by Celia Kyle
She tore herself from his embrace and threw her body against the door, putting space between them.
“Bethy?” Concern laced his tone.
“No. Stay back.” When he moved to step closer, she held out a hand to forestall him. “This can’t happen. We said that. Both of us.”
Sadness descended over his features, sadness and heartbreak. “I know.” He took a step toward her, and more of his scent reached out to her. Her resolve cracked, the wall she’d built beginning to crumble. “One last touch and then we’ll be done.”
One last touch. She took a moment to memorize his features. The small scar that bisected his eyebrow and the nick on his cheek. The way his lips were red from their kiss and the hint of scruff that made him look dangerous. The deep, dark blue of his eyes that held a hint of gold from his lion. The closely cropped, brown hair she wanted to stroke.
She tried to remember all of it.
His fingers were callused and scratchy as they glided over her cheek, and she savored the small shudder that followed the stroke. “Goodbye.”
Chapter Four
“Yeah, yeah, home is where the heart is. It’s also where you’ll find ice cream. I’m more concerned about the ice cream than the heart.” — Maya O’Connell, Prima of the Ridgeville Pride and woman who may occasionally be heartless, but she’s never without ice cream.
After hours of pacing and fighting his lion for control, Wyatt settled on drinking himself unconscious. The cat couldn’t rage at him if he wasn’t awake. It couldn’t scrape and claw at him if he passed out in the middle of the floor.
That’s where he was when he jolted awake; spread out on his back in the middle of his living room.
At some point, the sun went down, and darkness enveloped Ridgeville. He wondered if that happened between the vodka and rum. Or was it the rum and tequila? Didn’t matter, the result was the same. Bethy was at home while he was flopped on the worn carpet of his living room. Alone.
Which was how he should be, right?
A memory rushed forward—Wyatt alone at school, sitting in the principal’s office while they figured out what to do with him. “What to do with him.”
They would have sent him home with his mother, but wait, she was the one who left him there. He’d never forget the disgust in her eyes when she’d looked at him that last time.
Demon…
So much for unconditional love.
If he wasn’t good enough for the woman who struggled to give birth to him, how the hell could he ever be good enough for a woman?
He couldn’t.
Wyatt jumped from not-so-happy memory-land. Instinct kept his heart rate steady and breathing even, but he was alert. The lion growled in warning, on edge and wary of what roused them.
He stretched his senses, asking and getting help from the cat. He let his lips open the tiniest bit and drew air in through his mouth with his next inhale. The house’s flavors slipped over his taste buds. He acknowledged his scent and tossed it aside, as were the delicate aromas from his houseplants and the mold growing on his dishes in the sink. He really needed to do some cleaning.
The soft shuffle of a foot on the carpet reached him, and he risked opening his eyes a tiny bit. Lids slitted, he searched the darkened interior of his home from his position on the floor. He didn’t move any other muscles and continued to feign sleep. His mind was probably playing tricks on him, his lion pissed as hell and fucking with him, but he still needed to be careful.
Another soft scrape of displaced carpeting and then movement at the end of the couch snared his attention. He had to fight to see through the darkness of his home, but eventually he found a pair of glowing, yellow eyes focused on him. They floated midair, but his lion didn’t seem too upset by the invasion of their territory. Actually, it seemed rather… pleased.
On the next inhale, Wyatt realized why. Honeysuckle and sweetness filled him, and he was equal parts overjoyed and devastated. He managed to walk away from her once for her own good. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to do it again.
“Bethy,” he murmured her name. The name he’d decided to give to her. Everyone called her Millie and Amelia seemed too big of a name for someone so sweet and tiny. She was all of five feet nothing with lush curves in all the right places. Sweet. Beautiful. Strong. Bethy fit her. His Bethy.
She whined and eased closer. A shaft of moonlight peeking through the curtains highlighted her, and the blackness of her fur swallowed the glow whole. She was like liquid midnight as she crept nearer, and he was in awe of her slick, lean form. His lush Bethy was a gorgeous, deadly panther.
