Rogue

At first, I saw nothing but the great outdoors: trees, dead leaves, underbrush, and fallen twigs and branches. But then something moved again, and my focus shifted. And that’s when I saw the other cat.

My pulse spiked, and my jaws clenched. My paws flexed, claws digging into the dirt out of instinct. It was just a brief glimpse, a flash of slick black fur between two trees at least forty feet away. But it was enough to put me instantly on alert.

I’d made no effort to be quiet on my trek back from the stream, and neither had Marc or Vic, so any other cat in the woods would certainly know we were there. If he were one of ours—even my one nonresident brother, Michael, who came over a couple of times a month to make use of our excess of wilderness—he would have made his presence known out of courtesy. With the exception of Ryan, who wasn’t allowed out anyway, we were all very close, and none of us would have snubbed the others by walking by without a greeting.

The mystery cat wasn’t one of ours.

On alert now, I tensed, going completely still in a tangle of honeysuckle. I had to call for help. I had no delusions about my ability to take on a trespasser in cat form alone. Not with my energy reserve tapped by an afternoon of sparring and an un-fueled Shift.

But what if I was wrong? What if the cat was one of ours, just out for an odd solitary stroll? If I bellowed a roar of alarm and everyone came running to find me stalking one of our own cats, the guys would never let me live it down. I had to be sure.

I took off after the other cat, my steps silent and confident, my ears alert for any sound to tell me which way he’d gone. Unfortunately, the short glimpse I’d gotten of black fur did nothing to help me narrow down the list of possible suspects. All werecats are solid black in feline form, regardless of their hair color and skin tone on two legs. Black fur is part of our heritage, even for newly initiated strays. To identify the unknown cat, I’d need either a good whiff of him or a much closer look.

After less than a minute of careful stalking, keeping my eyes, ears, and nose on alert, I heard leaves crunch to the west and adjusted my direction accordingly. Minutes later, I heard the crack of wood splintering. The sound was much closer that time, and just to my left, on the other side of a thick clump of briars.

I padded silently to the edge of the brush and peeked around it. At first I saw nothing but more trees and bushes. But then I heard him breathing, slowly and evenly, and near the ground. The suspicious werecat lay stretched out peacefully beneath a cedar tree with his eyes closed, almost asleep. Except he wasn’t a he. He was a she.

It was my mother.

I huffed sharply in surprise and stepped back from the edge of the briar patch, hoping she hadn’t heard me. In my entire twenty-three years, I’d only seen my mother in cat form twice, because since she became a mother, she only Shifted when she was really upset. The first time I’d seen her with claws and a tail was the day her mother died, when I was ten years old. The second time was the night Ryan left the Pride to live as a wildcat, breaking her heart. That time, she’d stayed alone in the woods for three days, and my father had forbidden any of us to go after her. Brow creased in worry, he’d said she needed time to mourn her loss, and that we should be willing to give our mother whatever she needed. So we had.

Ryan, I thought, trying to jerk my left rear paw free from a tangle of ivy without making any noise. This is about Ryan. My mother had been spending large blocks of time alone all summer, even during Abby’s stay, which just wasn’t like her. Normally, she’d have used a fellow tabby’s visit as an opportunity to show me how I should be living my life. But this time, she’d turned my teenage cousin over to me several times a week, claiming Abby needed plenty of distractions to help her recover from her ordeal at Miguel’s hands.

I happened to agree, and since she let me teach Abby the basics of self-defense during her stay—after all, nothing puts repressed rage to better use than kicking the shit out of a big punching bag with a scary face drawn on it—I didn’t think to question what my mother was doing during our “therapy” sessions. I’d assumed she was in her room, knitting something for one charity auction or another. Evidently I’d been wrong.

It started the day we’d returned from Missouri with the body of Vic’s younger brother, Anthony, along with the remains of Miguel and Sean, his accomplice. I’d assumed my mother was trying to deal with what had happened, with the loss of one tabby and the near loss of two more, including me. After all, our very existence had been threatened, our collective vulnerability exposed. But I should have known better. My mother was stronger than that. She was the silent backbone of our family and a former power on the Territorial Council. As such, she could deal with threats and disasters on a large scale, because they weren’t aimed at her personally.

But she couldn’t deal with Ryan.

Ryan was her Achilles’ heel. He had wounded her twice now, the first time when he left us, and the second when he teamed up with Miguel to save his own fur. But there was more to my mother’s personal crisis, to the guilt that drove her into isolation in the woods, than everyone else knew. My mother had a secret, and it was eating her alive.

