Beast Coast (A Carus Novel Book 2)

by J. C. McKenzie

  My brow furrowed. Fine lines might permanently etch my face after this conversation. “I thought they were one and the same.”

  Tristan pulled back, letting my hand go. “That’s what Werewolves would have their females believe.”

  I gaped.

  “Once the mating process is complete, it’s essentially the same. We will have no other, want no other, and go mad with grief if the other dies. But there is more than one potential mate in the world. More than one person can complement our predator and self. A mate is not half of one soul, but a match for it.”

  Tristan rendered me speechless. What he said went against everything I’d been told by Dylan and Wick. Thinking back though, Wick never claimed to be soul mates. He claimed to be my mate as if he was the one and only. Did he purposefully lie by omission, or did I assume? The wheels in my head turned so fast, some nuts and bolts spun right off and clanked around in my head.

  Tristan sighed, as if sensing my inner turmoil. “Think about it. Considering the vast numbers of their population, how is it that every female Werewolf is fortunate enough to find her mate?”

  “Some are forced unions.” My voice came out blunt and hard.

  Tristan’s face screwed up in disgust, and he looked up at me. His sapphire eyes blazed with an intensity that made me want to leap across the table and soothe him. After a pause, he said, “We’ll explore what that was later.”

  Huh. Guess I still harbored some baggage from Dylan. Not a surprise. If I could smell the air bruised with my pain, so could he.

  Tristan took a swig of his coffee and continued as if the interlude didn’t happen—as if the scent of burnt cinnamon didn’t roll off him in waves, or he didn’t clutch his mug hard enough to turn his fingers white. Any tighter and the cup would shatter. “If you took forced matings out of the equation, the number of existing true matings far exceeds the natural probability of one female Werewolf finding her one true soul mate in the entire world population of Werewolves.”

  It made sense. How else could Wick and Tristan claim mate status? I savoured my last spoonful of ice cream—delicious—while I considered Tristan’s statistical analysis. “What is it you do for work?”

  Tristan’s attention fixated on my mouth as it closed over the spoon again, just in case any ice cream lingered. He licked his lips. “Security.”

  “Didn’t peg you as a security guard.”

  The sound of Tristan’s laugh trickled down my spine and liquefied it. “I’m not. I specialize in security systems. I own a company, which provides personal detailing for a special price.”

  “And what would my price be?” Oh my god, did I just say that?

  “For you?” Tristan leaned in. “I’m sure we could work out some special pricing. But don’t distract me from my point, you little minx. I’ve run the statistics and the probability doesn’t match reality. And it doesn’t take into account the extended lifetime of Weres, nor that their ‘true mate’ may not be turned for a number of years.”

  “You’ve had some time to think on this.”

  He rewarded my astuteness with a large grin. “I lead a pride of Wereleopards. It’s come up a few times.”

  “With Angie?” My mountain lion started pacing from one side of my skull to the other.

  Tristan’s head snapped up, his expression pinched. Then his nose flared, and the tension in his shoulders disappeared. “Jealous?”

  I shrugged. “She seems attached.”

  Tristan’s smile flattened into a grim line. “Her feelings are misguided. There is no history between us. Not in the way you believe.”

  “Why would she bother if you weren’t mates?”

  “I don’t pretend to understand the inner workings of any woman’s mind, especially not Angelica’s. But suffice it to say, my position of power is an attraction to her. She’s a powerful Wereleopard, and we’re all drawn to power. Like I’m drawn to you.”

  Sharp sapphires held my gaze. My heart beat, seeming to pump twice the blood, hurting my chest. My mountain lion pushed against my control and urged me to leap across the table. “I need to pee.”

  Tristan shook his head. “I believe the bathroom is in the back.”

  I bolted to the washroom.

  Clarity came at odd times in my life. This particular instance it happened while I held a power yoga squat over the toilet. Why did I run away from Tristan? Now apart, I wanted to run back and see his smiling face. I wanted to trace his laugh lines with my tongue.

