Panther (Prime Prowlers Book 1)

by Kelsey Vance

  I'm so close already that he's barely inside before I'm exploding with pleasure. He kisses me, groaning, "You beautiful liar," against my mouth, driving in again and again, pushing me to another climax before his own wave of pleasure crests and breaks. He gasps, his forehead pressed against mine. Slowly I realize that my nails are deep in his shoulders, and I loosen my grip, soothing the marks with my fingers.

  For a moment I think he'll stay with me, in my bed. He looks at me, into me, like he's waiting for something.

  "I'm sorry," I whisper.

  "But you're not. You still think you did the only thing you could do, under the circumstances. Don't you?"

  He's not wrong.

  "You live a lie, you and your Patronage friends. You steal. You trick people and take their most precious things. And you don't think it's wrong."

  "It's more complicated than—"

  "Bullshit!" He rolls off me and flings himself onto the other bed, yanking the sheet over his body. "Go to sleep, Cilla."

  I'm on my feet the next second, tugging my clothes into place. My hands flick toward him, palms out, and when my power strikes him, he skims off the bed and smashes into the wall.

  He springs up, that lean, tanned body poised for an attack, his teeth bared in a very inhuman expression.

  "Down, kitty," I hiss. "Don't forget who you're dealing with. I suggest you show me a little more respect."

  He leaps for me, transforming in midair. His immense paws crash into my chest, but I catch and twist his kinetic energy and toss him backward again before he can completely knock me off my feet. I stagger, but I don't fall.

  "Is that all you got?" I taunt him, curling my finger.

  He circles me warily this time, ears pinned back and head low, growling deep in his throat. Then he launches himself at me again, nicking my shoulder with the tips of his fangs before I manage to siphon enough gravity to stick him to one place. His body whiplashes to the spot I chose, in the center of the room. When he finds that all four paws are gravitationally glued to the earth, he screams at me.

  Someone pounds on the wall of our room and yells, "Shut up, freaks!"

  I hold Ryden in place. "Truce!" I snap.

  He huffs and bobs his head in answer, so I let him go. He reverts, his face livid and his lip curled with hatred. "Witch."

  "Pussy."

  We return to our beds, but there's not much chance of sleep now. I'm seething with fury, my brain roiling with angry retorts that I can't say without starting the whole fight over again.

  I won't fall asleep. I'm too mad at him.

  But in spite of myself, my thoughts are blurring, fading.

  I've never had angry sex before.

  It was amazing.

  -13-

  New Rules

  We can't do that again. I can't handle it—the passion, and then the rejection—

  "We need rules," I tell him in the morning, trying not to notice the way his shoulder muscles surge as he pulls on his shirt.

  "Rules?"

  "For how we relate to each other."

  "Oh. Like, no lying, cheating, and stealing from each other? Those kind of rules?"

  His glare is still steely, but there's tiniest twitch of his lips when he asks the question. An answering flicker of joy in my heart surprises me. No, Cilla. Bad idea.

  "Those are good ones," I say, swallowing my pride. "I was thinking more like, no touching beyond a handshake or a helping hand, like if one of us falls down—"

  "I'm a panther. I don't fall down."

  "All right, if I fall down, you can help me up. If you want. Or not. And we could, for example, push each other out of the path of a speeding car, or something. But other than that, no touching."

  His lips tighten. "That's an easy one."

  "So you agree to keep it to just friends?"

  "We don't know each other, Priscilla. We're barely friends."

  It's so true—and such a lie—that it hurts.

  "You can leave," I say. "Take your car and go. I'll ride the bus or something, and I'll start a new life somewhere else."

  He scoffs. "You say that like starting a new life is easy. What if you run out of money? What if the Patronage or the weirdo cowboy come after you?"

  "Do you care?"

  He avoids my eyes. "And the Madstone—what makes you think I'll let you keep it?"

  "Finders keepers."

  "Really?" He smirks. "You're going with playground logic?"

