nearly shoving her away. Tristan offered one hand, but she steadied herself without it.

  “Do what you like, poppet,” Daniel snapped. “But if you want in on that trip, give me your number—or is your sister going to forbid you to travel, too?”

  “No, no, of course not, I’d never let her!” Poppy made a show of enthusiasm that might have persuaded a human’s drink-dulled senses, but was obvious to Tristan as a lie. His tiger growled in satisfaction while Poppy turned on her phone and allowed Daniel to send himself a text from it. “See you in the morning—bright and early! I’ve got to pack, anyway.”

  That sounded slightly less like a lie, but Poppy reclaimed her phone and stepped closer to Tristan.

  Daniel sneered, “No point leaving just yet, then,” and turned away, staggering back into the club.

  Tristan turned toward Poppy—his mate, his to protect, his, human and American and perfect—and offered her his arm. “Miss?”

  Poppy giggled a little, sounding suddenly drunk though he couldn’t smell anything on her. She put one hand to her forehead and took his arm with the other, allowing him to guide her down the stairs. “Thanks. Sir.”

  Her closeness, her touch, was intoxicating, and he should have pulled her to him, should have spoken odes to her beauty. Instead, he said expressionlessly, “Tristan.”

  They were back down to the pavement then; he looked around and glimpsed Peter watching them from several meters away.

  “Hi, Tristan, I’m Poppy,” she said, looking around distractedly, everywhere but at him. “Could you possibly just walk me a little further away?”

  Anywhere, on my knees, if you ask it of me.

  But of course he couldn’t say that. Tristan merely nodded and drew her slightly closer, guiding her along with the flow of pedestrians. They passed Peter, and Tristan was distantly aware of the young guardsman falling in behind them, but it was hard to care about anything but Poppy’s presence at his side, the touch of her hand on his arm through the layers of his clothes.


  Poppy, however, was tense and watchful at his side. It was obvious that she was not at all sure that she had entirely escaped Daniel, and that she had no glimmer of awareness of what Tristan was to her.

  Humans often didn’t. That was supposed to be one of the many ways in which humans were inferior. They could be deceived; they could be utterly unaware of the perfect mate who stood before them.

  Tristan’s tiger longed to make her aware, to leave her in no doubt that they could and would protect her, keep her, make a home for her... But Tristan had learned control long ago, and even now, in the presence of his mate, he had no idea how to loosen it.

  If it was true that a human mate could not recognize the shifter she was destined for, it was equally true that the shifter in question had a responsibility to tell her the truth and let her make up her own mind. More, he had an opportunity to make that truth something she might be pleased by, rather than an ultimatum at first sight. Poppy could choose him, if she wished to; he would not simply stand before her like so many shifters he’d seen, finding their mates at arranged mixers, and be accepted because neither of them had any choice in the matter.

  But that meant he must, somehow, find the way to woo Poppy—while protecting her, and without forcing her to do anything or go anywhere, and without telling her too much truth, yet without lying to her. And he had two weeks before the royal wedding.

  But he had found her. He had found his mate. He had given up on any thought of ever finding his mate after he abandoned his family, rejecting all their best efforts to find him a shifter bride. He had taught himself not to think of it, not to imagine a future beyond the Royal Guard, but now...

  Now he was on a crowded street with Poppy and she still didn’t know who he was—didn’t know any of the many things she would have to know about him. And he had no idea how he would ever persuade her to listen to even the least part of that. He couldn’t run ahead of himself.

  Poppy had stopped looking around and was looking down at her feet instead, leaning minutely against Tristan. Her grip on his arm tightened, then loosened, and he realized she was shivering.

  “Poppy? Are you—”

  Poppy wobbled, swaying into him.

  Tristan took the liberty of curling his arm around her, almost carrying her as he guided her out of the flow of pedestrian traffic to a little stretch of open curb. She was almost boneless by the time he got her to a sitting position, and he knelt beside her, guiding her head down to her knees.

  He looked around hastily for Peter, who was holding his phone and looking nearly as pale as Poppy likely was, his expression a portrait of worry for her. Tristan knew his own expression must look as if he didn’t care at all.

  Tristan shook his head slightly, to tell Peter there was no need. Poppy was breathing steadily, and he had a feeling he knew what this was.

  “It’s all right,” he said, resting his hand carefully on the middle of her back, trying to make his level voice low and reassuring. “Just keep breathing. You’re safe now.”

  “I didn’t,” Poppy said, a little muffled as she still had her head down. “He didn’t do anything to me.”

  Tristan glanced at the reddened mark where the man had been gripping her arm; she was fair, and likely bruised easily. But the physical was the least of it sometimes. Tristan’s father had never struck him, and still Tristan had turned himself to stone to keep himself safe.

  “He didn’t have to hurt you for you to know he was dangerous,” Tristan said plainly. If a tactical assessment was all he could give her, at least he could say that. “You held it together very well until you were safely away from him. You can take a moment to react now.”

  “Thanks,” Poppy said, a little edge in her voice that Tristan couldn’t quite read. She was shivering harder now, her arms tight around her own waist. He could see goosebumps down her bare arms despite the mildness of the night.

  He took his hand from her back and shrugged quickly out of his coat. “Here. You’re cold, take my coat for a moment.”