Seven

I snuck back through the woods as soon as I was sure my mother was asleep, and during the entire twenty-minute walk back to the ranch, I debated whether or not to tell her I knew her secret. And that I wasn’t the only one.

To my knowledge, only two others knew, and I was sure neither of them would ever tell. Ryan’s motivation for keeping his mouth shut was the same as always: to save his own hide. Our father had agreed to let him live against the wishes of most of the rest of the Territorial Council. In fact, our father was the only thing standing between Ryan and a very slow, very painful death. Ryan would never do anything to piss off the one man keeping him alive, and nothing would put his existence in greater peril than telling our father that he’d used our mother to spy on the Territorial Council.

The only other person who knew that my mother had unwittingly fed our abductors privileged information was Abby. She’d been locked up in the basement cell across from mine when we found out about Ryan betraying his family to save his own life, and she’d been just as disgusted with him as I was. But she’d promised me never to breathe a word about it to anyone. For my mother’s sake, not for Ryan’s.

In the clearing just inside the edge of the forest, I stopped to Shift back, my mind still on my mother.

I’d never really questioned my decision not to tell her what I knew. Technically, it was none of my business, but more important, I didn’t want to be the cause of problems between my parents. She had meant no harm. On the contrary, she’d been trying to mend the rift between Ryan and the rest of the family.

Shortly after Ryan left, when I was thirteen, my mother became secretly obsessed with tracking him down to talk him into rejoining the Pride. After two years of searching, she found him, and though he eagerly accepted her money, he steadily refused to come home. In retrospect, I think that was the closest he ever came to standing up for something he believed in.

When Ryan got tangled up in Miguel’s kidnapping scheme and began using her to spy on the council, my mother never had a clue. I could only assume she figured it out when Owen dragged Ryan home in shame, not to mention shackles. I couldn’t be sure, though, because I’d never asked either of them. But as far as I knew, she hadn’t spoken one word to Ryan since the night my father locked him up.

My Shift complete, I forced thoughts of my mother and brother from my mind as I stepped into the backyard to find my clothes.

Normally I wouldn’t have bothered dressing until I’d showered. Werecats are accustomed to seeing one another in all variations of undress, as well as all stages of mid-Shift. But hopefully there would be a delivery boy on the property soon, for whom we’d have to make allowances. Walking around nude in front of humans was not a good way to keep a low profile with the local community. It was an excellent way to make new friends, though.

Unfortunately, Marc didn’t like new friends.

Dressed, except for my bare feet, I crossed the yard and stepped into the back hall, shoes dangling from the fingers of my left hand. Before I reached my room, Ethan stepped out of the kitchen with a stack of cheddar Pringles cradled in one hand. He smiled, extending his snack toward me. “Bite?”

I hesitated, then shrugged. “Actually, yeah. Thanks.” We met halfway, only a few feet from my open bedroom door, and I snatched the entire stack from his hand, grinning as I danced out of reach. I was still dodging my brother’s long-armed grasp when my father’s office door opened and he appeared in the threshold.

“Karen!” he bellowed to the house in general. “We’re supposed to be there in an hour.”

Clearly expecting an answer, he paused, glancing down the hall in our direction. But no response came.

“Karen?” he called again, stepping into the center of the foyer. Still no answer. My father’s eyes locked onto mine, and my heart started to pound. Surely he could hear it. He knew I knew something. I barely resisted the urge to hide behind Ethan. “Have either of you seen your mother?”

“Yeah,” Ethan said, and my heart actually skipped a beat.

He knew Mom was in the woods? If so, why hadn’t he mentioned it? He knew as well as I did that she only Shifted when she was upset about something.

But I should have known Ethan was joking. “Slim lady. Blue eyes and a gray pageboy,” he continued, his eyes glistening in appreciation of his own humor. “Answers to the name ‘Mom.’”

Our patriarch frowned, his eyes darkening. Fortunately, he thought Ethan was answering for us both, which was fine with me. I tossed another chip into my mouth and started to duck into my room before my father could question me separately. But my foot froze in midair when my mother’s voice rang out from my parents’ bedroom.

“Gracious, Gregory,” she called out. The door opened, and my mother stepped into the hall with a towel wrapped around her hair, tying the sash of a pale pink bathrobe. Her feet peeked out from beneath the robe. Two entirely human feet with neatly polished toenails.

My jaw dropped open, and I was glad no one was watching me. How the hell did she get past me?

