by KH LeMoyne
Rayven’s heart sank. They’d found him, and now he’d undergone his first shift, forced in captivity. “Hold on, Nathan. I’m not going to let them win,” she muttered under her breath.
“Get him under control and out of here.” Sam gave her a fierce shake, his fingers digging into her shoulder. “See what you’ve done? He’s shifting. No longer a valid guinea pig. Now they’ll want to put him down. That’s on you.”
“I’m not the one betraying the clan.”
He slammed her cheek-first into the side of the SUV before he wrenched her hands behind her back and snapped titanium handcuffs tight around her wrists. Then he stabbed her in the arm with a needle and threw her into the cargo hold in back with enough force that her ears rang. “You’ve never been my clan.”
2
Black Haven Stronghold, Montana
One week later
Breslin sat at his computer and punched in a security pass code for the website of Fitzpatrick Investments and Securities. He picked up the soft tread of Italian leather-soled shoes in the hallway.
His beast tracked the slow, measured pace along the hardwood floor outside the office and the soft whoosh of the door as it opened and closed at his back. He didn’t bother to turn, instead mentally tracked his office mate as he traveled to the far wall of bookshelves instead of the partner’s desk on the other side of Breslin’s.
Curious at the change in ritual that had earmarked Callum Mann as a professional driven by habit for most of the last century, Breslin waited, his fingers paused over his keyboard. He waited for the unfailing morning greeting and family update that carved minutes out of their day.
Instead, silence deepened in the large space until anticipation had him quickly searching for some egregious social error on his part: a birthday missed, failure to return Gillian Mann’s call, one of the children whose visit he’d missed, or some other infraction that would gain him Callum’s cold silence.
“Doesn’t it ever occur to you that we share a room larger than the footprint of some people’s homes and all the space you claim is one bookcase and a desk?” Callum’s even tone broke through Breslin’s self-reflection, and he steeled himself for the inevitable lecture. As brilliant as Callum was with managing the clan’s finances and hunting out new business opportunities, he and his mate were equally tenacious on their personal pet project of drawing Breslin out of his shell.
Not happening. He didn’t need to shed his delicate shell before he embraced—hell, the world? His soul was mortared with stone, and tempered by past horrors and the cold-fired need for revenge. Nothing would change him.
“I don’t need overstuffed chairs and couches picked out to match the red walls to do my job.”
“I remember Gillian saying the paint for these walls was Terracotta Sunset, and what tools you need to do your job isn’t my point.”
Braced for a more tedious lecture, Breslin shot back, “I don’t have diplomas to paper the walls. Wouldn’t do it even if I did.”
“No. Instead, you have books.” The leather of Callum’s shoes squeaked as he squatted. “Efficient Building Design. Environment Psychology for Building Design. Adaptive Management of Renewable Resources. Climate Change Biology. Dry stuff. Yet the books overflow on the shelves from floor to ceiling. Every spine is cracked and the edges all worn, with sticky markers sprouting like weeds.”
“You had children. I invested my time elsewhere,” Breslin lashed back, getting tired of the forced distraction. “Since I’m not having children, be my guest and mount my books on the wall next to your family’s college accolades and graduation photos.”
“Pictures of my wife and six sons,” Callum responded, his voice tight. “You do remember accepting the role as their Protector when they were born? In spite of your open reluctance to bond with children, I’ve never doubted your promise if something happened to Gillian or me. Despite your dismissive attitude, I still don’t.”
Yes, he had agreed, with equal parts trepidation and awe, to be the Mann children’s Protector. Some part of his cold heart understood the privilege of being asked to take responsibility for the youngsters’ lives, and he’d lived in fear that something would happen to their parents. Every day he’d dreaded the possibility, until the last Mann child successfully shifted for his beast rite of passage and then later graduated from college to flaunt his brilliant genetic DNA. He took small, if hidden, pride in each of them as they created legacies within the clan. It also didn’t slip his notice that Callum and Gillian could easily have asked their alpha to assume the role. The title of Protector was an honor. However, he understood their choice in choosing him was a calculated attempt to connect him to family.
