Taming the Lion

by Vivi Andrews

  Every inch of the counter space in the kitchenette was covered by fancy kitchen gadgets—and he hadn’t even known she cooked. The top of the dresser was cluttered with framed photos. Some of the mismatched frames were simple dark, natural wood, while others were brightly polished silver in elaborate designs and one stood out in the center—a block of pink so covered with sparkles it made his eyes hurt to look at it, framing a picture of a beaming Lila and a cautiously smiling Patch when neither of them could have been more than ten.

  He looked away from the photos, his gaze dropping to the bulging duffle bag and the gigantic hiking backpack tilting against the base of the dresser. Patch was moving in. The knowledge carried with it a spark of fierce pleasure.

  “Roman, you can’t be here.”

  He turned to find her leaning against the door. She wore her usual uniform of jeans and form-fitting long-sleeved thermal knit shirt, her dark hair scraped back into a braid. She kept both hands tucked behind her, like she was trying to stop herself from reaching for him. He had no such restraint.

  “Can’t I?” He stepped toward her, but she darted quickly out of reach. Irritation flashed hot in his gut. It was always two steps forward, three fucking steps back with her. Nothing could ever be simple. “What is it this time?”

  Her spine stiffened at his tone. “Excuse me?”

  “Let me guess. You’ve been feeling guilty all day and you want to pretend last night never happened.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “When does what I want ever fucking matter?” he snarled, then cursed and rubbed a hand down his face. “Sorry. It’s been a shit day.”

  Maybe coming here hadn’t been such a good idea. He hadn’t wanted to fight with her. He’d had this idiotic idea that if he could just see her, get her in his arms, that all this tension and frustration would just melt away, but then she’d pulled away from him and his stress level had hit critical mass.

  “The hard drives?”

  “Are fucked. Though Mateo is going to keep working on them. And the hawk has fallen into some kind of coma and Greg is acting like nothing has changed. Like everything should just go on as it always has.” He intentionally didn’t mention his waste-of-time date with Lila or his pleasure at the discovery of Patch’s clothing—he was never giving those panties back.

  Patch rested her back against the kitchen counters—once again as far as she could get from him without leaving the building. “Lions don’t like change. It’s all about the tradition.”

  “Fuck tradition,” he snapped. “That’s never been what Lone Pine is about.”

  “Isn’t it?” Patch countered. “You may be all magnanimous and let the other shifters come share your space, but this is still a lion pride. With all its precious lion traditions. Don’t kid yourself about that.”

  “We’re changing them,” he argued. “That’s the whole point of Greg choosing his successor.”

  “Is that why you’re marrying Lila? Because the traditions don’t matter and they’re so easy to change?”

  “Pride stability—”

  “Would be upset if you were seen with a cougar. I get it. That’s why you can’t be here, Roman.”

  He blinked, finally understanding what she meant. And not liking it one bit. “Are you telling me pride stability would be totally fine if I had my last fling with a lioness, but because you are impure or some such shit, that we can’t be seen together?”

  Patch grimaced. “I wouldn’t have phrased it quite like that, but yes. Essentially.”

  “That is such bullshit.” Rage was a dragon spouting fire in his gut.

  “Is it?” She shoved off from the counter, eyes flashing with anger as she came toward him. “So you’re the expert on what it’s like to be a non-lion in this pride, are you? You know exactly how it feels to be a second-class citizen, always not quite part of the in crowd?”

  “You’re the Alpha’s foster daughter. Lila’s best friend. How much closer to the heart of the pride do you want to be? I’m sorry, Patch, I’m having a hard time seeing how you’re being persecuted and excluded here.”

  “I’m not a lion!” she yelled. “How many of the shifters in positions of authority in this pride are lions, versus how many are capable of holding those positions? Why are Kye and Hugo not officially lieutenants? Is Xander really a better choice? Is that okay with you?”

