by Nikki Winter
Kamali took her stare from Callum and made direct eye contact with the tiger as her beast’s gaze clouded hers. From where he was seated, she could see the reflection of her liquid gold irises in the depths of his own. “Yes. You would. What gets between me and my son—no matter how large, how strong—dies. There is no debate, no question, or hesitation.” She leaned forward, wanting to make herself clear. “It dies.”
“Is that why you’re here?” Kaisal questioned. “Because something got between you and Cal?”
“Something tried to. It failed.”
“And you left.”
“I left,” she confirmed.
His fingertips tapped against the tabletop. “Does this something have to do with the Oriade pride?”
She froze, unsure how to answer that. She could tell him everything. Tell him that her father had been a leader, ruler, whose name was still whispered in both admiration and terror on the plains of southern Benin. She could tell him her father had built an empire with ruthlessness and frigid, decisive moves that brought others to heel after he married a young girl from another tribe in his village. She could explain that this young girl died giving birth to a princess, and that he’d moved his pride to greener pastures, settling them in America to escape a heartache he would never admit existed.
She could explain that he never allowed that princess to sit at his feet as he read her stories of their origin, that he never gave her more than a pat on the head, that his disapproving gaze followed her everywhere because she looked too much like his wife—the source of his broken spirit. She could explain that her father’s love, his affection, had been put into his businesses, into making money and crushing those who opposed him, leaving that princess to attempt to find her own way in the world. She could explain that the princess was her, and that she’d watched her father lose his life before her very eyes to the claws of a man who happened to be twice as ruthless and twice as frigidly decisive as he was. Kamali could explain that now the same man was after her son, because if Callum ever got the opportunity to become a full-grown pride male, a king like his grandfather, he’d go back to reclaim what was so rightfully his; he’d go back to reclaim their pride.
Kamali could’ve done all this—she could’ve given him the account of events that had led to this point, led to her being seated across from him, formulating a new route of escape. But instead she simply said, “Yes,” and left it there, hanging, the same way she had when he’d finally asked her what her name was and she’d answered, “Kam.”
He didn’t push, he didn’t dig deeper. Kaisal simply gave a short, sharp nod. “All right.”
“Iya?”
Kamali took her eyes off the pale ones boring into her and looked to her right where Callum stood, small hands gripping the edge of the dining table, huge, champagne-colored eyes blinking up at her. “May I have some more coins for the game?”
Only five, and he’d been taught to speak as though he were holding a board meeting. “Of course you may, if¹.” Kamali stood, attempting to slide out of the booth so she could go break a few ones, but one large palm opened before Callum. In it? Several quarters.
Kaisal leaned toward the cub and whispered, “If you lose the next round of Dance, Dance, Dance, I’ll take someone outside, pin them, and let you beat them with a salami loaf.” He looked just over Callum’s shoulder as the boy laughed. “I say we pick Conley,” Kaisal said, mentioning the deli owner and coyote that he was clearly friends with. “He cries when he’s hit in the nose.”
“Sweet Jesus…” Kamali rubbed just under her left eye. “Don’t make my child sporadically violent.”
Both males gave her eerily similar innocent looks. “This isn’t sporadic,” the older one stated. “This is a planned attack. I promised the young prince vigilance, and that is what he shall receive.”
The fact that he referred to Callum as a prince would have normally unsettled her, but he’d heard her say it earlier tonight so she tamped down on the urge to snatch up her son and sprint toward the door.
“Yeah, Iya.” Callum pointed at Kaisal. “Vigilance. He wants to do his job.”
Kamali reached over, pushing the wild curls of his hair away from his forehead and spoke to him softly in Yoruba. “Behave yourself, love.”
He sighed and looked to Kaisal. “When she uses other languages it basically means no.”
Amused, she watched him traipse back toward the game, jumping back into the lights and sounds that drew him in before. Just a week ago he would’ve been learning how to read ancient texts on their tribe, listening to tales of past battles fought and won.
“He seems advanced for his age,” Kaisal noted.
Of course Callum was. When you were born and bred to be a warrior, a bridge between cultures, businesses and lifestyles those under you had become accustomed to, you had to be advanced. You had to be everything to everyone. You had to be a target. Kamali’s son was a target.
“He reads,” she finally replied, touching the still-warm plate in front of her. “A lot.” More than any child should, really. But her father had been adamant that he start his training as early as she had started her own.
“He is a king,” Enilo Oriade had said. “Not by sociological standards but most certainly by psychological standards. The humans won’t recognize him the way we do in our world, but those who are a part of our community will know it and respect him. He will be strong, capable, and intelligent. He will walk through life understanding he is better than all; that just the heel of his foot touching the ground blesses wherever he steps. He is more and he shall know it.”
Kamali swallowed, remembering the words he’d spoken after Callum’s naming on the ninth day after his birth. He hadn’t been pleased with what she’d chosen for his grandson, believing the moniker, which meant “Dove,” was far too weak for the power behind the Oriade surname meaning “Head of crown,” but she wasn’t willing to relinquish her right to name her child whatever she pleased. She’d already followed Yorubian tradition and gone along with the naming ceremony. Kamali had stood and watched her father present Callum to the pride with a number of symbolic core items— water, salt, honey, palm oil, kola nut, bitter kola, pepper, and dried fish—all of which she’d had to place to her lips on Callum’s behalf because he was just a babe.