He wanted to run with her, chase her, and pin her beneath him.
Bethy walked toward him, lessening the distance between them, and he lifted his hand while leaving his elbow against the floor. “Sweetheart.”
Another whine ended with a chuff. The last feet separating them disappeared in a fluid rush as she moved to nuzzle his palm. She rubbed her muzzle over his fingers, her golden eyes hidden behind her midnight lids. She caressed him with a soft, feline sigh. She marked him over and over again, coating his hand in her scent.
Wyatt wondered if she’d do the same to his entire body.
That thought, of course, had his cock thickening and pressing against the zipper of his jeans. God, he was a sick fuck. Getting aroused while stroking his animal-shaped mate. But when she purred against his palm and shuffled closer, he didn’t give a damn.
He sank his fingers into her thick fur and scratched her skin, smiling when her purrs increased in volume. She drew even nearer, her deadly paws nudging his side. Except he wasn’t afraid, not of her, his big, purring kitten. She snuffled and scraped a sharp fang over his palm before nosing the center and encouraging him to pet the top of her head.
“I’ve got you.” He kept his voice low. The moment seemed to call for quiet whispers.
Bethy huffed and in a flop of limbs, collapsed at his side. She went from standing to slumping against him in an instant. Her furred back pressed against his side while her head rested on his outstretched arm. She wiggled and shifted for a moment and then whined. He reached over with his free hand and stroked an ear, gentle caressing the lightly fuzzed skin. The touch drew forward a deep purr that vibrated them both.
“Is that the spot?” She chuffed in response. “Okay, then.”
Wyatt rolled and aligned his front to her back. His cock had deflated with her sudden crumple to the ground, and now their position was one of comfort. He stroked her, digging his fingers into her fur.
Before long, she settled into a low, satisfied purr that soothed them both. Every once in a while, she nuzzled his arm, rubbing more of her scent on his skin. And Wyatt did the same, burying his face in the fur of her neck. She was his and his alone.
“I won’t let you go, Bethy.” The panther sighed and seemed to relax. “You’re getting a bad deal with me—you should know that—but you’re mine now. I could walk away once, but not again.” He slid his arm between her forelegs and settled his palm over her chest.
His mother hadn’t wanted him, had called him a no good piece of shit, a demon. He was going to hell, and he shouldn’t ever taint anyone with his poison. It was all true; he wasn’t worth the blood in his veins, not to a woman. Anyone deserved better than him.
“You should have better than me, but I can’t let you go now.”
Bethy’s sigh was her only answer; the sound followed by a questioning trill. He couldn’t tell her. Not then. Not right now. Not when he would be confessing to a panther and not the human half of his mate.
“Later. I promise. I’ll tell you later.” She responded with a soft growl. She raised her head, and yellow eyes focused on him while she flashed a hint of pure white fang. “I will. In the morning, after you’re awake, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Bethy settled once again, snuggling into him, and her scent eased him back into slumber. His mate rested in his arms, safe and content. He didn’t think there was any other place he’d rather be.
The morning would be hard, gut-wrenching, and painful, but she was worth every jolt of emotional agony.
Bethy was worth everything.
* * *
Something was wrong. The thought came to him the moment he took his first wakeful breath. His eyes sprung open, and he scanned the living room. The empty living room. In a split-second, he rolled to his feet, paying no attention to the aches that accompanied a night spent sleeping on the floor in his human form. Joints popped and cracked, but he ignored the tiny hurts.
His mate was gone. Bethy had spent the night at his side; the sleek black panther snuggled against him hour after hour. Every time she sighed, he woke, quick to reassure her with a soft stroke of his palm over her fur. She quieted immediately, quickly slipping back to sleep. The ritual repeated at least a half-dozen times throughout the night, but he didn’t mind. To have her so close, protected in his embrace, he’d endure anything.
