by Fel Fern
“He just broke out of prison. If you say he’s a careful bastard, why would he linger in town?” Mike asked.
“Morgan could consider Trace a priority, after all, the bastard might be blaming Trace for landing him in prison in the first place. From what Mrs. Irwin told me, this human was obsessed with Trace.”
“And crazy humans can be unpredictable,” Mike finished. “Okay. I’ll reach out to my contact at the station so we can find out as much information about Morgan as we can. If it will help, what about I ask Bowen to ask Trace to lunch?”
“Are you sure?”
“Bowen and even Kane’s interested in knowing your human. We can all see Trace is your mate. He’s a little shy, but Bowen says, eventually, Trace will open up and get used to all of us.”
“Trace needs to be alive first,” he muttered, not liking the fact there was a monster walking around town who could prey on his mate any second.
“We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Chapter Eight
“Thanks for inviting me to lunch,” Trace told Bowen.
The lynx shifter sat across him at the table. He glanced around the tiny cafe he hadn’t known existed. The Rain Water cafe was slightly on the outskirts of town, wedged between an independent bookstore and an antiques store. More importantly, no one gave Trace stares as he entered. That was one of the drawbacks of being a local celebrity.
“No problem. Kane’s running late with a patient, but he’ll text if he can drop by. By the way, the BLT sandwiches here are amazing.”
Trace remembered Kane mentioning he was a therapist.
Bowen, Trace found, was easy to get along with and it didn’t hurt they shared the same interests, liked the same favorite movie and that Bowen was currently taking an art program at the local college. When he asked how Bowen and Mike met, Bowen hesitated but soon began to talk. Their food arrived and in between bites of bacon sandwiches and crisscross fries, Bowen answered his question.
It was hard to believe this cheerful young man and his brother had survived a group of rogue shifters who wanted to hunt Bowen down and use him as a breeding partner.
“That sounds scary,” he said when Bowen got to the part about his brother’s kidnapping in order to lure him out by his pursuer.
“I didn’t think.” Bowen looked embarrassed. “I rushed in when I thought they’d killed Brad. I should have waited for Mike, but instinct drove me. In the end, it worked out but I should have listened.”
Trace didn’t know what to do so he reached over the table and gave Bowen’s hand an awkward pat. The lynx shifter rewarded him with a small smile.
“I’m sorry if I asked something so personal,” he said.
“It’s okay. You’re important to Dusty, going to be practically family soon.”
He blushed.
Bowen studied his expression and quickly said, “Oh God. Ignore what I said. I didn’t want to scare you or anything.”
“You mentioned shifters mated for life.”
Someone groaned and they both looked up to see Kane undoing his tie. Kane grabbed the extra chair and told Bowen, “Dude, don’t overwhelm him. He’s human.” Kane shot him an apologetic look. “I don’t mean anything by that, just that you’re not used to shifter culture.”
“I’m learning,” he blurted. “From Bowen, from reading books. I also started learning sign language.”
Okay. Where did that outburst come from? Dusty and he had been dating for a week now and he was frustrated his pace of learning sign language was horribly slow. He hadn’t told Dusty yet because he wanted to surprise the shifter, but he wanted to make sure he had it down perfect.
“Wow. That’s dedication,” Bowen said. “I know a little. If you want, we can learn together?”
“That sounds good actually. Going back to the topic, I’m a little overwhelmed. Dating a shifter is new to me, but I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
“Mating Dusty doesn’t scare you?” Kane asked, curious. The tabby cat shifter ordered the same thing and Bowen persuaded Trace to share two cakes—a blueberry cheese cake and a tiramisu, along with coffee.
“I read what mating marks are.” He blushed, touching the spot on his neck. “The first time we got together, I didn’t understand why Dusty became fixated with that spot. He looked pained when he drew away though.”
“I think he wants to make sure both of you are ready,” Bowen said.
“It’s remarkable though,” Kane mused out loud. “I mean, pulling away from your mate like that? It takes tremendous control. That’s why I know you’re the one, Trace.”
“Know how?”