“What on earth are you shouting about?” my mother demanded, and for a moment, I thought she’d read my mind. But then she propped her hands on her hips and glared in irritation at my father. “Have I ever made us late?”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Daddy said. But as stern as his voice was, his eyes were gentle when he looked at my mother. His eyes were always gentle when he looked at her, as if something about her melted his heart, even when she was second-guessing him or slapping his hand for trying to sneak a bite of raw cookie dough. And that was probably a pretty good assessment. She thawed him out. It was a damn good thing someone could.

“Well, I’m still waiting for the first time you let me get ready in peace.” Her mouth twitched in an effort to keep from smiling. “Meet me in the car in twenty minutes.” She backed into her room and closed the door gently. I followed her example.

In my room, I stripped for the third time that day and headed straight to the bathroom for a quick shower.

Clean, dry, and lavender-scented, I pulled a brush through my still-damp hair and dressed in a pair of short denim shorts and my favorite green stretchy-T. I paused at my dresser to put my watch on, then glanced up at the mirror.

Not too bad, I thought, brushing clinging strands of hair from my neck. But with my throat exposed, my eyes caught on my first and only battle scars: four small white crescents running down the left side of my throat. No one else ever noticed. But I did. All the time. And each time my gaze focused on them, I remembered Miguel’s fingernails popping through the surface of my skin and sinking into my flesh.

Miguel had cut off my air for less than two seconds, but they were the most terrifying two seconds of my life. Even worse than the memory was the fact that he’d left his mark on me. Permanently. I couldn’t help but see that as a mark of shame, a daily reminder that I hadn’t been able to keep his hands off me.

“He’s dead.” I said it aloud to comfort myself, but it didn’t work. Miguel may be dead, but Luiz is still out there somewhere. Lying low. Waiting.

I was sure of it. He’d disappeared too easily. It was too good to be true. And if the new body gave us evidence of another jungle cat in the territory, the rest of the council would have to listen.

Shaken by thoughts of nightmares not yet over, I pulled my hair back over my shoulder, covering the scars. Then I brushed it back again, angry at myself for being so squeamish. The guys bore their scars with pride, as evidence of the work they’d done to keep the rest of us safe. Why shouldn’t I? Even if the sight of them did make my stomach churn…

“You get lost?”

I jumped, then whirled to find Marc leaning against my door frame, arms crossed over a deeply tanned, well-toned chest. “Quit sneaking up on me,” I said, mentally cursing a werecat’s stealth. But I couldn’t summon a sharp edge to my voice. He looked too damn good to scold.

Marc smiled and stepped over the threshold, pushing the door closed with his foot. He sauntered across the room to plop down on my unmade bed, the soles of his feet grazing my cream-colored Berber carpet. My pulse spiked just watching him. “Vic ordered pizza.”

I laughed as I came toward him; I’d guessed as much. “What did he get?”

Marc leaned forward to grab my wrist as soon as I was within reach. He pulled me into his lap, nuzzling my chin, just below my right ear, sending tingling sparks to smolder in very promising places. “A meat-lovers, a cheese-lovers, and a supreme. All large.”

“That’ll be enough for me,” I whispered, trailing my fingers down the side of his face. His chin was rough, and the stubble tickled my fingers, a delightfully masculine texture. I liked chin stubble. Especially on him. “But what are the two of you going to eat?”

Marc laughed, and I pushed him back on the bed, where he rolled us over until I lay looking up at him. Light from the fixture overhead made a halo around his head, but he was no angel. His next words confirmed it. “I have an idea,” he murmured, pinching my earlobe lightly between his front teeth. “But Vic’s out of luck.” His tongue trailed from my ear down my throat.

“Mmm,” I purred as my arms snaked around his waist, my fingers playing lightly over the muscles of his back as they bunched and rolled beneath my hands. “I might need a snack, too.”

“That can be arranged.” He hooked his right hand beneath my knee and wrapped my leg around his waist. His hand skimmed slowly up the length of my thigh to cup my rear beneath my shorts. He squeezed, and my breath hitched. He slid his hand beneath the hem of my shirt, and my pulse leapt. He ground his hips into me, and…

My phone rang, Pink singing “U + Ur Hand” from across the room.

Exhaling in frustration, I planted one hand against his chest and tried to push him up, but he only growled and refused to move. “Let it ring,” he moaned. Which I found ironic, considering the title of the song.

I let my head fall back against the rumpled covers and sighed, enjoying the feel of his weight pressing me into the bed. “What if it’s important?”