  Xander was an ass, but he was good at pride politics. “Kye doesn’t want—”

  “Are you so sure about that?” she cut him off before he could even finish saying Kye didn’t want to be a lieutenant. “Have you asked him? I know he didn’t ask to be promoted, but Kye doesn’t ask for anything—especially not something he knows he’ll never get.”

  “It isn’t like that.”

  “No?” She gave a short, harsh bark of humorless laughter. “Did you know you can tell the difference between the lions and the non-lions just by looking at them? Even if you don’t know them and are too far away to distinguish the scent. It’s in the way they stand. The way they hold themselves. The lions look like they are entitled to everything, like they own the world. This is their place. Their home. Their pride. While all of the others look jumpy. Like the security we have here could be snatched away in a heartbeat. I can’t do anything to threaten that safety.”

  “You’re the Alpha’s adopted daughter! You’re the safest cat in the entire goddamn pride!”

  “And if he finds out I’m screwing his heir? How safe am I then?”

  “I will never let anyone—”

  “Exactly. You won’t allow them to throw me out. The big strong lion will protect the little cougar who doesn’t really belong here. Who doesn’t have any right to be here because she wasn’t born to the pride.”

  “Neither was I!” he roared. “I came here. Same as you.”

  “We are not the same!” she shouted back, bellowing the words in his face with a force he never would have expected from someone so small. But he should have. There was nothing petite about Patch’s will.

  He raked a hand through his hair, tugging the strands, trying to find some semblance of calm. He didn’t want to fight with her. “Why does it matter? You’re here. You’re safe. You’re protected. You’re a part of this pride—”

  “It matters to us. Maybe it’s not a big deal to you because you’re the king of the universe and you’ve never had to claw your way up from the bottom—”

  “Now wait just a fucking second—” Never had to claw my way up from the bottom, my ass.

  But she just kept going, running right over him. “You can’t say we’re all equal and then just conveniently ignore all the ways in which we aren’t. Just waving the you’re-part-of-the-pride-too slogan around doesn’t magically make it true. You have to give us the same treatment. The same opportunities. The same respect.”

  “I’m trying,” he shouted over her, because it seemed to be the only way she would hear him. Maybe it was just the sheer volume, but something penetrated and her tirade broke off, her mouth pursing tight. “I’m trying,” he repeated more quietly. “I’m trying to treat you the same way I would treat a lioness lover. You’re the one who won’t let me. You’re the one who’s saying I can’t be here because you’re a cougar. I just want you, Patch.”

  Chapter Twenty

  But you don’t want me enough make me your mate.

  Patch stared at Roman as realization slithered through her, leaving a chill in its wake. It wasn’t that she was afraid the pride wouldn’t accept her as Roman’s last hurrah love toy. It was that she wanted so much more than that.

  Last night had been a colossal mistake. It had opened up the door to feelings she never should have allowed in. Like the stupid, epically stupid sliver of hope that maybe he would want to keep her forever as badly as she wanted him.

  But wanting the impossible didn’t magically make it possible.

  He was the Alpha’s heir. Even if Lila had suddenly disappeared from the picture—which she wouldn’t—Patch could
still never be the future Alpha’s mate. That role had to go to a lioness. And yelling at Roman about the inequality wasn’t going to change that.

  “I think you should go.”

  His expression, which had been so reasonable a heartbeat ago, abruptly morphed into something stark and harsh, but his voice was deceptively soft. “All right. I’ll go. If that’s what you want.” He took a step—toward her, not toward the door, and she realized how close she’d gotten to him as they were arguing. “But I want a kiss goodbye.”

  “Roman…”

  “Do you want me to leave angry?” he asked, gently cupping her jaw in his hand.

  She didn’t want him to leave at all. Ever. That was the problem.

  Then he was kissing her…and she knew it wouldn’t end with a kiss.

  This wasn’t goodbye. This was an invitation, a soft, slow persuasion so tender her eyes fell helplessly closed at the sheer sweetness of it. He had a thousand different kisses, and she’d only begun to taste them all. How could she make him leave now?