But had it been a dream? Empty liquor bottles littered the room. At least two dozen decorated the furniture, and he wondered if he’d imagined her.
No. Her scent tormented him. It still coated him and permeated his clothing. He looked at the ground, noted the smudges of wet dirt and saw quite a few stray strands of midnight fur. No, it wasn’t a dream. She’d been in his home.
But where was she now? He intended on working things out this morning. He didn’t want to spill his guts and give her reason after reason to reject him, but it was necessary.
Instead, she vanished.
Wyatt ran a hand over his face and then rubbed his palm over his short hair, demanding his body wake the hell up and get with the program. His head pounded out an unsteady rhythm, the alcohol clouding his mind, but he didn’t have time to be hungover. They’d taken a step forward last night, and he told her he wasn’t letting her go.
Had she gotten cold feet?
Hell.
It didn’t matter. She was his. His. She just needed to get that through her thick skull.
Her thick, beautiful, alluring, desirous—
Hell, he was going on and on about her damned skull.
He was so gone.
With a shake of his head, he padded through the house, taking note of his surroundings. He’d have to do some remodeling and a shit-ton of clean up before she came to live with him. The home was solid, but it was a bachelor’s place. The interior decorating consisted of furniture he’d randomly accumulated over the years. It was all broken in and well-used. Castaways. Kinda like him.
He reached the kitchen and snatched the phone off the wall. He scrolled through the phone book and finally came across the number for Gina’s house. A quick push of a button and the phone rang the home.
It took four rings before someone came on the line. Silence greeted him, but the sound of soft breathing eventually reached him. Ah, he’d heard the Mastin sisters still weren’t speaking to anyone, especially men. After everything they’d endured in Alistair’s clutches, he couldn’t blame them.
“Hello? Is Beth— I mean, is Millie there?”
Seconds ticked past, and he wondered if the woman would answer his question. Finally, a single, whispered word came to him. “Shower.”
With that, the call ended, the slam of the phone on the receiver echoing in his ear.
Okay, his mate was in the shower. Wet. Naked. Warm. Sweet.
Wyatt’s cock went hard at the thought of sliding in behind her and tracing the path of every droplet of water. He didn’t kid himself—there was a lot to work out—but he couldn’t wait to taste her skin.
Soon.
Chapter Five
“Once upon a time, I was wrong. And then I woke up and realized it was a nightmare. Whew. That was a close one. Because, really, women are never wrong. Men are just confused.” — Maya O’Connell, Prima of the Ridgeville Pride and a woman who is always right and never wrong. If Alex disagrees, he can shift and spend the night with his furry ass in a cave for all she cares.
Millie stared at herself in the mirror, gazing at the bruises peppering her skin. A deep purple blotch covered her shoulder while another spanned her ribs and traveled south over her abdomen. Dirt clung to her, dark smudges along her arms and caked on her fingers. She looked at her feet and noted that it stuck to her toes.
What. The. Hell.
She turned and presented her back to the mirror. What worried her most were the twin puncture wounds on the back of her left shoulder. They were small, almost hidden by the dirt.
She reached back and ran her fingers over the wound. Small scabs flaked off with a touch, revealing pink skin. So, not that old then. But where had they come from? She’d gone to bed around ten, her body shaking with the need to hunt down Wyatt, but she’d managed to resist. The cat, even the dark cloud of her power, urged her to go to him, but she refused.
Wyatt was better off without her. There were so many things fucked up about her. She refused to burden him with her very existence.
The first of which was her tendency to strike first and question later. Except her strikes were getting stronger and stronger with every passing day. She wondered how long it’d be before she killed someone. Today? Tomorrow? Next Sunday?
Shaking her head, she turned to the shower. She’d speak with the two pride Sensitives she’d been training with, Maddy and Elise, about her night. They’d been working with her on her control as well as teaching her how to soothe and mentally interact with others.
The events of the night were missing, blurry and unclear, but it was obvious something happened. They could hopefully tell her what.