It hadn’t worked. He’d done his job by the boys and kept them safe when they strayed too far outside the lines of the sanctuary and the territory. But he left love and comfort to their parents, because he knew love couldn’t be tendered from a distance. And he’d kept his distance. He’d also lost the right to a family of his own a long time ago.
“I’ve kept my word,” Breslin said. At Callum’s continued silence, he added. “I’d still make certain they were okay. Even though they’re grown.”
Callum grunted and moved toward his desk, the large picture window behind him framing the tall, lanky man who looked much the same now as he had when Breslin had first seen him in a small diner in Lester, Washington.
“Did you and Gillian come up with a new strategy for saving me, or is there another reason for this walk down memory lane?” What in Mother Earth’s name did the bobcat shifter have up his craw? However, years of experience warned him Callum wouldn’t get to the point until he’d had his say. Still, he didn’t have time for a lecture.
“Gillian sends you her love. She also recommended I not try to fix something you refuse to change.”
“Smart woman. You should listen to her.”
“I’m stubborn.” Callum crossed his arms over his chest. “Most people keep libraries for their egos, but since you’ve actually read most of the tomes in this office, I consider you a smart man.”
“Your point?”
“If this new contract bid you’re pushing succeeds, it will ruin Rutland Mill and Lumber.”
“Precisely.” Breslin registered Callum’s rising annoyance, yet returned his focus to the monitor in front of him and refused to look up. He flipped open a file folder on his desk to check information on the first page and turned back to input the verified figures on the financial screen. Rutland was poorly run with inevitable bankruptcy within eighteen months. Their acreage close to Vancouver’s growing metropolis made them prime for acquisition in order to convert the land to homes. And the forestation that used to be plentiful to feed their business had diminished by sixty percent. “They’ve mismanaged funds and aren’t competitive in their marketplace.”
“Maybe. But the mill employs clan members who won’t be able to put food on the table after this financial coup of yours.”
Breslin glared his way. “Not our clan members.”
Callum shook his head and released his rigid posture. “Granted. But we’ve turned around businesses in worse shape for Deacon.”
True. They’d both worked hard to salvage some of Deacon’s holdings after first one world war and then a second had unsettled many family-run businesses. But helping the enemy survive? No. Destruction was the whole point of this exercise. “People in Alpha Karndottir’s territory should have restructured their businesses with the changes in market trends years ago. This will give them incentive to move on.”
Callum gripped his hair for a moment and actually growled. “They don’t have the freedom to make decisions given the alpha who rules them with an iron fist. I don’t blame you for hating Gauthier, but you’re almost as much of a coldhearted bastard as he is for destroying innocent people to get to him.”
“No. I haven’t torn apart families, raped women, and killed children, much less stolen from my own people and driven them into the ground until they can’t put
food on their tables.” Gauthier had done all that and worse for centuries. He’d hidden behind his alpha title as a justification for every heinous atrocity he’d committed. He deserved what was coming to him. And so did the enforcers who did his bidding.
Callum had the decency to wince and Breslin waited for a dent in the too-familiar numbness he’d experienced more and more over the last few years. Since he hadn’t killed for a living in decades, some semblance of humanity might have crept back in.
He glanced at a charred piece of wood on his desk for a full moment, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard. Three inches by two inches, the memento looked like nothing special. In fact, visitors to his office assumed it was a paperweight from rebuilding Black Haven. In a way, they were right. It served as a visual reminder that the man he sought to destroy was worth every moment of Breslin’s painstaking efforts.
He could no longer remember his mother’s smile with crystal clarity or his older brothers’ smirks and laughter. Occasionally a stranger on the street with their identical carrot-colored hair gave his heart a jolt. Otherwise, the images were fading.
