Shadowed Lover

by Lauren Dawes

  On the commercial white wire shelves were cans of energy drinks, hotdogs, and cold cuts. Another shelf was completely dedicated to fruit, but Sasha was the sole user of that. Cartons of eggs, milk, and juice were scattered throughout, and the freezer looked much the same, except it was frozen meals and an emergency supply of hotdogs in there.

  Drake popped the seal and grabbed out the open carton of milk and placed it on the counter. In the pantry, he peered inside the box of Frosted Flakes. He was in luck, the other bastards hadn’t eaten them all yet. After pouring himself a bowl, he added enough milk to submerge those delicious flakes, then took a seat at the island bench.

  He was about four spoonfuls in when Grayson entered. The guy was usually as chirpy as a bird in the morning, but today, his eyes were dull like he’d seen some shit and no amount of mental scrubbing was going to remove it.

  Resting his spoon on the side of his bowl, he said, “You look like shit.”

  The male’s mouth flexed into a tight smile. “Thanks.”

  Drake’s internal alarm clanged, his whole body going taut as if waiting for the kick in the balls to come. “What is it?”

  Whatever it was, surely it couldn’t trump what he’d found out last night.

  Grayson shook his head. “It’s not my place to say.”

  Forcing himself to stay in his seat, Drake curled and uncurled his fingers resting against his thighs. The urge to get into the other male’s head and read his thoughts was nearly irresistible, but he wouldn’t violate his brother in that way.

  “Whose place is it then?” If there was an issue in his unit, he damn well better know about it. “Grayson?”

  “Jett, man,” he said warily, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Speak to…speak to him.” Grayson wandered in the direction of the Krups, getting himself a solid cup of hot wake-the-fuck-up before leaving the kitchen. In his pocket, Drake’s phone rang.

  “Yeah?”

  “Drake,” Zed drawled.

  “Fuck.”

  A chuckle boiled up over the line. “Nice to speak to you too.”

  He didn’t want to know what the guy had to say to him. He only hoped it wasn’t worse than what he’d dropped on his ass last night. “How would you feel about playing host?”

  “Host? To who?”

  “All of the captains of the Shadow units, the Leos, and us.”

  Christ. Fifteen type-A’s in one room? If he was honest, it sounded like a powder keg waiting for a spark. That many alpha males in one space would be an exercise in restraint. For everyone involved. Given the Revenant’s position, though, it made sense. Their place was neutral ground—they were Switzerland.

  “I’m listening.”

  “We need to meet—”

  “Is this about what you told me last night?” he barked out. Looking down, he noticed his free hand pumping, a white-knuckle fist he wanted to punch through a wall. A steel door. The gates of fucking Hell.

  “I didn’t tell you anything last night,” Zed replied in a confident drawl. “We never spoke.”

  Drake read between the lines. Zed’s call had been made in an unofficial capacity. It was a courtesy. Whatever was going to be brought up at this meeting had the potential to leave him a fucking incompetent puddle on the floor, and in a roomful of alpha types, that was never a good thing.

  He ground his teeth together. “Understood.”

  “Good. Now, back to my question. Feel like playing host?”

  “Fine. When?” Great. He was so ticked off he was monosyllabic.

  “Monday.”

  He sucked back the curse sitting on his tongue. “Monday,” he agreed. “I’ll make sure we’re ready with a basket of muffins and a fucking fruit platter.”

  “Good man,” Zed replied lightly, but his next words chased that levity away. “Keep your shit tight, Drake. I have a feeling this thing is going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.”

  “Thanks,” he muttered, ending the call. Before pocketing his phone, he punched out a text to Mateo, who replied a moment later with just one word. Done.

  Dumping what was left of his cereal in the sink, he left the kitchen and climbed the stairs, Zed’s words bouncing around in his head. This was just another scoop on his shit sundae right now. It was also something out of his control. He hated not being in control, but there was one thing he could do something about now.

