Kiss and Kin: A Sexy Shifter story

by Kinsey Holley

  Taran wouldn’t talk about Kuba or Eurowolves at the game. Someone there might know Kuba and tell him people were asking about him. A wolf like Kuba didn’t like people asking about him. Taran would watch, wait, listen and hope. Mostly hope, because this shot was miles fucking long.

  He’d just shut down his computer and put on his leather jacket when Denardo walked in.

  “Hey!” The rookie was clearly surprised to see him, “Why are you here so late?” They hadn’t spoken since Denardo got back from Vegas.

  “I’m about to go play poker,” Taran replied with a frown. “Wolf, maybe you should give up the bike. It’s not for everyone, you know.”

  The bruise beneath Denardo’s right eye was almost as dark as his iris. Once again, he limped. He had a split upper lip and contusions on his cheek.

  “Not the bike this time,” Danny muttered, reddening. “The reception got a little out of hand. A fight broke out in the hotel bar.”

  “Did your side win?” He grinned.

  “I don’t even remember,” replied the beta, easing into his chair. “I’m just lucky I didn’t end up in jail.”

  Taran stopped and turned when Denardo said, “Wait a minute. Poker? You’re going to play poker?”

  “All in the line of duty. Nick heard from a wolf who thinks he played with Dominik Kuba at a big game downtown. He’s getting me in tonight. Wanna come along? Real undercover work, plus you get to gamble and drink.”

  “Um, no thanks. I don’t play, and I’m still kinda sore. I was gonna check my messages, then go home and sleep till noon.”

  “I’ll let you know if anything shakes out.”

  “Good luck,” Denardo replied quietly as Taran walked out.

  ***

  The two large rooms in the back of the recently renovated warehouse featured surprisingly comfortable furnishings, including custom made poker tables and easy chairs for players to relax and visit between games. The soundproofed walls blocked the noise from the goth club so well even wolves could barely hear it. Taran thought he recognized the anonymously catered food from one of Houston’s hippest restaurants. Whoever ran this game had a lot of money and wanted players who did, too.

  “Three hundred to you, Tom,” the dealer said, using the name Taran had adopted for tonight. He didn’t see anyone he knew, but as the only Taran in the Houston pack, he couldn’t risk someone blowing his cover.

  Down by a thousand bucks so far, he didn’t care because he enjoyed poker. He’d decided to stay all night in case Kuba showed. Petri the Lawyer (there couldn’t be another Petri in the Houston pack either, but Taran assured him they’d probably never talk again) promised to point him out. Two hours in and no sign of wolves with accents, Slavic or otherwise.

  About fifty wolves played tonight. Most humans wouldn’t play poker with wolves, who didn’t need to read tells when they could smell fear, excitement, happiness and anger.

  Folding his measly pair of sixes, he sat back and waited for the hand of five-card stud to end. Everyone else folded as well. The guy who’d opened, a Jersey wolf calling himself Tonio, bought the thirty-five hundred dollar pot.

  As Tonio raked in his chips and the dealer shuffled the new deck, another wolf whose name he hadn’t gotten said, “Anyone heard from the Russian wolves? I was hoping I might get some of my money back.”

  Taran took a sip of water and sat back in his chair with a yawn, thankful to be an alpha and one unusually good at controlling his reflexes and pheromones.

  The dealer, a strong beta, replied, “I don’t know, George. I like the ones who throw the money around, but those guys were a little too hardcore. We get enough big fish here; we don’t need Russian mobsters or shit like that.”

  “Dominic’s an Italian name, isn’t it?” said another player. “I never heard of Russians named Dominic.”

  Taran feigned an interested frown, as if considering the ethnic origins of “Dominic”. Mentally, he high-fived Nick, Petri the Lawyer, Tonio, and the wolf who’d just named Kuba.

  Tonio chimed in, “Those guys weren’t Russian, they were Czech.”

  Bingo. Hallelujah. Where the fuck was Kuba?