  I washed my hands, read the plaques by the mirrors, and made my way back to my seat, drawing the attention of more than a few people including my own date.

  “What has you so amused?” Tristan asked.

  “Plaque in the bathroom.”

  His eyebrows rose.

  “It read ‘Cats are just tiny women in cheap fur coats.’”

  Instead of being offended as a less secure male feline Were would’ve been, Tristan’s head dropped back as he broke out laughing. My cat pressed for me to act. I ignored her. When Tristan got control of himself, he said, “Think I might have to get one of those made for the pride house. I’d like to show it to you sometime.”

  My breath caught.

  I’d like to see the pride house and a whole lot more.

  “But tonight…” He leaned in. “I think I need to get you home.”

  My eyebrows rose.

  “Slow and steady wins the race.”

  The drive back to my place was quiet. It gave me time to reflect and analyze the man I sat next to. He drove a black Lexus LF-CC. I asked because I had no idea what to call it. I’d never given cars much importance, but the sleek one Tristan drove acted as a vehicular panty remover. The inside, finished in white-and-brown leather with brushed metal and wood accents, matched Tristan’s calm, smooth style, but what really did it for me was the hybrid decal.

  Everything about Tristan spoke of good taste and money, yet he didn’t throw it in my face. He was the exact opposite of the type I usually went for. But look where that got me—Dylan.

  What about Wick?

  Guilt lanced through my veins. Exponentially better than Dylan, but in the end, Wick had still hurt me. Trying to get the bad taste out of my mouth, I took out a piece of gum, then offered one to Tristan.

  “Yes, please. Could you take it out for me?” he asked, glancing quickly in my direction before returning his gaze forward to focus on the road.

  “Here you go.” I held out the stick of gum.

  The corner of Tristan’s lip curled up in a half smile. He opened his mouth and flicked another glance my way.

  I reached out to slip the gum in his mouth. Before I could withdraw, Tristan leaned forward and placed his warm mouth over my fingers, clamping down before slowly reclining back into his seat. He sucked the gum stick out of my hand and dragged his teeth along my skin.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” I stammered, still staring.

  Tristan laughed and pulled into my building’s driveway. Too soon, in my opinion. He leapt out and walked around to open my door. My heart fluttered. Would he kiss me goodnight? I took his hand and let him walk me to the front entrance. We both paused to spit our gum in the garbage.

  Before I could thank him again for the best date I’d ever had, Tristan spun me to face him. Holding my hands, he looked me intently in the eyes.

  “Freedom of choice, Andy. You only enter into a mating if you want to.”

  He placed a finger on my lips to stop whatever I was going to say. Not that I could remember what that was. His skin tasted salty and sweet. I wanted to dart my tongue out and lick him.

  As if distracted by the sight of my mouth, he paused and stared at my lips before continuing. “Let’s be clear on something. I don’t want you to, and it’s not easy for me to say this, but you can walk away. From me, from Wick…” He paused to give me a pointed look. “Or both. Your animals have told you who’s a good choice, a good mate. You can take or leave that information.”
<
br />   “Oh.”

  Tristan smiled slowly and leaned in with an infectious grin. He slid his hands up to cradle my face, before drawing me in. “For the record. I think you should choose me.”

  Soft, warm lips pressed against mine. His scent, mixed with our desire, swirled around me. He pulled me closer and deepened the kiss, angling my mouth for better access. His tongue sent electric pulses down my body. My nipples hardened, my panties moistened, my knees weakened. I gripped onto the back of his shirt and clung on. His arms circled my body, supporting me against the hard planes of his muscles. Crushed against his hard chest, my lungs fought for air. Who needed oxygen anyway? I lost myself in his kiss, in him, surrounded by the pulsing sound of our hearts, beating in unison.

  And then he pulled away.

  Limp in his arms, it took me a moment to regain my footing and think clearly.

  “Your choice,” Tristan whispered into my ear before fully withdrawing. He ran a finger along my lips and gave them one last look, as if imprinting them to his memory, before he walked away.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I will have your heart, Andy.”