  His tongue teased for entrance and she opened for him, but he didn’t rush in to claim what she had yielded, instead continuing with little flicks and coaxing kisses until she was ready to beg him for more, deeper, firmer—and then he gave her exactly what she wanted, sealing their lips together and taking full possession of her mouth with long, drugging strokes of his tongue.

  His hands had been still, one lightly pressing her toward him at the small of her back while the other rested between her shoulder blades, but now the top one slid down her spine as the other roamed over the upper slope of her ass, then over the outer curves of her derriere until both of his hands held the crease at the top of her thighs. He lifted her so smoothly, so easily, it felt like she was floating. Her legs found their way naturally around his waist, her arms curling around his neck and the kiss went on and on as the angle of it changed, her face above his now, though there was no battle for dominance, no power struggle. This was all give and take, sharing sweetness, trading lingering, slow-burning desire back and forth, like they could pass it from tongue to tongue.

  She felt his body shift subtly, but had only the dimmest, dizziest awareness of movement until she heard the bed springs creak beneath his knees and he was tipping her back, coming with her as they sank together on top of her duvet.

  The kiss broke then, but only because he had leaned back to watch the progression of his hands as they stroked down her arms, from shoulder to wrist and back up again, down over her collarbones, along the outer curve of her breasts, over her ribcage, the dip of her stomach, to stop at her waistband. He slipped his fingers beneath the hem of her shirt and his hands glided upward, the soft fabric pooling on the back of his wrists.

  “The last time,” she whispered, watching him watch her skin be revealed. “This has to be the last time.”

  He didn’t respond, other than to bend down and lay a feather-light kiss on her abdomen. Then another. Everything was deliberate, a carefully conducted seduction, slowly enveloping her in a sensual fog. He took his time. Each article of clothing was an experience. She’d never before been so aware of the slide of fabric over her skin, the erotic thrill as each new centimeter of flesh was revealed—both hers and his. By the time they were both naked, she felt like she’d been drugged, immersed in sex until its essence had sunk into her pores and entered her bloodstream. She was incapable of doing more than gasp his name, or think of anything beyond the craving to touch every inch of him, and then touch it again.

  He arranged her beneath him, softly praising everything he touched as his deft fingers delved into her slick folds. She gasped, her toes curling, and reveled in his command of her body. He brought her to orgasm once, quickly, with his fingers, and again, more torturously with his mouth—and she couldn’t take her eyes off him, that big body, all that coiled strength, between her thighs, focused entirely on her pleasure. Just the thought of it was enough to make her writhe. Then he climbed up her body, pressed his face against the side of her neck and inhaled deeply, drawing her scent all the way into his lungs as the broad, dewy head of his penis nudged at her entrance.

  The first thrust was slow—so deliciously, decadently slow. The withdrawal just as languorous. Stroke. Retreat. The dance was set to a maddeningly slow beat, but she didn’t urge him faster. She wanted every erotically drawn-out second she could get of this insanity.

  One more night. She’d promised herself there would only be one more night, so how could she blame him for making every moment of that night last.

  The acceleration was slow, the build of friction excruciatingly controlled, but it was building nonetheless, the pace gradually quickening. By the time he was pumping into her in short quick thrusts, grinding hard at the end of each one, she was making sounds she’d never imagined before, let alone voiced. Roman’s usual litany of praise had devolved into single word grunts. “God—” Thrust. “Perfect—” Thrust. “Patch.”

  She came like a geyser erupting inside her soul, sending jets of completion shooting out to every cell of her body on a wave of shuddering bliss. Roman pumped one last time and jerked, his body locked tight against hers as he spilled into her.

  They were both slick with sweat when he rolled off her, drawing her to rest her head against his chest, cuddled up to his side. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of him—musk and sweat and sex and pure Roman.

  This was their last night. It had to be. But she didn’t have the willpower to let it end yet.

  His nipple was right in front of her face. She leaned over and gave it a casual flick. With her tongue.