  “Russian, Czech, Italian, I don’t give a rat’s ass,” grunted the dealer. “My bosses like friendly little thousand dollar buy-ins where you get killed for normal reasons, not because some KGB type lost too much money.”

  The dealer had a point, Taran reflected as he maintained his bored expression. If you put fifty wolves in a small space, gave them alcohol and pitted them against each other in a series of pissing contests, you didn’t really need genuine psychos to make it dangerous.

  “Don’t matter anyway,” Tonio said flatly. “They were coming, now they’re not. One of the first guys here tonight said he talked to a guy in the Czech’s crew—something spooked him. He changed his mind.”

  An unseen fist punched Taran in the gut.

  The dealer halted mid-shuffle. “Spooked?” he barked. “What does spooked mean?”

  It means someone tipped Kuba off; it means we have a leak, just like they did in Miami.

  Tonio shrugged. “Fuck should I know? Something made the Czech guy not wanna come after all. Who cares?”

  “Well, Tonio,” the dealer said with sarcastic solicitude, “we might care if we were about to get busted. There’s a lot of money on the tables here.”

  Conversation skidded and crashed in both rooms, the only remaining sound the muffled thump of bass-heavy music through the walls of the goth club.

  The air thickened with the scent of stress, fear and anxiety. He didn’t expect an imminent panic, but he shifted slightly in his seat so he’d have easy access to his gun.

  An alpha in the next room—a dealer, probably—said firmly, “There’s no reason to think we’re getting uninvited guests tonight, gentlemen. We maintain excellent relations with the authorities.” Taran assumed he meant someone on the force tipped them in advance. “Play will continue until four, as normal. Anyone who cares to cash out when the current hand is finished is free to do so. But I’m sure everyone will remain calm, and I hope most of you choose to stay.”

  Another second passed. The alphas dialed down their own tension. Conversation quietly resumed. A more restrained mood prevailed with slower play—no more boisterous joking and bragging, just serious poker.

  The players at his table elected to take a break. He maintained his relaxed façade, professing not to care if they stopped for a while or not. Inside he seethed.

  Who had tipped Kuba?

  If he could’ve attended without telling anyone, finding and bringing Kuba in by himself, he would have done so. Investigations didn’t work that way. A cop couldn’t show up at an illegal poker game without a word to his superiors, not if he wanted to keep his badge. He’d had to tell his captain. The captain had to make sure Vice wouldn’t raid this particular game on this particular night.

  The wolves waiting at the bar down the street. Petri the Lawyer. Whomever Petri the Lawyer may have told. Fact was, the list of people who knew about Kuba being at this game, and about Taran attending tonight, was not short.

  A big, black, dangerous funk hovered on the edge of his consciousness. Tomorrow it would turn into rage.

  No reason to stick around for another hand now; he needed to release his backup. He got up to mix himself a scotch and soda—his first alcohol of the evening—and sat down in an easy chair to send the text and check his messages.

  He had several missed calls, one of them from Lark.

  He took a sip of scotch as he stared at her name and number on the screen. A wolf walking by said with a laugh, “Bro. You having a seizure?”

  “Huh?” He didn’t look up.

  “You been staring at that phone like it’s flashing strobe lights.”

  “Oh. No. No, just a call I wasn’t expecting.” He still didn’t look up. The wolf took the hint and walked away.

  He looked in his voicemail. One from Lark.

  He forced himself to text his backup be
fore he listened to the message, noting with disgust how his hands shook slightly. Once he’d sent the text (“no kuba go home”), he returned to the voicemail list and stared at it some more. Took another sip of scotch. Considered walking outside to listen to the message. Stayed in his chair, unsure whether his legs would shake as badly as his hands.

  Apparently, getting bonded to your mate made you act like a chick.

  He hit Send and entered his code.

  Beep.

  “It’s me, I, um—” Her voice paused, took a breath. Just one little breath, but it wafted through the phone and he sucked it in and closed his eyes, breathless at his body’s immediate fierce response. His pulse throbbed in his throat, his gut churned, his dick ached. He growled softly.