  ~Brandon “Wick” Wickard

  When staring at Randy, the pawnshop owner, across the display case full of necklace pendants that doubled as cocaine snorters and pill cases, I wondered, not for the first time, how ironic life turned out to be.

  Bonnie and Adam McNeilly, the adoring couple who raised me instead of my birth parents, were devout Christians, and believed in seeing the good in everyone. After years of failed fertility treatments, they pursued the “adoption option” and ended up with me. Born during the first years of the Purge, my papers said nothing of my biological parents being supes. At the time, no one thought anything about the increase of orphans coinciding with the Shifter Shankings.

  Not until over a decade later, when seemingly normal teenagers started stumbling into the woods, plagued by visions and heightened emotions well beyond teenage angst, to meet wild animals they’d eventually bond with and shift into.

  Then there were some pointed questions asked at the adoption agencies.

  My parents never got any answers. They never asked for them. They told me they loved me no matter what and saw the beauty and goodness in me, even if I didn’t. If only they knew what really lurked deep down inside.

  I imagined it looked something like Randy’s face.

  Deeply scarred from some past abusive recreational activity, whether drowning cats without tying the bags closed, BDSM without a safe word, or using his own face to sharpen the blades of a lawnmower, Randy’s features had more crevices than the Marianas Trench. Pockmarks decorated the valleys and hills of his skin, and his lips twisted permanently into a sinister sneer. He was one of my best informants and all it cost was a low-cut shirt and turning a blind eye to his blatant eye-groping of my body.

  “Saw him again.” Randy’s voice grated against my eardrums, deep and gravelly. He leaned in to get a closer look at the girls. He never made direct eye contact. I gave up correcting him long ago. I knew he had no other way to relate to women, so I looked past his lack of social skills. The inside of Randy probably outcompeted the outside for scarring and damage.

  “When?” I grabbed a dented lighter from the countertop display and flipped it open and closed.

  “This morning. When I opened shop he was waiting for me.”

  “What did he pawn?”

  “This.” Randy held out a shiny object. When I reached for it, he pulled his hand back, making me lean forward before he let me snatch the object out of his hand.

  Cold to the touch, the figurine’s rough edges brushed my skin. I moved it around in the light. A weird lizardman. Much like the one on Agent Booth’s desk. But this one was different—smaller and cruder, the lines not expertly smoothed out. I sniffed it. A rose and citronella smell clung to the figurine, making me think of an older woman’s perfume or soap.

  Hmm. Booth and Herman, both scentless and both in possession of weird figurines? Part of me wanted to barge into Booth’s office and demand she tell me about Herman. The more rational part realized that action might sign my death warrant. Agent Booth went to extremes to guard her identity. If I let on I knew she and Herman were the same kind of supe—one that landed Herman into the lab as a specimen—she wouldn’t hesitate to take me out. If I were Booth, I wouldn’t either. I needed to find out what this figurine represented on my own.

  “I wonder where he got it,” I mused.

  “Huh?” Randy asked.

  I repeated my question.

  Randy shrugged. “Same place he probably got the watch. Ripped off an old lady.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Uh-huh.” Randy licked his chapped lips.

  Stepping out of the pawn shop, I wondered how I was going to find an old lady missing her watch and an ugly lizardman figurine. Time to hit up the SRD search engines and pay the good ol’ VPD a visit.

  ****

  It took much longer than normal to get home in rush hour. Relieved not to be greeted by another Witch prank, I sank into my couch and closed my eyes.

  My cell phone vibrated. I looked down at the call display. Wick. The bridge of my nose started sweating. How did I feel about him? Should I tell him about Tristan? My finger hovered over the Accept button. My stomach sank. Chickening out, I hit Reject instead.

  My cell beeped two minutes later.

  You went on a date with Tristan??? Wick texted.

  I stared at the screen and wondered what to do. How’d he find out? Another message dinged before I had a chance to type anything.

  I’m coming over.

  I fumbled with my tiny cell phone, trying to type as quickly as possible. Bad time.