She’d listened as the members of her pride roared before shouting, “So shall it be” and vowing to protect another cub, another son. Names had been listed from the eldest of the tribe and her father but in the end, she’d chosen what her son would be called, giving him something of his own for once, something that didn’t mark him as a prince but an individual. And as music played and he was passed from arm to arm before landing in her own, she’d danced with her baby boy and vowed silently that he would know a life outside of structured traditions and cold obligations.
Kamali had tried to keep that promise up until a few days ago when everything they’d known had come shattering down around them because Enilo had let the wrong ones in. He’d allowed beasts to dine with them, to acquaint themselves with their home.
She’d never truly appreciated everything her father’s work had given them because she’d been jealous. She’d been jealous that he could love his opulence more than her. Leaving home and attending art school in New York had been a way of rebellion—which gave way to a successful career that he’d openly dismissed.
She’d returned home out of the need to be with her family, even if their pride had begun to run on the instinct to prove their power. Now she wished she had that support, that structure, because without it she was vulnerable. She’d protected Callum this long but what happened when Nico finally caught up, what happened when he and his rogues used their own power to find her, to rip her son away from her? What would she do then?
“Kam.”
The soft voice and familiar tone drew her away from darkening thoughts.
“You’re safe here.” A large, warm palm covered her hand, bringing her to the realization that her
claws were out. “You and Cal are safe.”
She sucked in a deep breath and closed her eyes, attempting to calm the enraged lioness who wanted out, wanted blood.
“Kaisal!” Callum called out. “Will you come race with me?”
Kamali opened her eyes to find Kaisal’s focused solely on her. He looked torn between telling Callum yes and staying where he was. She shook her head slowly then nodded toward the cub. “Go.”
“But—”
“You promised him vigilance,” she mocked, trying to lighten the worry on his face. “Don’t disappoint.”
He ran his fingertips just over her palm. “As you command, Princess.”
That sent a jolt through her chest. She watched his slow gait as he walked away, the nickname ringing in her head. If he only knew…
***
Whatever had put that hollow look in her eyes was going to choke on every disc in its own spinal cord. Kaisal would personally make sure of this. She’d given him basic, cut-and-dried answers, clearly wary of revealing too much—clearly wary of him. She didn’t need to be, but whoever was after her and Cal should be gravely concerned. There were things he’d been taught never to tolerate, and the victimization of innocents was at the top of that particular list. Kam was innocent. He knew it like he knew the striped pattern on his pelt.
Whatever she’d done, wherever she’d come from, she and Cal were innocent. And the thought of someone forcing her into this detached position, making her feel as though she couldn’t simply eat a meal while her son laughed, was like raking a stick against the bars of his beast’s cage. The primal instincts he’d been fighting—the ones that made him seek out his enemies and end them without any notice, warning, remorse—were rising within him, and it was a struggle to tamp down on the bloodlust, a struggle to tell his tiger no.
Kaisal thought that when he’d retired from the Navy the prompting would stop, the need to crush vertebrae, would stop. It obviously hadn’t, and it only increased every second that he’d watched Kam stare avidly after her cub, never allowing herself to become too comfortable. What had pushed her here? What had shoved her into becoming a vessel for the steady hum of rage he felt vibrating in her when he’d brushed his hand across hers? It doesn’t matter, his tiger decided. It would die. No logic. No reason. No compromise. It. Would. Die. Kaisal would revel in it. He’d relish the moment he was able to stop their heart, stop their next inhale, end their too-long existence. It mattered not that he’d only known her for six hours or that he only had half of their names or that he was confused about the emotions she provoked with her scent alone—they were now under his protection. They were now his responsibility. And may whatever deity her enemy worshipped have mercy on their soul, because when they crossed that tenuous line, Kaisal would skin them alive and offer up the remains as a sacrifice to his own god.
“Kaisal?”
Callum’s small voice pulled him away from the vision of red that had begun to bleed into his sight. Kaisal swallowed and looked to the racing game next to him. “Yes, young prince?” Somehow, the moniker seemed natural. Callum carried himself in a way that was extraordinarily regal for him to be so young. Then again, most male felines did. Arrogance was ingrained in them from the womb to their first roar.
Burnished eyes watched him without blinking. “Thank you.” That was all the cub said before he returned to his game. That was all Kaisal needed before returning to his own.
Five
“Exactly why,” Nico questioned in a low murmur, “is it taking so long to find one female and her bastard?” He rocked back in his seat, listening to the quickening heartbeats of every pride member standing inside what he now deemed to be his office. A place he’d coveted—as well as other things—for a very long time. His attempts to achieve the type of opulence the Oriades possessed for his own pride had been unsuccessful. Sadly, wealthy goals were harder to meet when you were a part of a clan of swamp cats who others didn’t see as good enough to even wax shoes.