  Roman growled and rolled her beneath him. “Still feeling frisky, are we?”

  She didn’t know how she could be, so soon after the erotic quest of the last time, but his hands were stirring definite interest in places that should be too sore to want more.

  One more night. She’d worry about sore tomorrow.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  God, he’d needed this.

  After round three, Roman lay sprawled on his stomach on the bed while the sounds of the shower running filtered out from the bathroom. He had half a mind to go in there and join her, but Patch’s shower was about half the size of his and after the last two hours and the previous night, the lack of sleep was catching up with him. He felt the exhaustion in every molecule of his body—though luckily all of the stress had poured out of him like water from a pitcher as soon as he’d had Patch in his arms.

  Where she belongs.

  The thought was half dream and he fell deeper into sleep, rousing only when he felt a silky fingertip tracing a pattern into his back.

  She must have sensed him coming awake, because she asked, “When did you get these?”

  Her finger continued its wandering, roaming over the scars that crisscrossed his back.

  He didn’t talk about his scars. Not that he kept them a secret—there was too much nudity in a pride of shape-shifters for any scars or birthmarks to be kept hidden. It was just that no one had asked him about them in years. Maybe even a decade.

  Whiskey hadn’t asked. But then Whiskey had marks of her own that Roman had obediently pretended not to see. Their kind healed quickly. It took a lot to scar a shifter, but some of them had been through a lot.

  “Roman?” Patch prodded softly. “You don’t have to tell me—”

  “I was fourteen.” He could leave it there. She’d asked when. Not how. Not why. He didn’t owe her the story, but somehow it came spilling out. “I’d just gone through a growth spurt, started putting on muscle. I’d always had dominant tendencies, but it was starting to become obvious that I was going to be a contender for Alpha—maybe in as little as a couple years. The Alpha at the pride where I grew up, he wasn’t…kind.” That was putting it mildly, but he had a feeling Patch would hear the understatement and understand it better than any more accurate descriptor.

  Her finger continued to stroke his scars.

  “He liked being able to control things and
I think he must have realized he wasn’t going to be able to control me for much longer. And anything he couldn’t control was a threat.”

  Roman hadn’t thought about that day in years, but it was amazing how vividly it came back. The summer sunburn on his skin—making the welts sting even more, until sting was swallowed up by blinding pain and he stopped caring about the sun. The exact smell of the dirt as his blood soaked into it and his face was mashed into the earth so hard his cheekbone cracked.

  “I honestly don’t remember why he came after me. Some trumped up misdemeanor I’d supposedly done—or hell, maybe I actually did it, I don’t know. I can’t actually remember what he said to me. I just remember how surprised I was the first time he hit me. He’d disciplined me before—you didn’t grow up in that pride without taking the Alpha’s fist a time or two—but I knew the second he connected that this time was different. He didn’t want me to learn my lesson and fall in line. He wanted to kill me.”

  Her fingertip stopped moving. When it resumed again, it was her entire hand, petting his back.

  “I don’t know why he didn’t kill me. Maybe someone stopped him. Maybe he thought it would make him look bad. I was unconscious at that point. All I know is I woke up and all the spectators were gone. It was just him, crouching down next to me, telling me I had fifteen minutes to get my ass off pride land. I tried—crawled as best I could—and he must have decided that was good enough because he rounded up some of his seconds, threw me in the back of the pickup and drove me into the wilderness to dump me. Left me to die on my own.”

  Her touch was warm and soothing, softening the edges of the memory.

  “I’d heard about Lone Pine. Like it was a fucking fairy tale. Something the other cubs would whisper about when the Alpha was being a particularly epic dick. At Lone Pine, no one yells. At Lone Pine, no one gets smacked around. I didn’t have the first fucking clue where Lone Pine was. I started west, traveling by night as a lion, hiding out during the days. I was lucky I didn’t end up in a fucking zoo somewhere. Lucky that the first shifter I scented was a bear who’d heard of Lone Pine and told me how to get here.