  "I have the best chance of keeping it safe from the Patronage," I say.

  "So you don't plan to use it yourself?"

  Now it's my turn to avoid his gaze. "I don't know how. I need to do some research, to find out more about it."

  "Shouldn't you have done all that before your mission?"

  "No. We're not told everything about the items we collect, only what's necessary. What they look like, if that information is available. And we're warned if they need special handling. That's about it."

  He raises his eyebrows. "So you do what you're told, no questions asked?"

  "Pretty much."

  "That doesn't seem like you."

  "What are you talking about? That's exactly like me. I do what I'm told when I'm on duty, and when I'm off the clock, I'm my own boss."

  He grins. "Oh yeah? And what do you do with your free time?"

  "I—I take care of the loft. Nali leaves that to me, the cleaning and the organizing. And the shopping." Lame. I sound very, very lame. "Sometimes I take walks, or go to the library—" Lamer. Why am I such a boring loser?

  His grin has broadened, and he looks almost like the Ryden I met that first day, playing on the lawn with Winchester.

  Winchester. My heart sinks.

  "We should find a library," I say. "We can check and see if anyone responded to our emails, and I can do some research on the Madstone."

  He doesn't question my change in mood. Together we head for the tiny motel lobby, which offers "continental breakfast." Black tables, each surrounded by four black chairs, stand near a long counter cluttered with a waffle maker, cereal dispensers, a tiny microwave, and racks of plastic tableware and sugar packets. I select a bagel and immediately regret it—its chewy toughness isn't much improved by a thick layer of tasteless cream cheese.

  I eye Ryden's waffle enviously. He notices and chews long and luxuriously, licking syrup from his lips. A delicious tingle runs through my abdomen, and I press my legs together under the table, willing my hormones to chill the heck out.

  "Damn, this waffle is good," he says. "Want a bite?" He holds out the fork, loaded with a morsel of dripping waffle.

  When I lean forward, lips parted, he snatches it back and takes the bite himself. "How's it feel to be tricked?" he says, his mouth full.

  "You're disgusting."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, really." I stand up, tossing my half-eaten bagel into the trash, and stalk to the front desk. "Can we have the room for one more night?" I ask sweetly.

  The guy behind the desk is probably thirty, but he's paunchy and pale, with a scraggly mustache and a distinct lives-with-parents air about him. "I don't know," he says. "You're in 110, right? Got a complaint about noise last night." He taps a pen against his scruffy chin.

  "Oh, sorry." I flash him a sparkling smile. I'm wearing makeup today, and thanks to the satisfying interlude with Ryden last night, I'm feeling prettier than usual. "You know how it is when you get carried away with the roleplaying."

  The clerk leers in response. "I guess I could cut you a break. You need an extra for any scenes tonight? I'm off at four."

  "No extras, but I might need a stand-in for him if he doesn't behave." I bite my lip and wink at the clerk, and the guy nearly falls off his chair, mouth drooping with lust.

  Smirking, I turn and come face to face with the tower of male muscle that is Ryden.

  He looks down at me, eyes narrowed. My heart rate skyrockets, but I stalk past him out the door, back to our room.

  The instant we're bot
h inside, he closes the door and shoves me against it, trapping me with his arms.

  "Hey, no touching," I protest.

  His eyes burn into mine. "What was that?"

  "What was what?"

  "You gonna sleep with that dweeb?"

  "A guy's looks don't matter if he has the right equipment." I barely know what I'm saying right now, and I definitely don't believe it—but all that matters is that Ryden is jealous, and I'm going to push him until he admits it.

  "Are you saying I don't have the right equipment?"

  "Well—your equipment is off limits, as we agreed. Remember the rules? So I've got to get my action somewhere else. You don't mind letting me and the dweeb have the room for an hour this evening, do you?"

  "I know what you're doing," he growls. "You're trying to annoy me. You wouldn't really sleep with him."

  "You can watch us, if you want," I say. "But no touching."

