The Tiger King (Paladin Shifters Book 1)

by Patricia Logan

  “No. I’ll do that myself.” Satriale turned to the two servants who had carried his bags into the room. “Get out. I need to speak to the subaltern alone.” The two men widened their eyes and flicked a glance over at Paget before returning their regard to the primero. They bowed quickly and backed out of the room, pulling the heavy wooden door closed behind themselves.

  Paget shuddered as he watched the primero follow them to the door where he slid the deadbolt into place. Even with a key, no one would be getting into the room now. He glanced at the wall clock, noting that it was nearing noon when the warrior would have to present himself to the king. When the huge man came back to stand in front of him, Paget craned his neck upward to look into his face. He shuddered again when he noticed the anger in the man’s expression.

  “H-have I done something to upset you, sir?” Paget squeaked.

  The warrior glared at him and then Paget noticed his gaze drop to his mouth. It lingered there for a few seconds, long enough for Paget to note the chiseled lines of the man’s jaw, the way the goatee he grew on his face was shot through with gold, not entirely black as he’d originally thought. His eyes were light gold, nearly flax in color but the slashing black brows over them were stunning. He had a strong chin and Roman nose, perfectly chiseled cheekbones, and black eyelashes so long they curled. Why had nature given him such a gorgeous mate if they weren’t even allowed to touch each other? Their different classes forbade pairs—even mated pairs—from comingling. Not that Paget wanted a mate, since there was absolutely no possible way this man was gay.

  “You’ve done nothing to upset me,” Satriale’s low voice rumbled as he sighed deeply. “Mother Nature has decided to play a trick on me, that’s all, kitty.”

  Paget sighed. “Please stop calling me that. My name is Subaltern to you, sir.”

  The man smirked and Paget heard that low purr he’d noticed when they were standing in the courtyard. He almost yelped when the primero reached out and grabbed him by both biceps and pulled him up against his massive muscled body. His knees went weak when he felt the man’s massive erection against his belly. Oh my God.

  “No, it’s not. Your name is Paget and you are my fucking mate.”

  A second later, the warrior’s gorgeous mouth came crashing down on Paget’s, stealing any words of protest he was about to make. He felt his stomach roll as the man forced his mouth open and inserted his tongue. Certainly, no one had ever said no to this man before. Paget was breathless as the man began to taste him with a slow and thorough perusal of the inside of his mouth. He felt his knees weaken as the man continued to kiss him but suddenly, he felt a slow burn beginning deep within his chest. His whole body flushed as Paget gasped into the kiss. He knew in an instant what was happening and he twisted and struggled to disengage his mouth. Maybe if I can pull away fast enough, it won’t happen. It was hopeless. The primero tightened his grip on him as mating hormones spilled into his blood.

  Paget heard a loud purr and for a moment he didn’t even realize it was coming from him. When his mate’s purr became a throaty growl, Paget wanted to die. He reached between them and flattened the palms of both hands against the primero’s pectorals, pushing as hard as he could. The heat of the cat’s skin under the thick jacket was so intense, he nearly pulled his hand away. Faced with Satriale’s superior strength, fighting against his hold was hopeless. Satriale outweighed him by a good fifty pounds of solid muscled cat and towered over him. Paget had never considered himself a small man at almost five foot ten but though muscled, he was much slighter in build. The size and strength of his mate dwarfed him.

  It did other things to him also. His cock was rock-hard and the moment his blood flooded with the hormones nature reserved only for the meeting of true mates, Paget knew there was no going back. Once they’d shared that first kiss and the hormones were released, it was too late. He was fucking anchored to a man he would never be able to shake, a brutal man who could never show him any tenderness or love. Even if he could love this paladin, their stations in life were engineered so they could never consort. Paget’s life was over. His body sagged with defeat as his heart broke in two. Still he struggled to get away.