  He didn’t reply.

  I groaned and slogged to the kitchen to flick on the electric kettle.

  I hadn’t seen Wick since he dropped me off after the blood bonding. He’d driven me home in silence. Well, near silence. He kept mumbling how sorry he was until I told him where to shove his apologies…or something like that. I might’ve used stronger words.

  Wick had wanted to come in. “I want to hold you,” he’d said. But for once, I didn’t want him anywhere near me. He’d done enough holding already. I sent him off with a few curses and insults. He’d looked so sad, hanging his head in shame as he slunk back to his shiny black SUV with his metaphorical tail between his legs. God, part of me had wanted to call him back and let him wipe the bad memories from my mind, and my soul. The other part of me had known, I wouldn’t, couldn’t, tolerate anyone’s touch at the time, let alone his. Too fresh, too raw. Had things changed?

  The water started to boil when the tires of Wick’s SUV squealed outside as he rounded the corner by my building. Pulling two mugs out with shaky hands, I chucked a tea bag in each one. I’d prefer coffee, but guessing at Wick’s current emotional state, soothing chamomile might be better.

  Might.

  A homeopathic remedy against the whirlwind force of Wick? Wishful thinking. Maybe he’d just go away and I could avoid this confrontation. He had no right to be upset with me.

  The buzzer went off. I visualized Wick standing there, glaring at the intercom while pressing the button for my unit down and not releasing it. I buzzed him in and braced for the storm.

  Wick blew past me when I opened the door. “This is what you meant by space?”

  He spun around in the living room. The full force of his rage made me stagger back a step. Ten times worse than I’d imagined. His rosemary scent, normally full and sweet enough to make me drool, ran foul, laced with the stench of burnt cinnamon and the jealous odour of old cat piss. He wore his heart on his sleeve. Betrayal, evident in his eyes.

  Even pissed off, Wick looked good enough to eat. With blond hair cut short, chiseled features, and broad shoulders, he looked like a present-day Norse god. His eyes held my attention; not blue like the Norse, but a rich, chocolate brown. Right now, bright yellow ringed his irises as Wick’s wolf fought f
or control. “You are not to see Tristan again.”

  His pain and jealousy sent my stomach to the floor. Then I remembered what Wick had done. “You have no right barging in here demanding things of me. Not after what you did.” That’s right, keep the anger close. Don’t jump his bones.

  “I had no choice. You know that.” He clutched the bottom of his shirt, clenching his fists. “We are mates. Why would you date someone else?”

  Many replies sprang to mind. Some to placate his anger and ease his fears. And some to push him farther into unbridled madness. But I couldn’t lie to Wick, nor intentionally hurt him, no matter how upset I was, no matter how much I hated Lucien’s control over him. He deserved the truth.

  “I have a connection with Tristan, too.” My voice came out quiet, barely above a whisper. If he’d been a norm, I’d have to repeat myself louder, but Wick heard everything. He flinched, as if the words slapped him in the face. His eyebrows pinched together, and his lips compressed into a straight line.

  Now both of us hurt. Great. Somehow, that didn’t make anything better.

  Wick looked down at the floor. His jaw clenched and unclenched, his hands fisted and opened, fisted and opened. Then his scent changed. From sour air and burnt cinnamon, the scent evolved to the steel and iron aroma of determination.

  And the musky coconut of desire. My knees buckled.

  Before I could say anything, Wick enfolded me. A hand fisted my hair at the back of my head. His hot mouth closed on mine, demanding. His tongue penetrated my mouth and brushed mine. He backed me into a wall and pushed his rock-hard body against me. He’d always played on the soft, safe side with me, sensing the bruised nature of my past, but today, right now, his actions demanded a response, a confirmation of my feelings. My heart punched against my breastbone, my body flushed with heat. My brain emptied of all intelligence, leaving me light-headed.

  I tried to speak, but Wick stole my breath away, sucking it from my mouth. He hoisted my leg up and ground against me. And the shameless tramp that I was I kissed him right back with as much passion and frustration.