Where Nico came from, he should’ve been dead by now. Not in prison, not in rehab, but dead. That was the way things occurred in his line. His family was full of nothing but thieves, murderers, and sociopaths. He’d always thought himself above that, more of a strategist. When he’d left the rest of his pride behind after killing his father and bitch of a mother, he’d begun to plan an uprising of his own empire, making a mark on their world that couldn’t be erased.
They’d been nothing short of two-bit criminals up until now. They stole, took a few pay-offs to get rid of the enemies of others and make it look like an accident, and every once in a while they involved themselves in human misdeeds such as gun running. Underground, Nico and his pride were gods, but he wanted to be known as such while standing in the sunlight. Nico wanted it all.
Unfortunately they couldn’t make any major moves financially until he had Kamali back. She’d have to sign over all businesses, leases, and properties to him, and then he would be able to announce himself as the new owner of the Oriade Empire. As of right now they were operating on a small scale and attempting to not draw attention to themselves. Bills were automatically debited from the pride funds so he didn’t have to concern himself with financing anything but with Enilo dead, Nico would have to work twice as hard to make everything look relaxed and normal to the outside world.
He wouldn’t hand what he’d fought so hard for over to a cub that belonged to his now-deceased sibling, the one who’d turned his back on him and left him behind, the one Nico had vowed to kill himself. Alfre had abandoned him for what he perceived to be greener pastures. He’d done what he swore he wouldn’t, and then stepped on Nico just to escape. Having had a different father—being known as the bastard—made Nico’s brother bitter. Alfre wasn’t the only one who was misused, talked down to, pushed out of his home. He hadn’t caught the brunt of their father’s rage or their mother’s disgust. No, he’d been gone. He’d been living here.
Initially, when Nico decided to seek his brother out, it had been with the purpose of killing him and moving on. But once he’d caught sight of the luxuries his sibling had been enjoying, the woman his sibling had been enjoying, his purpose changed. Nico had studied every shifter code he could. He’d watched, waited, and when the time was right, he struck. From the outside, from the perspective of those who had followed him, it had the appearance of a rogue attack—blood spilled in the need for control. He knew better.
Nico did what he did because he wanted what Enilo Oriade had. He wanted his position, he wanted his money, he wanted his power, and most of all he wanted Kamali.
In the grand scheme of things, all else paled in comparison to being able to force the princess to her knees, make her accept him as her mate, as her ruler. However, he’d miscalculated. He’d forgotten she wasn’t as delicate as she’d always appeared when he’d watched her. Kamali’s quiet strength, her clear ruthlessness, were what drew him.
After she’d murdered Alfre in cold blood for his betrayal of her trust, Nico’s interest had been piqued. And once he’d discovered exactly what ties her pride’s name held, Nico decided he would swipe the playing board clean, starting with her king. It hadn’t taken much aside from a few promises to the right people, those willing to overthrow Enilo’s rule and toss dirt on any tracks left afterwards.
Nico had come in like a tidal wave, easily overcoming the weak defenses his victims had put up. Their problem hadn’t been that they weren’t strong enough. Their problem was that they’d forgotten the basic instinct of their beasts and allowed themselves to become too pampered, too comfortable, leaving them vulnerable to an attack by a smaller pride of twenty. He’d come under the pretense of joining Enilo’s pride and was invited for dinner. Right as the mashed potatoes were being passed, he’d slit Enilo’s throat. The screaming had begun from there, and everyone else he’d murdered was collateral damage. They mattered not.
Per shifter protocol, what he’d done could be looked at in the same way as a dominance battle. He’d already
begun to slowly implement every step in his grand design, but there was a problem. Kamali’s son was still alive—the living heir to all that Nico had in his grasp, and the one thing standing between himself and total supremacy. The elders would look to the boy as the next in line to command, his mother standing in for him until he was of age. There were prides that were matriarchal and ones that the males ran. This was the latter.
For him that would mean giving up what he’d desired; that would mean giving up Kamali. Nico wouldn’t do that. Females of his kind went into conception heat only every few years or so. It was nature’s way of ensuring overpopulation was kept to a minimum. Mating heat was different; it occurred once a female found what human women called the one. From what Nico could tell, Alfre hadn’t been with Kamali outside of conception—which meant she wasn’t marked, and that would make it so much easier to claim her. Once he did, she was virtually his property. It was indisputable. He didn’t give a fuck about what rules were written. He didn’t care about laws that protected women from unwarranted matings. She would accept him. Nico would make sure she had no choice. He’d mark her and then inevitably ensure it was his cubs she carried. His position, his taking over what was previously her pride, would be inarguable then. Nico would be cemented in as the dominant male, and he’d have all he wanted. But only if that cub died.
“I’m going to speak in slow, concise sentences so you all can understand me,” he quietly stated, his claws tapping the desk before him. “Find Kamali. Find Callum. Kill Callum. Bring Kamali to me.” Nico looked around the room and gripped the edge of the desk. “Was I not clear on your directions?”
The pride members watched him warily, one of them speaking out, “Yes sir.”
“So then why the fuck are you all still here?” he whispered.
Standing abruptly, Nico slapped his hands against the desk and roared, “GO!”