  “I got your message, and—I never—I didn’t think I…” Her hesitancy, the shakiness of her voice, shredded his heart. “I didn’t call you back sooner because I was scared. Not—not of you, I mean, but that you might be mad or—or hurt, really, cause I was such a bitch. I mean, you scared me. But I should’ve handled it better. Shit.” She paused, and he heard her swallow. “I’ve been thinking about this all week. I feel like a dog that finally caught a car, you know? I have no goddamned idea what to do with it now.”

  He barked once in startled laughter, and every wolf in the room stared. Embarrassed, he turned his attention back to the message. “…a long, long time. God, for so long Taran, and it hurt so bad…” He could hear her trying not to cry. It killed him. “You were right,” she whispered hoarsely, “it was the best night of my life, and I acted like a spoiled brat. I’m not sorry we did it, and I’m not sorry I’m your mate, and I need a little time to get used it to but—” the words tumbled out in a rush now, “—I will get used to it, I want to, I—if you don’t hate me, if you still want me, I love you. I just—I love you.”

  Beep.

  He played the message again.

  He swallowed, took another sip of scotch, and played it again. Then again, then once more, forcing himself to breathe slowly and block out every sound around him till nothing existed but her voice in his ear, her sighs, her pauses, the unshed tears behind the words “if you don’t hate me,” the way her breath caught before she said “I love you.”

  The dealer touched him lightly on the shoulder. He jumped out of his skin.

  “Sorry, Tom, but I’ve been calling the table back for five minutes. You never looked up.”

  “Ah.” He shook his head. “I…I think I need to leave.”

  The dealer smirked at him. “Yeah, I think you do too, wolf.”

  When he stood, the room swam. Not like when he drank too much, because he hadn’t. Not like when Nick’s dad caught them in his porn stash and flung them into opposite corners of the room. Not even like when he bled out two pints of blood after close quarters combat.

  No. He reeled from nothing less than pure, euphoric, I-thought-the-rest-of-my-life-was-going-to-suck-but-maybe-it-won’t lightheaded wooziness.

  He didn’t worry about falling down; he worried about floating away.

  He staggered out of the warehouse into the crisp night air with a goofy-assed grin plastered on his face. Catcalls followed him, accompanied by filthy suggestions from jealous wolves about what to do when he caught up to her.

  His body screamed with need, urging him west, toward her, the pull of his bonded mate as accurate, and far more powerful, than the GPS locator he’d put in her car. The strain of resisting that pull threatened an involuntary change, but he couldn’t afford to get four-footed right now. To keep from howling in the middle of the parking lot, he clenched his jaw till he heard his teeth grind.

  As a wolf, he needed his mate. As a cop, he needed to determine who’d betrayed his investigation. “My mate called and said she loved me” would elicit sympathy, but it wouldn’t excuse dereliction of duty.

  First to headquarters, then to Lark.

  He drove to the nondescript building housing SHIU on the other side of downtown, obeying all posted speed limits and stopping at all red lights despite the urge to get to his mate as fast as he possibly could. A thirty-six-year-old alpha didn’t lose control, no matter the circumstances.

  Right.

  He allowed himself to dial Lark’s cell before he got out of the car. It went straight to voicemail. His vocal chords locked up. He wheezed into the phone like some kind of stalker, and he wondered if the sound of his breath could seize command of her body, as hers had done to him.

  “Lark,” he croaked. He cleared his throat and began again. “Baby, don’t you think I’ve already tried to hate you? Silly brat. I mean…” He stopped, laughed a little. “Shit. I’ve tried everything to get you out of my system. I gave up a long time ago. You weren’t—you didn’t do—it doesn’t matter, okay? None of it matters. If you love me.”

  He stopped again, unsure how to continue, unable to hang up.

  “I’ll find you tonight. Call me, but even if you don’t—I’ll find you. I love you.”

  He didn’t see his captain at headquarters. Andy Gossen entered the squad room as Taran logged into his computer.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Trying to figure out who fucked up my investigation. You?”

  “Captain said he’d have my throat if I didn’t do my paperwork.” Gossen grinned, then sobered as he realized what Taran had just said. “What happened?”