  He laid it over her when she didn’t object; she huddled down a little more, but didn’t push it away, so he let himself believe it was some comfort to her. If it was terribly satisfying to his tiger to know that she was sheltered under his clothing, breathing in his scent... well, even a flood watered someone’s fields.

  “Thanks,” Poppy repeated after a few minutes, turning her head to peer out at Tristan over the collar of his jacket. “You—were you meeting people? You don’t have to sit here with me all night.”

  “My plans are flexible,” Tristan said calmly, fighting the rush of desire that came with meeting his mate’s eyes again and knowing that she really saw him this time, not just a means of escape. Yes, yes, look at me, see me. “I don’t mind sitting here with you, at least until you’re able to stand.”

  Poppy moved her feet as though she were going to try it, and Tristan put his hand on her shoulder through the muffling layer of his coat. “I don’t want to have to catch you again. Wait a little longer.”

  He saw the impulse to do it precisely because he had told her not to flash across Poppy’s face and braced himself to find some way of persuading her without frightening her.

  But then Poppy nodded and closed her eyes, putting her head down again. Tristan felt a warm flash of pride all out of proportion. She’d listened to him, she’d heard him. His mate.

  “The last time this happened to me I almost drowned,” Poppy said.

  Tristan’s grip tightened a little. He had a sudden, new horror of everything that could have happened before he found her, anytime in the last year.

  “Beforehand, I mean,” Poppy went on. “I managed to get out of the water and I walked up to the top of the beach and then I was just sitting in the sand shaking. I don’t know how long it lasted. I wasn’t really.... I was by myself. So I don’t know.”

  His tiger lashed its tail, growling miserably at the thought of Poppy going through anything like that alone, with no one to watch over her, no one to hold her and tell her how glad they were that she had survived. Even if Tristan couldn’t say it properly, or make his face show it, at least he was here with her.

  “You’re not alone now,” Tristan promised her quietly. “We can stay here as long as you need.”

  Poppy nodded, and instead of thanking him again, she leaned toward him. Tristan closed his eyes and held still. If all she saw, or needed, was a rock to lean on—at least he was good at that.

  She could lean on him as long as she needed to. Nothing mattered more than letting her do this in her own time.

  *~*~*

  Chapter 4 - Poppy

  Poppy wondered if she could just live the rest of her life right here, sitting on a curb in London with a gorgeous stranger’s suit coat draped over her shoulders. The delayed adrenaline reaction was wearing off, leaving her feeling tired and silly.

  Except the guy—Tristan? She hoped she had heard that right, because she already liked the feel of it in her mouth—was still sitting quietly beside her. Letting her lean on him, letting her wear his coat, his hand resting lightly on her back. He didn’t fidget, didn’t show the least sign of being uncomfortable or wanting to get on with his night. Somehow she thought that he genuinely would just stay there, sitting beside her, all night if she didn’t move.

  So then she would never have to look him in the eye, or explain anything. She wouldn’t have to strike up some kind of sane conversation, or beg a cool, collected stranger to meet her for coffee sometime when she wasn’t in the middle of such a mess.

  Her phone vibrated, and Poppy opened one eye to confirm that she had managed to hang on to her purse through all of that. It was between her feet now. She could feel the muffled buzz when it repeated.

  It had to be Daniel. The phone was an old one of Sasha’s, and Poppy had bought a new SIM card for it today, putting it on a prepaid plan. She had given Sasha the number, just in case, but Sasha had already texted her to say she was safely on the train out of town.

&n
bsp; Daniel, on the other hand, would probably text her all night.

  Poppy gave in to the temptation to nestle a little closer to Tristan.

  “Do you want me to turn your phone off?” Tristan murmured.

  She glanced up at him without thinking, startled that he could hear the vibration from where he sat.

  As soon as she met his eyes she forgot all about her phone. Tristan’s eyes were a clear, pale amber, fringed in long black lashes. His hair was black too, a tousle of loose curls that she wanted to run her fingers through. He had the clear brown skin and fine features of a Bollywood star, except that his left cheek was marred with two parallel red scars.

  He knew what danger was. He had survived something. And when Poppy had needed a way out, he was right there, following her lead without hesitation and somehow making Daniel back down without saying a word or raising a hand. Through all of it he had been calm and steady, letting her hang off of him, lean on him.

  And maybe she should back off a little, but she didn’t want to at all. Poppy didn’t think she’d ever been this close to someone this hot.

  “Poppy?” Tristan prompted, still looking serious and calm, not impatient or amused at her mind wandering. She remembered that he had asked her about her phone.

  She shook her head, shifting her feet away from it as she looked down. “No. It’s fine, I... have to do something about him, sooner or later.”

  “But not right now,” Tristan assured her. “Right now we can just sit.”

  Poppy nodded. It finally occurred to her that he had an accent that wasn’t quite like the others she was accustomed to hearing. His English was perfect, but his faint accent wasn’t any kind of British she’d heard before, wasn’t one of the accents she’d heard before from south Asia or Africa, which she might have expected from his looks. It was... Scandinavian?

  She liked it, whatever it was. She wanted him to keep talking to her all night.

  She carefully didn’t think about what she’d like to hear him saying.

  Sitting on the ground was starting to get old, though. And they weren’t that far from the club where she’d left Daniel. She didn’t doubt Tristan could get him to back off again—but what if Daniel showed up with a bunch of equally shady friends? Even if no one got hurt, Poppy didn’t want to see him again tonight, or ever.