  "No touching," he repeats, his face an inch from mine. His breath wafts over my lips. The air between us is electric, magnetic—I can hardly bear not being against him.

  Danger, I tell myself. Remember the rules.

  I send a quick pulse to his chest, pushing him back. "Let's go do some research."

  The Morrilton library is tiny—a dozen rows of shelves, a few tables with chunky desktop computers, and snot-crusted Lego table where two toddlers are squealing nonverbal threats at each other. The librarian helps us sign into two computers and then waddles back to her chair to bury herself in a romance novel with a bronze, shirtless guy on the cover.

  I've read a few romance novels. They're mostly about people thrown together in odd situations, screwing each other in extended, detailed scenes, with ragged scraps of plot holding the whole thing together. It's really about the sex, after all. That, and the little thrill I sometimes get during a cute scene with sassy dialogue between the love interests—like a tiny taste of first love. That feeling can be addictive, like a drug. Addictive like the handsome shifter sitting at the computer opposite me, pretending not to look at me over the top of the monitor.

  I hide a smile. If anyone belongs in a romance novel, it's Ryden. Me, on the other hand—I'm not drop-dead gorgeous, with perfect breasts that 'strain the confines of my blouse' or 'long, luscious legs that go on for miles,' or any of that. I'm just a girl in Walmart shorts and a discount T-shirt, brown hair in a messy knot, flip-flops shoved between my toes.

  Except that I could make everything in this place levitate, including the people. Only for a few minutes until I got tired, but still. I could spin that library woman's desk chair around and send her skimming across the room, or flip the Lego table upside down without ever touching it. And what if Ryden shifted, right here, and stalked through the stacks, snarling at the patrons? The humans would scream and scatter, shouting about freaks and monsters. We'd have the place to ourselves, and I would lead Ryden into the shadows behind the copy machine and—

  "Cilla!" Ryden's sharp whisper startles me.

  "What?"

  "You're looking—evil. Like you're scheming. Are you scheming?"

  "No. Ridiculous." I turn my attention to the computer screen and log into my email.

  No one ever emails me, except for work, and very rarely, my father. Today there are six different emails from my bosses at the Patronage, but I don't open any of those. I open the one from Nali.

  First there's a lot of profanity. A lot. She's furious with me, as well she should be, because I turned my back on everything we've built together. Our career, our reputation as an acquisition team, the future we hoped for. I've ruined it for her.

  I can't believe you screwed me over for that lowlife asshole shifter. Tell me you're safe. And Cilla—GIVE IT BACK. They know you have it, and they will kill you. GIVE IT BACK TO THEM!!!!

  I stare at those final words. I'm still staring at them when Ryden plunks himself into the swivel chair beside me and leans over my shoulder.

  "Wow," he whispers, after a few minutes of reading. "She's pissed, huh?"

  "You think?"

  He drums his fingers on the desk until I crush them under mine. "Stop. Did you hear from Dae or Oak?"

  "They shifted and got away, like you said. Dae is furious, of course. She wants me to tie you up and leave you in the desert and bring the Madstone back with me."

  "Do you want to?"

  "Do I want to tie you up?" There's an odd light in his eyes, and the corner of his mouth lifts. "Of course I do. But I think you might be stronger than me."

  "Smart boy."

  "Dae says the Patronage left the house, and that cowboy dude seems to be long gone, too. But the place is a mess, of course. She and Oak called the police, told 'em there was a break-in. They're going to hire security while they clean everything up. But I'll think they'll be okay now. Everyone's going to be coming after us instead."

  "If they can find us."

  He skims a hand over his curly hair. "Babe, it's the 21st century. Of course they can find us. Magically, if not humanly."

  "I guess so." I'm suddenly conscious that he called me 'babe' again, and that my fingers are still resting on his. I withdraw my hand. "What about Winchester? Is he—is he dead?"

  "No, he's all right. Whatever they hit him with wore off after a while."

  "Thank God."

  Ryden's eyebrows lift. "You like him."