  ****

  Damiano clung to the much smaller man in his arms, ignoring his struggles to get free. Paget Jureaux. The mate he’d dreaded finding someday was right in his arms. Right where he belongs. The last thing he’d ever wanted or longed for and here Damiano was, holding a man he knew he’d fight to the death to protect. The moment his blood had flooded with the mating hormones, he knew there was no going back. He’d heard about the phenomenon happening between mates but he almost hadn’t believed it until he was set on fire by the sweet rush of their bonding. His chest heated and he knew if he were to glance down, he’d witness the telltale glow of his heart right through his skin. The hormones and heat made him feel even more alpha, even more protective of the precious man in his arms.

  In fact, he’d never felt so much strength, so much virility, and so much power coursing through him. The very thought of anyone even coming close to Paget or laying a hand on him, had him growling so hard, he found it profoundly distracting. His cock was near bursting just from the proximity of Paget. He knew he would die if Paget pulled away—die if he ever lost the smaller man—die if Paget rejected him. Surely, he’d never reject his own mate but the way he was struggling to get out of Damiano’s arms had him just a little worried.

  Damiano plundered Paget’s mouth, feeling his fangs elongate without the typical tingle of warning. When the tip of one scraped over Paget’s tongue, he felt his mate’s soft moan. Tasting blood, Damiano pulled back and looked down at the trembling little kitty in his arms. He was surprised to find Paget’s face bathed in the sweet light of their mating. Letting his gaze travel downward, he spotted the circular orange glow beneath Paget’s shirt, just above his heart. His own jacket glowed and the light seemed to be pulsating… thrumming with its own vibration. Damiano glanced up only to find Paget staring at him. His beautiful green eyes were wide with shock and something else. Oh, Jesus, he’s afraid of me. God dammit. The startled expression in Paget’s wide eyes wasn’t a look of passion or even love. It was one of pure terror and Damiano felt his heart break just a little.

  The very last thing he ever wanted was to frighten the smaller man. He’d terribly misjudged Paget’s struggles, thinking that he was as overcome with passion as he was, wiggling in his arms to settle himself and get closer but it hadn’t been that at all. Damiano held him in his arms and ravaged his mouth like the feral animal he was. He’d brutalized his kitty in the worst possible fashion and probably scarred him for life. I’m such an idiot. He let Paget go and he instantly stumbled backward, the glow under his clothes vanishing so suddenly, it was as if it hadn’t been there. When Damiano reached out to grab his forearm to steady him, Paget whimpered and pulled away. He held up both hands.

  “I’m sorry, kitty. I went too far.”

  Paget’s face flushed red and he grimaced as he reached up to wipe away a drop of blood from his lip. When their gaze reconnected, Paget flashed a hate-filled look at him.

  “I told you not to call me that. I have a name.” He straightened to his full height and brushed his hands down the front of his clothes, smoothing the wrinkles Damiano had caused.

  “I know that. I apologize, Paget. It was meant as a term of endearment,” Damiano found himself saying. He had no idea where the apology had come from. He’d only apologized to one other person in his life and that had been to his father when he’d learned that his bloodline could endanger not only himself but anyone who knew his secret. The fact was, he could have had a subaltern put to death just on his say so. That was the kind of power he wielded. Paget stared at him for a moment and then glanced at the clock on the table beside Damiano’s bed before glancing back at him.

  “You have a meeting with the king, Primero,” Paget said, blanking his features of any but a passively uninterested expression.

  The title in
furiated Damiano. He wanted to hear his mate say his name, better yet, he wanted to hear his mate pant his name as he filled his body with his cock to complete the mating ritual. He frowned.

  “You know what just happened here.” Damiano laid the palm of his hand over his chest and caught Paget’s quick glance at it before he looked away. “You’ll take me to the throne room? I’ve been there before but it’s been many years,” he said, trying to keep his voice level.

  Paget turned back to him, standing straight as he cleared his throat. “Whenever you’re ready, Primero.” Paget swept his gaze down Damiano’s front, lingering on his crotch for only a second before Damiano heard a low purr. When Paget once again lifted his gaze to meet his eyes, his beautiful orbs were a darker green in color. “Would you like to change?” Without waiting for Damiano to answer, he walked over to one of his longer bags and unzipped it. The sheaths of Damiano’s two Damascus blades peeked out from between the folds. Paget jumped back and Damiano couldn’t stop the short bark of laughter that spilled from his lips. He walked over and joined him at the side of the bed. He had to ball his hands into fists to keep himself from grabbing his kitty and pulling him into his arms.