  Determined to find out what was going on in Jett’s head, he stopped outside the male’s room. With his fist, he pounded on the wood.

  “Jett? We need to talk,” he barked.

  A moment later, Jett pulled open the door and slipped out into the hall, firmly shutting the door behind him. Drake watched his jaguar’s movements with shrewd eyes. What was he hiding?

  “Drake,” Jett said, not meeting his gaze. Drake inhaled, the scent of his anxiety like a punch to the gut.

  Folding his arms, he leaned against the wall, keeping his body and expression relaxed. “What’s doing, Jett?”

  “Nothing. Just getting breakfast.” Stepping around him, Jett made a beeline for the stairs. Drake was about to give chase when he thought better of it. Unless his attitude endangered him or his team, Drake wasn’t about to chase down a male who clearly wasn’t in the sharing mood. And the last time he checked, he wasn’t the Dr. Phil type. Hell, even speaking about his own shit made his skin twitch and his stomach revolt.

  Needing to expend some of his pent-up frustrations, he debated between a punching bag or a willing female. A noise behind him made him spin around, and he reached for one of the forties under his arm, before leveling the muzzle at the threat. He was definitely a shoot now and ask questions later kind of male.

  He reared back when he realized what he was considering pumping full of silver. Staring at him from between the door and the jamb was a young girl probably no older than ten or eleven. Her fear was a tangible weight against his skin. Pushing into her mind, a barrage of images hit him. Jett, someone shooting up in a cramped bedroom, holes in walls and door, an empty fridge, hiding under a bed, a dilapidated trailer home. He pulled out of her mind with a snarl, holstering his gun.

  Rage curled around him as he stormed down the stairs and into the kitchen, drawn by the sound of even more cursing.

  Misery likes company, right?

  “What the fuck, Jett?” he demanded as soon as he walked in.

  Jett was fighting with the toaster, trying to get two Eggos into the belly of the metal beast. The guy didn’t even look away from his battle.

  “I don’t actually have the mental capacity for this, Drake, so why don’t you chew my ass out for whatever I’ve done wrong this time, then leave me in peace?”

  Drake bit his tongue until he tasted blood. “Who’s the girl?”

  The other male’s head popped up like it was on a string. He said nothing, but then again, he didn’t have to. His chest was pumping too wildly for Drake’s question not to mean a thing.

  “She doesn’t have anywhere else to go,” he replied, staring at the tiled backsplash.

  “Who is she?” His words were a calm, deadly crawl.

  Jett turned around, his blue eyes tired, his sandy-blond hair sticking up in a hundred different directions like he’d had as good a night as Drake had.

  “She’s my sister, Luce.”

  Breathing in deeply through his nose, he let it out. “Why are you still in contact with your family?” What was he thinking? It was forbidden to have any ties with their parents or siblings after training began with the Trinity. If they knew…

  “Shit at home is bad. And before you ask how bad, just know I’m not going there.” Jett looked down at the Eggo box in his hand. “But…Luce needed me last night, so I brought her here.”

  “You know the rules. The cut is supposed to be clean.”

  “I know,” Jett replied vehemently, his eyes flashing. “Jesus, she couldn’t—” He ground his teeth as he fought the urge to say more.

  Drake scrubbed a hand through his hair. “T
ell me she’s not staying long.”

  “She has school on Monday. I was going to spend the weekend with her, then take her home on Sunday night.”

  “You know I can’t allow that,” he replied.

  Jett glanced up at him, the scent of disappointment leaking from his pores. He didn’t have to get in the male’s head to know he was hurting right now. “Please, Drake. Cut me some fucking slack for this. Please.”

  He was about to shake his head, when Sasha’s words drifted through his mind.

  A sapling needs protection from the oak.

  "Goddammit,” he cursed. Sasha better know what she’s fucking doing. “She needs to be gone by Sunday, Jett. I’m not fucking around with this. We have a big meeting scheduled for Monday, and guess who gets to play host.”