  "He's a great dog."

  "Yes. Yes, he is." He lowers his voice to a scant whisper, and I lean closer to hear. "My dad got him about seven years ago, right before I left for college. Said he needed company around the house. So every time I'd visit, I'd play with him, right? He was just a puppy then. I finally got up the nerve to shift in front of him. I was scared he'd freak out—but I lay down in the sun and that little puppy curled up right next to me without a whimper. He knew it was still me. And I knew right then he was something special." He's looking at me, his eyes softening. "Just like I knew you were special, the first time I saw you."

  My cheeks are heating. "You're full of crap."

  He rolls his eyes. "I don't mean special like—I mean, you seemed like someone who was even more suspicious of people than me. I've been messed up too, mostly by my exes, okay? I guess I have a habit of falling in love with treacherous women."

  My heart jolts. Falling in love?

  He keeps talking, like he doesn't realize what he just said. "Anyway, you seemed even more jaded and wary than I am, and for some reason that made me want to get close to you. I wanted to trust you, but more than that, I wanted you to trust me. Like maybe I could show you that a guy can be real with you, and honest. Nothing held back, nothing hidden. And then..." His voice trails off.

  Tears prickle in my eyes. I broke his trust. The sadness in his eyes right now—I put it there. My face crumples, along with my pride. "Ryden—"

  But just I'm about to give him a heartfelt, tearful apology, I lift my eyes and meet the much-too-curious gaze of the librarian. She ducks back behind her book, but it's obvious that she was listening.

  "Can we table this discussion?" I whisper, nodding meaningfully in her direction. "People are listening."

  "Oh. Yeah, sure. Sorry." Nodding, he looks down at his hands.

  "No, it's fine—hey, look at me." I take his chin and turn his face to me. "I want to talk, but—not right now."

  "I get it." He nods, more enthusiastically this time.

  "I need to research the Madstone."

  "Go for it. I'll do the same."

  We spend half an hour exploring the internet, and a few more minutes printing off some particularly interesting pages. When we return to America's Best Value motel, we spread our findings all over one of the beds and sit cross-legged, side by side, cracking open Cokes from the beat-up vending machine near the front office. I've never been happier in my life.

  "So the Madstone—there's a lot of crap to wade through, but basically it's what Daera said it was—a siphon for dark magic." I sip the Coke, savoring the burst of bubbles on my tongue. "Or rather, mag
ic that was used with ill intent. Magic isn't inherently evil, like I told you."

  "But this isn't your kind of magic," says Ryden. "Not the physical kind, like your whole gravity fields and force-pushing thing."

  I grin at the Star Wars reference. A New Hope was one of the few movies I watched during my childhood that actually made me feel something powerful—like I might someday be more than I was. Although the way things are going, it would seem I went to the Dark Side instead of the Light.

  "No, this would be magic that deals with the spirit, or the mind, or the emotions," I clarify. "So if someone had used the Madstone on me when I was young, they could have broken my mother's control over me instantly. It wouldn't have had to wear off gradually. And this could undo memory charms, too, or soul curses."

  Ryden shuffles through the papers. "I found something interesting about the chain of ownership for these things. Hang on. Here it is."

  He passes me the paper, and I read it swiftly. "It can't be bought, sold, or stolen, only given?"

  He nods. "That's why the cowboy dude couldn't forcibly take it from us. We had to give it to him in exchange for our freedom."

  "But Nali and I were going to steal it."

  "When my dad died, the chain of ownership was broken. So whoever laid hands on the Madstone next, would be the rightful owner."

  "The cowboy could have stolen it himself."

  "Maybe, but he couldn't search the house by himself with all of us there. And he strikes me as the kind of dude who likes to sit back and have things brought to him. Can't see him sweating and hunting through every freaking floor like we did."

  "True." I scan the document again. "So, because I found the Madstone, that makes me—"

  "The true owner. You're the only one who can use it."

  "Unless I give it to someone."