“Because only a true mate could calm a dominant shifter’s inner animal. Dusty used to be all brooding and gloomy, but he’s actually smiling more often, thanks to you.”
Embarrassed and pleased at the same time, he was relieved to see the waitress arrive with their cakes, coffee, and Kane’s lunch. He took a forkful of cake and sighed. “Damn, Bowen. You were right. Their desserts are awesome.”
“Bowen knows the best places around, restaurants I don’t even know about, and I grew up here,” Kane said.
“So,” Kane paused, as if unsure of how to breach the topic. “Any news?”
Trace knew what Kane meant. He’d been shocked at first, to hear Morgan had escaped from prison. The past week would have been unbearable, but Dusty was right beside him, and being surrounded by Dusty’s friends made him feel a lot safer.
“Nothing yet. I’m hoping he won’t make an appearance, that he left town,” he replied.
“But you don’t think that’s what he’ll do?” Bowen asked, concerned.
Kane shook his head. “Guys like Morgan can’t be cured of their obsession easily.”
“You might be a shrink, but that doesn’t need to be true,” Bowen protested.
It was odd to have friends arguing on his behalf. He was kind of unused to it, even now.
“Trace, are you smiling?” Kane asked, breaking away from the argument.
“Sorry, it’s an inappropriate reaction, I know, but I can’t help it. Most of my life, I felt alone, but now I have Dusty and you guys. It’s nice—sorry. I can’t find a better word for it.”
“You apologize too much,” Bowen declared. “It’s good to have you on board. Grover and his mate will be back from their long overdue honeymoon soon, too. You’ll like Eric.”
He smiled back. “Whatever happens, with you all around, I hope that keeps Morgan away forever.”
* * * *
Dusty glanced at his watch, eager to spend the entire weekend with his mate. Ten minutes until Bill would take the next shift, so he started a leisurely path back to the ranger station. There had been no sign of Morgan Weiss in town. Dusty ought to know, because when he wasn’t working or with Trace, he scouted every nook and cranny for the stranger he’d scented a week ago.
Mike suggested that the human probably realized he stood no chance of going near Trace and, hence, decided Trace wasn’t worth the risk. Dusty thought differently. No, a snake in human form like Morgan Weiss wasn’t the kind of guy who gave up easily, so Dusty would continue to keep his guard up.
Reaching the station, he saw Bill had come in.
“Rushing off to meet your boyfriend?” Bill asked with a grin.
Bill knew about Trace because Trace had surprised him a few times by coming by the station right after his shift.
“Yeah,” he replied. “I’m just going to change and I’ll be out of here.”
“Enjoy yourselves.”
“Oh, I will.”
It warmed him to see his mate after the long hours apart, made him realize how much time he spent at his work, choosing nature over human company. Dusty realized he loved his job, helping guide hikers, fighting off wildlife, and talking a potential suicide out of taking their own lives like Trace. However, it was time he focused on his own personal life, his happiness.
The first time Trace and he made love, he wanted to claim the human,
body and heart, but he knew Trace wasn’t ready. He didn’t want to overwhelm Trace, but it seemed like there was no point waiting anymore. He’d give it a little more time and ask Trace again.
In a span of seven days, they’d integrated so well into each other’s lives, and the more time he spent with Trace, the more he realized he wasn’t just falling hard and fast for Trace—he also wanted to wake up each morning to the sight of Trace curled up beside him.
Trace always claimed it was Dusty who had saved him, but salvation worked both ways.
Once in his casual clothes, he took his motorcycle back to town, parking it in front of Mrs. Irwin’s bakery. He was surprised to see the old witch turning the “open” sign to “closed.” Mrs. Irwin hurried out, handbag in hand and her cat in her arms, looking worried.
“Mrs. Irwin, is something wrong with Fluffy?” he asked, noting the weak cat in her arms.
“I think he ate something he shouldn’t.”
“Are you heading to the vet? Let me take you.”
“I couldn’t do that. Don’t you have a date with Trace?”
“Trace usually gets caught up in his work, just give me a minute.”
Mrs. Irwin glanced at Fluffy, whose eyes were shut, then back at him.