A quick turn of the knob and the water burst from the spigot. In seconds, it was warm and soothing against her palm as she tested the temperature, and she tugged on the dial, sending the water spraying against the tile. When she stepped under the spray, she released a soft sigh. The heat stroked her, calming her and washing away the evidence of her missing night. Brown, dirt-filled liquid slipped from her body, revealing her pale skin. She snared the soap and sudsed a washcloth. In moments, she was scrubbing her skin and exposing even more of herself. A few new bruises came to light… Including several on her thighs. Very near her inner thighs.
Had she been…?
Her cat snarled in objection, the animal rushing forward for the first time since she’d awoken. No, the panther would know.
Wouldn’t it?
She hoped so.
Ignoring those swaths of darkened flesh, she resumed washing herself. She scoured her body, with jerky, efficient movements until she was squeaky clean. It took no time to wash her hair, lathering up the strands in seconds.
Millie stepped beneath the spray and let the full heat of the water rain on her. She sighed as it seeped into her bones and relaxed her. So good. So hot.
“Hmm…” she hummed.
“That sounds delicious.” The deep baritone echoed in the room, bouncing off the tile walls and pinging against her nerves.
A scream burst past her lips before she could stop it. In the back of her mind, she recognized the owner of the voice, but that didn’t stop her from reacting. Immediately the ball of rage responded to her fear as the panther rushed forward, ready to protect her. The feelings of both parts of her converging at once had her falling to her knees. She couldn’t hold herself up, not when the two of them worked together.
And, oh God, she was going to kill him—they were going to kill him—all before she had a chance to regret sending him away.
Millie waited for the screams, the yells, or roars that always accompanied what she gifted on people. When she killed Alistair’s man, even when she’d knocked out Harding all those months ago, it’d been lightning-fast. Now, with strength came a longer, harsher attack; one that could last minutes instead of less than a second.
Instead… instead, he grunted and nothing more. Just a quick, low sound followed by… silence. There was no falling and the telltale thump of his body colliding with the tiled floor. Nope. A grunt.
Millie eased toward the edge of
the shower curtain and reached for it with a shaking, trembling hand. Before she could stop herself, she slid the plastic back enough to peek into the small bathroom.
There he stood, larger than life and more gorgeous than ever. A rough scruff covered his cheeks and chin, attesting to the fact he hadn’t shaved. His clothes were wrinkled, and his shirt creased as if he’d slept in it. The same went for his jeans.
“Wyatt?” She didn’t care that her voice quaked.
He grunted again. “That bitch of yours packs a mean punch, huh?”
Millie’s power bristled at being called a bitch, but settled at the compliment. “Um, yes?” She tightened her grip on the curtain. “Not to be rude, but what are you doing here? In the bathroom. In Gina’s house.”
He furrowed his brow in confusion. “You left me and I promised we’d talk. Besides, this is where you are. I told you last night I wasn’t letting you go. You stayed. So here I am.”
The words were matter-of-fact. As if nothing was odd about his statements. Except she hadn’t seen him last night. They’d parted ways at her front door, and she spent the rest of the evening wishing she was strong enough to bend her power to her will.
There was no way.
But what about the bruises? The scrapes and mud and dirt? Did I somehow… No.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Can you—can you leave? Please?” Her fingertips ached, and she pretended the cat wasn’t coming out to play, imagined it wasn’t trying to take control. She was nervous, worried, almost scared, but she didn’t need her panther. She didn’t know much, but she knew her mate wouldn’t hurt her. At least, she didn’t think so.
“Last night,” he furrowed his brow. “Last night, in my living room. You stayed the night and then disappeared.”
Millie shook her head. “No, I stayed in my room last night. I didn’t leave.”
Liar. What about the mud?
“Bethy—”
Her gums ached, fangs growing and pushing aside her teeth. “Please. If you won’t,” she cleared her throat and kicked at the panther. “Can you let me finish my shower? Please.”