Their cries and screams, however… Those rang as clear in his mind today as the day they were viciously murdered.
He’d never surpass the alpha of the north for the title of the most ruthless and vile. Gauthier Karndottir won every time.
So—regret for his actions? Not in this lifetime.
Remorse? The iron-tough shield around his heart blocked even the smallest twinge of guilt. He’d developed a thick skin during his years of tracking and executing the worst criminals in the territory. Enforcers couldn’t afford feelings. Assassins like himself who delivered justice for Deacon, even less so.
The charred wood sat unassuming on his desk, functioning better than any Pavlovian trigger. It required a soul to feel, faith to find a new direction.
Breslin knew he didn’t warrant blessings or salvation. He didn’t miss either one.
He understood the impact of the atrocities he’d committed in his past. Understood that, even though sanctioned by his alpha, the blood work he’d taken on exiled him from a normal life forever. What he did now seemed tame in comparison. Because each financial strike he planned hit deep into Gauthier’s pockets. Each was another opportunity for Breslin to bring his enemy to his knees.
“If it’s any consolation,” he offered, “they can leave the clan and find safe haven.”
“Not everyone can drop everything and live like the Ghost.” At the not-so-subtle tone layered somewhere between reprimand and challenge, Breslin shot a glance toward his alpha’s chief financial officer—his best friend—if a man who was only half-alive could have friends. Callum’s comment warned of dimming respect and triggered an uncomfortable sensation somewhere beneath the bone and muscle in Breslin’s rib cage. His cougar grumbled, but he rolled his shoulders and shrugged off the irritation.
“These are the profiles of all the employees and their families,” Callum said as he threw another folder on top of the pile beside Breslin. An inch thick and worn as if someone had searched through the papers often, it sat like a rock on top of the Rutland financial reports. “I don’t know how you can do this year after year. It’s giving me prematurely gray hair.”
“You’ve had gray hair since I first met you—a long time ago.” Breslin leaned back in his chair and waited. He knew Callum well enough. Until he finished, he’d continue interrupting Breslin’s final Rutland coup. The last thing the acquisition needed was a fat-fingered mistake that might leave an opening for someone else to claim the mill.
Fists on his desk, Callum leaned closer. “Some people have extended families and elderly who need care. They can’t just up and leave.”
“You didn’t have a problem pulling up roots.” Breslin scowled back at the numbers on the screen. In forty-five seconds, his login to the trading account would time out. He needed to finalize his transaction for the available shares. Even with his low bid for delivery of the lumber to the buyer Rutland desperately needed, his clan’s holding of Hampton Mills would clear a profit while stealing the business from Gauthier.
Suddenly noticing the lack of lecture, he shook his head and realized Callum now stood again at the far windows with his back to him. He’d never seen him so exasperated. After a quick click to save his offer, Breslin refocused his attention. “You didn’t struggle with the Karndottir clan’s well-being after changing your alpha allegiance to Deacon. Why take an interest in the old territory now?”
“I—we didn’t have a choice but to choose Deacon. My loyalties to him are unwavering, but if Gauthier hadn’t been a threat to our unborn child and seeking to make Gillian his broodmare, we wouldn’t have forsaken our home,” Callum said over his shoulder without turning back. “Mix-breed matings are still outlawed in that territory. Yet, even though she’s a cougar instead of a grizzly, the alpha hypocrite would have taken her to give him a son. You’d think more than a hundred years would have changed his outlook, yet—”
A hundred years hadn’t changed Breslin’s outlook, not that he excused Gauthier’s narcissistic ego.
“The only thing that saved Gillian was her mother’s determination to keep her hidden and the shaman’s potion to suppress her from shifting,” Callum added.
That and Callum’s quick action in taking his very young, pregnant beloved over the territory line before others became aware of her breeding potential. The thought left a sour taste in Breslin’s mouth.