“What’s going on?” it was Trace, halting midway on the stairs. “Mrs. Irwin?”
“I’ll just drive her and Fluffy to the vet. It will only take me ten, fifteen minutes tops, then I’ll come back since the three of us can’t fit on my bike. How’s that?”
Trace nodded. “Sounds good, I want to finish sketching a piece.”
Trace bounded down the stairs and gave him a shy kiss on the cheek. He closed his hand on Trace’s nape and slanted his lips over Trace, who blushed as Mrs. Irwin was still there.
“Okay, see you soon,” Trace whispered, flashing him a smile before returning to his studio.
Once Trace disappeared back inside, he phoned Mike, who picked up instantly. He gave Mike a quick summary.
“I’ll be there within five minutes,” Mike replied.
He ended the call and walked to the back of his bike to help Mrs. Irwin with her helmet.
“You don’t leave anything to chance, don’t you?” she asked.
“Too overprotective?” he asked.
She shook his head. “Trace is lucky to have you.”
Her compliment meant a lot to him. He mounted his bike, made sure Mrs. Irwin was safely behind him with Fluffy, and rode off to the vet. Maybe calling Mike was a bit excessive but he wanted to make sure nothing bad happened to his mate.
Chapter Nine
Trace returned to his new sketch of Dusty in leopard form. Well, he hadn’t exactly seen Dusty as a leopard, because Dusty was still having control issues with his inner beast, but this was exactly how he pictured Dusty. The powerful animal in front of him was graceful and deadly, his spotted coat sleek and unique.
He’d picked up his pencil when he heard a knock on the door, no longer surprised by the prospect of a visitor. For some reason, Abram or Mike found some cute, random excuses to visit him—or rather check on him. At first, he was slightly miffed at Dusty’s machinations. He didn’t need protection, but Bowen and Kane gently reminded him Dusty was merely worried for his safety.
“Who is it?” he called out. “You know, seriously. Dusty will be back soon so there’s no need to worry.”
The door creaked opened and for some reason, a bad feeling knotted in his stomach. “Mike, Abram? It’s not funny.”
“You don’t need to worry about the old bitch, Trace. I’ve given her dumb kitty enough poison, there’s no doubt it won’t ever see the light of day again. Kind of like you.” Trace nearly fell over his stool at hearing the threat from that oily voice.
Dread lined his stomach as he stumbled away. The studio lights highlighted Morgan’s sinewy and lean figure, and his greasy black hair. Morgan shoved the easel in their way, knocking aside the sketch he was working on. He flinched, every muscle frozen in place, just like before when Morgan had shown him his true colors.
No. He wasn’t the weakling he was before. Being around his powerful leopard shifter mate had taught him so much about life that he could be strong too in his own way.
“I have a restraining order against you, Morgan. I don’t think you want to go back to prison.” His voice wobbled and judging by Morgan’s leer, the stalker wasn’t the least bit intimidated by his threat.
It didn’t matter. All Trace needed to do was keep Morgan talking, distracted so he could reach for his phone in his pocket.
“Prison?” Morgan scoffed. “A cell can’t contain me. To survive, all I need to know are the right people.”
He slipped his hand into his back pocket, freezing when Morgan barked, “Don’t.”
Morgan whipped his hand inside his jacket, producing a revolver and pointing it right at his head.
“You won’t shoot me,” he whispered. “You want me too much.”
“Wrong, I only need certain parts of you.”
The gun roared and agony blazed up his leg a second later. He cried out, stumbling face-first into the floor. A crimson spot appeared over his right calf, blood seeping down his leg and into his shoe. His mind a haze of pain, he wasn’t aware of Morgan stalking toward him, yanking him savagely by his hair. A tongue licked at his cheek. Repulsed, he drew away but Morgan retaliated by slamming the butt of the pistol against the side of his head.
His head swam.
“So feisty. Let’s see how much fight you still have in you when I’m done with you.”
Trace’s skull felt like it was on fire. He kicked and screamed, but to no avail. Most shops along the street closed around this time, and Mrs. Irwin and his other neighbors weren’t around to—oh God. He remembered Morgan bragging he’d poisoned Fluffy. What kind of sicko would do that to a poor, defenseless animal?