  “You have nothing to be afraid of,” Damiano said, lifting one of the knives from the bag. He slid the gleaming weapon from its sheath and watched as sunlight from the tall windows glint off the razor-sharp blade. It had been fashioned from forged steel many centuries before. The sides of each blade were dulled with a patterned etching that had yet to be replicated, though swordsmiths had been trying. The hilt of the blade was made of a single piece of black onyx and wrapped with bamboo that had survived the centuries. Originally fashioned in India, the knives had survived many wars and Damiano had found them in Syria during his travels. The moment he saw them, he knew they were to be his.

  When he glanced over at Paget, he’d stepped back several paces. “But the next time you insist on assisting me with my bags even when I’ve already told you I’m perfectly capable of unpacking myself, maybe you’ll listen.” He lifted the blade and tested its weight in his hand. Its balance was as perfect as the blade was razor sharp and as modern as a Marine Corps issue KA-Bar. The Damascus blade felt like an extension of his own arm just like his Herstal pistols did. He practiced with his weapons every day.

  “Yes, of course,” Paget suddenly said.

  When Damiano raised his gaze to his mate, he could see that he was backing toward the door. “Where are you going?”

  “You have ten minutes to wash up and change if you so desire. I’ll wait outside,” Paget said shakily.

  Damiano frowned. “I told you, you have nothing to fear from me… mate.”

  It was Paget’s turn to frown as he stopped in place. “Don’t call me that. Every cat in the palace will hear you.”

  Damiano sighed, sliding the Damascus blade back into its sheath. “Whatever am I going to do with you, kitty.”

  “Not a damn thing. Not here. Not ever,” Paget growled. Then, before Damiano could even flinch from the anger in his mate’s tone, the man bowed sharply and vanished out the door, closing it softly behind him.

  Damiano shook his head as he watched the door close. He let out a big sigh, glancing at the clock on the bedside table again and then set to work, opening up the bag which carried his ceremonial uniform. He pulled out the charcoal slacks which had a black stripe running down the outside of the leg. Next came the dull gray undershirt which he really hated because it made him hot under the final garment. He pulled on his shoulder holster, stuffing it with his Herstals, adjusting them until they were comfortable. Finally, he donned a shiny silver-gray ceremonial coat, fastened with red frogs down the front. On both sides of the collar, he attached matching gold stars, noting his rank of primero and on the wide satin lapels hung several medals he’d earned, both from the Marine Corps and his time in the Israeli Defense Forces. Large cat shifters used medals in the ranks of the askari but the paladin did not.

  With the exception of the paladin primero who was considered the king’s champion, all paladin were equivalent to knights of old. They performed only two functions, that of guardian to the royal family and leaders of the askari. They traveled with the king wherever he was and they commanded the askari forces around the world. Service beyond the call of duty and acts of extreme bravery were recognized in the paladin ranks by the presentation of new weapons since their service was one of warrior and warrior alone. The Damascus blades that Damiano hung on his belt once he’d climbed into his clothes, were supposed to be worn only during ceremonial occasions like meeting King Fain for the first time. Damiano wore them always. He felt that just the presence of the blades at his waist were intimidating and deterred possible threats. He stood in front of the full-length mirror and examined his finished form several minutes later. He thought he would make a passable first impression but though he was excellent with the blades, he didn’t like the idea of not being able to wear his other weapons for the ceremony.

  “Well, it’s for the presentation and that’s it,” he said to his reflection. “Then, I ditch the monkey suit and strap on my goddamned wrist sheaths.”

  Damiano walked to the door, straightening the cuffs of the silver coat, feeling out of sorts without his wrist sheaths. When he walked outside, he wasn’t surprised to find his mate standing right where he said he’d be, obviously waiting on him.