“We were lucky Deacon accepted us.” Callum turned back and leaned against the glass. “But I’d have sworn an oath to the devil himself to save her.”
Breslin moved the file Callum had dropped aside. “Luckily, you didn’t have to do that.”
“Gillian’s relieved our children, your godchildren, grew up safe, and received excellent educations. I owe you for that.”
“Of course, I was their Protector,” Breslin muttered. The good news was that following all the Mann children around had paid off. They’d survived childhood and puberty, and blossomed into productive adults. “Shifters don’t have godparents, but someone needs to provide backup.”
Callum continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “But there are consequences to what you’re doing. People fleeing your financial persecution and changing their alpha oaths could incite Gauthier to wage war. Don’t you worry for the families who live on the border?”
Like Breslin’s own family? He closed his eyes and pushed back images of flames. At a loud crunch, he glanced down at the fractured bits of his computer mouse in his palm. He swept the worthless plastic into the trash and sucked in a deep breath. “Precisely the reason I refuse to stop. If he wages war, the alphas have to intercede.”
Callum blanched. “Right, I forgot. Your goals are more important than everyone else’s.”
Breslin didn’t answer, focused again on the financial data streaming down his screen—Karndottir’s total net worth. An easy cyber-hacking job allowed him visibility into what was once a profitable portfolio of land, businesses, and cash, but which now reflected a negative balance. Gauthier could run in the wild and feed himself if he went bankrupt, but without jobs, his people would leave in droves and he’d have nothing—no money, no clan, no power. For without shifters to rule, the alpha power would leave him. Maybe he’d even go insane and kill himself as Deacon’s father had.
A few months more and Breslin’s plan would come to fruition. He hadn’t yet delivered the final strike and was still considering several options. One thing he promised himself—he’d witness Gauthier’s ruin. The alpha would know who orchestrated his downfall. The best part of his plan—no other alpha in the international shifter alliance would come to Gauthier’s aid.
The grizzly alpha had swindled and betrayed anyone who’d ever dealt with him. He’d dug his own grave. Breslin was more than happy to shovel the dirt over him as he lay twitching.
Callum wanted to reach some tender part of Breslin’s heart. It was a waste of time. Nothing would stop him
, especially so close to culminating his revenge. “If you’re getting tired of helping me, you know the way to the door.”
At Callum’s deep inhale, Breslin wondered if he’d pushed too far. Callum’s sense of loyalty wouldn’t let him walk away, and Breslin counted on that weakness despite the annoying tweak in his gut that tried to dissuade him.
Callum sank into a chair beside the desk. “I should. Should have long ago, even though I understand why Deacon gave you free rein to attack these holdings. I always figured you’d eventually realize you didn’t have it in you to harm innocent people,” he muttered. “Rather like Deacon assumed you’d come to reason someday too.”
Assassins didn’t reason, they performed on command and delivered with precision. “I’m sending you my latest transaction details. Get back to me when Deacon’s Hampton Mill Lumberyard is awarded the new lumber contract instead of Rutland.”
As a timid knock rattled the door, Breslin shut his browser. “Come in.”
“Can I talk to you?” The mop-headed youngster hanging from the door handle didn’t look prepared to take no for an answer.
“Does your mother need something, Trevor?” Breslin asked.
“Nope.” The boy slid inside and closed the door, leaning against it as if he needed a prop. He cast a quick glance Callum’s way but paid him little attention. “I—well—I…”
Reining in his impatience to finish his task, Breslin slid the folders on his desk into a drawer and stood. The world seemed to be conspiring to delay him today. He waved toward the armchairs in the corner next to the unlit fireplace.
Trevor Philmont clenched his fists with his lips pursed, but he nodded and walked toward the chairs. Right before he reached them, he spun around. “I want you to teach me.”
“Teach you what?” Breslin stopped beside him, puzzled.
Trevor looked up at him as if they both already knew what was on his mind. “You know. What you do.”