He should have known better. Trace had let his guard a little down, too immersed in his own personal happiness to realize that maybe Morgan was waiting for this one moment. Fighting didn’t do him much good, especially with his busted leg.
Morgan fired again, this time to the floor, a warning. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t make this any harder on yourself.”
Morgan dragged him out of the studio, down the painful flight of stairs, leaving a trail of blood.
A wave of helplessness nearly filled him. Not long ago, he’d fought and clawed for survival like this, too, but, eventually, he’d lain silent under this monster, drained of energy to do anything else but take the abuse. Despair weighed him down. His arms sagged by his side, but he remembered he was no longer alone.
He shut his eyes and saw Dusty and his new friends in his mind. Dusty and the others would smell the scent of his blood in the air.
“Don’t think your new furry fuckers will come and rescue you, Trace,” Morgan said, matter-of-fact. “Because where I’m taking you, there will be no one within a hundred miles. It’ll just be you and me.”
Morgan grunted and shoved Trace into the back of his car. He let out another hoarse scream, but Morgan swiftly slammed the trunk door shut. Moments later, he heard the squeal of tires on the gravel. Breathe, he told himself. He wouldn’t let Morgan beat him this time because Trace wasn’t his old, pathetic self. There were people who cared about him now and a mate who would give his life for Trace. All Trace had to do was wait, survive, and trick Morgan into thinking he was defeated.
Trace curled his body and with shaking fingers, tried to examine the wound, but the car hit a bump on the road and his leg slammed against a tire. He let out a gasp. Trace had to somehow stop the bleeding. He took off his shirt and wrapped it around the bleeding leg. It still hurt like hell, but damn it all, Trace was going to see the light of tomorrow. He and Dusty had plans. Build a home together, family, a house pet, the works.
“I’m going to fucking live,” he whispered under his breath, a fierce promise.
* * * *
“Dusty, hurry back to the studio,” had been Mike�
�s clipped call.
After that call, he bid Mrs. Irwin good luck and mounted his bike, riding at the maximum speed. Dusty’s insides coiled into nervous knots, his leopard restless, angry, a predator who needed to sink its teeth and claws into something, anything. He reached the studio, the feeling intensified.
Dusty got off his bike, seeing Mike talking to Mr. Lee, the owner of the antique clock shop across from the bakery. He heard another car engine stopping and Abram emerging, an intense expression on his face.
What the fuck was going on? Why hadn’t Mike told him what had happened? That pissed him off even more.
Then the smell of freshly spilled blood hit him. He flared his nostrils, eyes narrowing as he clenched his fists by his sides, claws slicing out of his skin as he glimpsed the trail of blood down the stairs.
Trace.
Trace’s scent mingled with that of another oily human. He growled, temper fizzling, control over his animal unraveling. Being around Trace had leashed his leopard, appeased the beast because their mate was there to balance them out. Trace was the light to his darkness and today, that light was snuffed out.
“Mike,” he only managed to growl out his brother’s name.
No, Mike didn’t deserve that title. Mike saw him and instantly put himself in front of the frightened, elderly Mr. Lee. Good call because Dusty didn’t remember moving. Mike was yelling, sure enough, but Dusty’s mind was too clouded in rage to read what the fuck Mike was saying. Excuses. He came at Mike with full force, the change so close to the surface, but before he could sink his canines into Mike’s skin and rip out his throat, Abram came between them, a solid wall of muscle.
He snarled, but Abram shoved them both backward.
“Stop it, both of you. Fighting won’t help,” Abram signed toward him.
“Stop it? Mike was supposed to keep watch over Trace.” Dusty was sure he was yelling but he didn’t care.
Pain flittered across Mike’s face briefly—regret, guilt—which only powered his anger. He growled, came at Mike again, but Abram gripped a fistful of his shirt. They were this close to shedding human form and settling this with claws and teeth, but some part of Dusty reminded him these two men were more than his friends, they were brothers who’d seen the same horrors, who always had each other’s backs.