  He sighed and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. “You know about the missing fae women?”

  “Yeah. We still like the Euros for it?

  He nodded. “The wolf behind it’s a big poker player, was supposed to be at a game tonight, right here downtown. Nick had someone get me in. But someone at the game said the perp got spooked and changed his mind.

  “Think he was tipped off?”

  “Had to be,” Taran grimaced. “And I gotta know who did it.”

  “Sucks, bro.” Gossen began typing at his own computer.

  Taran completed his email to the captain and looked through his notes.

  “Hey,” Gossen said suddenly. “Why don’t you ask Denardo about other rich games? Can’t be that many.”

  He turned in his chair to look at the other detective, confused. “Why?”

  “Danny’s a big poker player.”

  Ice ran up his spine and into his scalp. He closed his eyes against a sudden, vicious attack of vertigo.

  “Taran? Bro, what’s wrong?”

  “I asked Denardo if he wanted to ride along tonight.” He opened his eyes. “Said he didn’t play.”

  Gossen raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what I heard,” he said slowly.

  “Denardo tell you he played?”

  “No. I know a cop in Oklahoma—said everyone knew Danny was a big player. His dad was a pro.”

  “Y’all ever talk about it?”

  Gossen shook his head.

  “So,” Taran said after a few minutes’ silence. “Think of a good reason why he’d lie about that.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Me neither.”

  He stood up to pace, the scent of his anxiety filling the room as he ran the past weeks’ events backward in his mind. The faster his mind raced, the harder his heart pounded. The harder his heart pounded, the more pheromones he shed.

  Gossen, a beta, grew progressively more agitated until he finally barked, “What is it?”

  “You know my cousin got drugged at Le Monde?”

  Gossen nodded.

  “Danny was there that night.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Right. I took her home from the hospital the next day, told Denardo I was doing it. That night, she gets attacked again. Denardo shows up; says he was here when dispatch got the officer down call.”

  “What night was this?”

  “Two weeks ago Sunday.”

  “I’m going into the duty and access log.” Gossen looked up from his monitor, a grim expression on his face. “Denardo wasn’t in the building that day
.”

  Taran took a deep breath. “I need to find him.”

  “Could be a coincidence.”

  “Danny knew everything I had on Kuba. He’s been acting weird. Miami lost Kuba to an agent with a gambling problem.” He felt in his pockets, then looked on his desk. “Shit. My phone’s in my car. I need to—I need to call Lark, tell her to—I need to find her. Now.”

  It felt like Le Monde all over again: the unfamiliar, queasy sensation of helplessness, made worse by the fact he couldn’t protect her this time, couldn’t even locate her. Now that he’d bonded to her, any threat to her elicited instant reaction from him. It had already started. He smelled the change, felt the bones in his hand rippling as he tried to dial her cell phone from his desk.

  “Taran? Dude, are you changing?” Gossen sounded horrified.

  “She’s…my mate,” Taran panted as he listened to Lark’s phone ring. “Don’t—” he swallowed, drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, “—don’t freak. I can control it. I have to control it—”

  “Taran?” Lark’s voice—soft, happy, surprised—ran through him like cool wine. He shivered with relief, falling back into his chair.

  “Where are you?” he asked huskily.

  “Cowgirls. I met TJ and the girls, but they had to leave. I was gonna see, if, um, you wanted to meet me? If you’re not working, or busy or, you know? I got your message.” He could hear her blushing.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Because I’m not alone.”

  “So? How can anyone hear—Lark, who’s with you?” But somehow, he already knew.

  “Danny.”

  Gossen gasped.

  “You know, your rookie?” she said when he didn’t answer. “He came in a few minutes ago. He reminds me of someone. I can’t figure out who. He says he just has that kind of face.”

  A brief moment of sweaty, nauseated, near-howling dread, and then—nothing. He exhaled. His vision cleared, his bones stopped morphing, intellect evicted emotion, and he shifted smoothly into combat mode. Mind over instinct.