  The toaster popped, spewing out its cargo. “I swear it, Drake. Thank you.” He turned to retrieve his waffles. “Who’s coming and what do they want?”

  “All the Leos, all the captains, and the three big bosses, and no idea. Whatever it is, I’m not looking forward to it. It’s got TARFU written all over it.”

  6

  If Neve believed in hell, this would be it. Sitting in the dining room, she was opposite her mom, and her dad was to her right like always, but it was the person at her other elbow that was the oddity.

  “More potatoes?” her mom asked politely, but the question wasn’t directed at Neve. It was directed at the stuffy, over-cologned male beside her. His name was Bradley Winchester. The third. The only son of the Pride’s good doctor, he was a fifty-year-old living in a twenty-three-year-old’s body. With short, neat hair and flawless skin, he was very pretty to look at, but there was no substance there.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bolton. This is all delicious,” he added, gesturing to the spread in front of them. Mom had really gone all out tonight—caviar for an entree, roasted quail with rosemary baked potatoes, and enough steamed vegetables to feed half the pride. Honestly, Neve thought it was a bit of overkill, but Mom liked to play matchmaker.

  It was a pity it was such a bust, just like all the other times.

  “Would you like some more wine, sweetheart?” her dad asked. She looked at him, seeing the pity in those green eyes of his. Hers were the exact same shade, a mint green so pale, it was almost white.

  Although tempted to drink herself into a stupor, she politely declined. Bradley, however, was all up for it. Maybe he needed a little bit of liquid courage. There were plenty of rumors floating around about her, about how she was an ice queen, frigid, and a whore. She wondered if anyone realized all those attributes were contradictory. Either way, she never gave the whispers much airtime. Maybe Bradley here hadn’t heard what was being said, or he had, and thought he’d try his luck anyway.

  “So, Bradley,” her mom started sweetly. “Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  Neve did her best to seem attentive, as if she actually gave a damn about what was being said, but she was failing. Her mom hung on the male’s every word, though, so it had to be something she deemed as an example of exemplary breeding. Nothing roused her mom more than strong blood and a good family line.

  “You were going to take that up, weren’t you, Neve?”

  She glanced at her mom, trying to figure out what she’d missed. Her mom’s eyes darted over to Bradley, but really that didn’t help her in the slightest.

  “Umm…”

  “I was just telling your mother about my hobby of arranging flowers.”

  She covered her mouth, even though the smile she was sporting was practically beaming through the gaps in her fingers.

  After clearing her throat too noisily, she swallowed twice before saying, “Floristry. No kidding? Yep. That was right at the top of my hobbies I want to try list.”

  “Maybe you should, Neve,” her mom interjected, her gaze fixed on the bruises on Neve’s arms. “It’s a much better use of your time than training with the males.” Her mom said ‘training’ like it was a personal insult. “A female of your position should act with more decorum.”

  The smile Bradley gave her was warm, if a little vacant. “You should come to one of my classes,” he invited. “Perhaps I could set something up?”

  “Thanks, but…” Jesus, how was she supposed to get out of this?

  “Right, who wanted some more quail?” her dad asked, breaking the awkward silence apart with a metaphoric sledgehammer.

  “I’d love some!” Neve replied a little too brightly. Her dad was straining to keep a straight face as he served her, but the slight pull of his lips gave him away. He thought this was hilarious.

  “Excuse me, sir?” the housekeeper said hesitantly.

  Everyone turned to where Emily stood in the entryway of the dining room. Why was the woman there on a Saturday night? Maybe to help clean up after dinner?

  Her dad took the linen napkin from his lap and placed it beside his plate. “Emily?”

  “Sir, there’s a phone call for you.”

  Nodding, he turned back to the table. “If you’ll all excuse me.” He rose before heading in the direction of his office.

  “Neve? What are you doing?”

  She turned to see her mom…still seated. Bradley was too. Neve had stood without realizing, driven by instinct. Looking back in the direction of the study, an unsteady feeling began to unfurl in the pit of her stomach. Pride business was not conducted on weekends. Pride business was not conducted after six p.m. unless there was an emergency.