  “What do you think?” Damiano asked, watching Paget take a slow sweeping gaze down the length of him. He didn’t know why he felt pinned in place. He’d never been nervous about his place or purpose but for some reason he realized it mattered very much what his younger mate thought. As Paget’s gaze returned to his, the smile that broadened his lips was such a relief, Damiano wanted to sigh.

  “I think you’re stunning,” Paget said quietly. “Sir.” He turned and walked down the corridor and Damiano was forced to walk quickly to catch up to him. “By the way, this evening the king has planned a banquet in your honor where you’ll be expected to wear the same full court dress and regalia.”

  “You didn’t just call me sir,” he said with a frown.

  Paget turned to look at him. “Of course I did. Mate or not, in public, we’re going to address each other according to our rank. I am and will always be Subaltern to you.” He rolled his eyes and Damiano chuckled. His smaller mate was going to be a handful but just the suggestion of getting to spend more private time with Paget had him tingling all over. He walked beside him down the corridor, through the hall of statues, to the throne room and was still thinking about his new place in the palace as he carefully masked his vibration from everyone he came into contact with. The cloaking expended energy but he’d become so accustomed to doing it after nearly twenty years, it was almost an unconscious thing.

  As they turned the corner and stepped into a wide corridor with a bright red rug, Damiano noticed a pair of double doors which had been thrown open at the end of the hall. Armed paladin were positioned beside the doors on either side and the hallway was lined with more of the large warriors. They ducked their heads in submission as he and Paget passed. Paladin did not salute the way askari did. The ducking of their heads was their sign that their superior was in their presence and Damiano was the only paladin who would be afforded this honor. The guards on either side of the doorway snapped to attention and then bowed their heads as Damiano entered the huge room. The majordomo approached and bowed low as he stopped near the entrance. Damiano cleared his throat and the man rose and turned to the king sitting atop his throne at the end of the great hall.

  Chapter Six

  “P aladin Primero Damiano Satriale,” the majordomo announced in a booming voice which carried across the room. Damiano watched the king raise his hand and motion him to approach. He continued forward, noting the loss of his mate as Paget stayed where he was. Something about being separated from him, even within this large space, seemed to physically hurt. They hadn’t even had a true bonding which would happen the first time they were in bed
together, but Damiano already hurt at the separation.

  He walked up to about ten feet of the raised dais, keeping his gaze cast downward as he sank to the plush red carpet on one knee. His head remained bowed. He understood the protocol necessary to meet the king, or any member of the royal family for that matter. He was not to speak until spoken to and he was not to look anywhere but the floor until he was recognized.

  “You may rise and cast your gaze upon me, Primero Satriale.” The king’s voice echoed in the large space.

  Damiano looked up as he straightened, coming to attention before the king’s throne. King Fain was a tall man, nearly as tall as he was, though he couldn’t be certain. He knew the man was a tiger shifter as Damiano was and the wavy blond hair streaked through with black under the massive crown he wore was a testimony to his species. The king was a handsome man in his late twenties, younger than Damiano by several years. Unfortunately, his superior demeanor was more off-putting than it should be. His bearing, though regal, contained an arrogance and when he spoke, every syllable was laced with conceit.

  The king’s councilor, Miruna Grey, stood to the left of his throne, a step below and behind him, wearing an exquisite long gown of purple silk accented with white fur at the cuffs and neckline. She rested both hands on the corner of the king’s chairback as though she was claiming ownership.

  King Fain hadn’t yet chosen his next queen. The first two had both died in childbirth and he’d not yet produced a living heir. Absently, Damiano wondered whether Miruna would be offered that mantle, though he doubted it. It had long been rumored that Miruna was the king’s consort but Damiano pushed thoughts of that out of his mind. The last thing he wanted to do was become mired in palace or court intrigues. The lascivious way Miruna’s gaze was raking up and down Damiano’s body was unsettling to say the very least. Clearly, she wasn’t exclusive to the king alone and spread her legs elsewhere. The scent of arousal coming off her was distracting as hell—not that Damiano wanted any of that. Her tongue might as well have been lolling out of her mouth. When the king turned his head toward her and lifted his nostrils, Damiano watched them flare. Shit. He scented it too.