  Glancing back at her mom, she said, “Would you mind…err…would you mind excusing me? I need the restroom.”

  She shoved the seat back and hurried down the hall. As she passed her dad’s office, she slowed. He was talking in a staccato rhythm, like machine gun fire.

  “Christ…no…how long?...Hmmm…”

  She edged closer to the entry, the floorboards beneath the wool carpet her mom had no doubt vacuumed twice today creaking under her weight. Her dad snapped his head up, their gazes met, and she held her breath. She expected him to dismiss her, so when he crooked his finger at her, she slid inside the room and shut the door behind her.

  She took a seat on the old leather lounge her mom had refused to keep in the living room, bringing her legs up under her body. As his phone call continued, she stared ahead at the wall of books. Her dad collected first editions, often paying ridiculous amounts of money for some he’d attempted to acquire for decades. The scent of rich, earthy leather filled the whole office, the sweetness of it reminding her of home and the male she’d idolized since she was old enough to realize he would protect her with his life.

  Silence suddenly fell on the room, and she turned to find him slouching in his chair, clutching the receiver of the old rotary phone to his chest. She sat forward. He looked grave, like he’d aged ten years in ten minutes. She eyed the phone, wondering what could’ve possibly happened.

  “Dad?” she asked, her voice as loud as a gunshot in the still room.

  His unfocused eyes shifted to her face, and for just a moment, he studied her.

  Sliding to the edge of the sofa, she clasped her hands together so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Just tell me.”

  “Katie didn’t make it home last night.”

  7

  Katie woke with a groan. Everything hurt, from her head to her shoulders, her hips and her legs. When she realized she was lying on her side, she tried to sit up, but cried out when her spine and the muscles surrounding it recoiled like a dagger had been plunged in there and twisted.

  The hiss of clothing against something hard filtered through the room, and she stopped moving, her breathing coming out in short, sharp pants. Something else was in there with her. She blinked into the swimming darkness. Where was she, and what happened? Above her head, a small amount of murky light filtered through, illuminating a few feet ahead of her. A roughly poured concrete floor. She shifted her gaze up again and saw…

  Bars.

  Panic squeezed her throat with invisible fingers, choking the a
ir out of her lungs with each exhale. Sucking in a breath, she tried to get more oxygen into her body, but fear choked her and tears burned her eyes. She moaned, the pitiful sound echoing around the room.

  “Shut up,” someone hissed in the darkness. With short, sharp jerking movements, Katie rubbed away the tears quickly, facing the direction of the voice.

  It was so dark.

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat, fear squeezing her lungs in her chest. Blinking, she waited for her vision to stop undulating like a boat on the open sea. The last thing she remembered was getting out of her car because she had a flat tire. Cradling her head, she tried to sift through her hazy memories, but each time an image coalesced through the fog, it slipped through her fingers like a wraith.

  “How did they get you?” whispered a faceless voice, and Katie froze, holding her breath. She blinked a few times, her eyes slowly adjusting to the limited light. That was when she saw the woman huddled against the opposite wall, her face hidden by lank hair hanging down like a shield across her face.

  Katie’s heart was thundering in her ears, and she bit her trembling lip. “Who are you?” she asked in a croak. “Wh-wh-what is this place?”

  The woman turned her head, her hair, matted and dirty, shifting to reveal a bruise that stretched from her cheekbone to her temple. Her eyes flashed a dull yellow, signs that whoever this woman was, she was also a shifter. She lifted her nose and sniffed. She was a black jaguar too, but not from the Black Claw pride.

  “What happened to you?”

  The other female’s chest expanded with a shallow breath. “The same thing that happened to you,” she replied, wrapping her arms around her legs more tightly. “The same thing that happened to all of us. Drugged. Captured. Brutalized.”

  Katie’s brain only clung to one word—brutalized.

  Panic threatened to take over, clawing up her throat, and tears burned the back of her eyes again.