“What could be more important than this?” His hand trailed up my stomach, and I squirmed beneath him. But the song played on, and I wasn’t one of those people who can just let the phone ring. I’m too curious. And yes, I know what curiosity did to the cat.

“I have to get it, Marc,” I said, stroking the hair at the base of his skull. “It’ll only take a second.”

“Fine.” But he refused to move, so I squirmed out from under him, which gave me some very interesting ideas for later….

Smiling to myself over the naughty images in my head, I grabbed my cell phone from my desktop, glancing at the number on the display.

My smile withered instantly, leaving my expression hollow. It was the same number I’d seen a day and a half ago.

When Andrew called.

“What’s wrong?” Marc asked.

“Nothing.” My thumb hovered over the yes button as I tried to calm my pounding heart. If he heard it racing, he’d know I’d lied. Then I’d have to explain, and he’d know it wasn’t the first time. I hated lying to him. I really did. But if I told him an ex-boyfriend was bothering me, he’d insist on fixing the problem for me. And not only would that offend my pride—I was hardly your typical damsel in distress—it would probably involve an unpleasant road trip, an overdose of testosterone, and a major cleanup effort, which would only make things worse for everyone involved. Most of all, Marc himself. So really, I was lying to him for his own good.

Or so I told myself as my mouth opened, intent on digging me even deeper into my proverbial hole.

“It’s Sammi,” I said, cringing inside even as the lie came out smoothly. “Why don’t you go make a salad to go with the pizza? I’ll be right there, okay?”

Marc frowned. “Fine. But we’re not done here,” he said, gesturing toward the bed with an unmistakable spark of mischief in his eye. I nodded, and he left to make me a salad. Sometimes he was too sweet for his own good. And for mine.

I closed the door behind him and pressed the yes button, cutting Pink’s song short before the phone could switch over to my voice mail. But I didn’t speak, in part because I knew that since I could still hear Marc’s footsteps, he could hear anything I said. But the other reason, of at least equal importance, was that I had no clue what to say.

“Have you been thinking about me?” Andrew said into the empty static over the line.

Shit. Until he spoke, I’d clung to the sliver of hope that I’d been wrong. That it wasn’t his phone number on my screen. But that hope was now as real as the Easter Bunny. “I know you’re there, Faythe. I can hear you breathing, so answer the fucking question.”

I opened my mouth, yet I had no idea what I was going to say until the first word slipped from my lips.

Eight

“Yes.”

Frustrated with my own answer, I let my head fall to thump against the door, then held my breath until I was sure Marc wouldn’t turn back to investigate the sound. He didn’t. Instead, from across the house came the barely there sound of the magnetic seal breaking as he opened the refrigerator door.

“Really?” Andrew sounded suspicious, almost as surprised by my answer as I was. But it was the truth; I had been thinking about him. In fact, I’d had trouble blocking him from my thoughts. I felt guilty about the way I’d left things between us, and about how ugly the whole situation would get soon if he didn’t stop calling.

I sighed silently. Why did I feel compelled to be honest with Andrew, but not with Marc? Did I owe Marc any less than I owed Andrew?

No. The truth was that I owed them both an explanation. I’d left each of them—albeit five years apart—without saying goodbye. But Marc was like me. He was strong, and stubborn, and…one of us. Resilient. Andrew was human, and thus fragile in a way I could never really understand, and Marc could no longer remember. Honesty was the least I owed Andrew—up to a point.

“Yes, really,” I said at last. I snatched the remote from my desktop and aimed it at my stereo. Music blared to life from the speakers mounted in the corners of the room. The All-American Rejects, “Dirty Little Secret.” Frenetic, taunting tempo and all.

Figures.

Counting on the music to cover my voice, I turned my attention back to Andrew and exhaled slowly in anticipation of a very awkward conversation. “I was thinking that I should have tried harder to get in touch with you in June.”

“How right you are. Fortunately, you’re going to have the opportunity to make that up to me. Soon.”

What? My pulse spiked. No. He was coming to see me.

Andrew couldn’t come to the ranch. There was no possible way for a meeting between him and Marc to go well. Or even a meeting between him and my father, who also assumed my human indiscretion to be a thing of the past.

“What does that mean?” I asked, my voice soft with horror I couldn’t quite disguise, but he only laughed. “Andrew, how do you want me to make it up to you? You want to talk? We can talk. Let me explain what happened.” One version of it, anyway…

He snorted. He actually snorted into my ear. “Oh, let me guess. It’s not me, it’s you. I just don’t fit into your life anymore, right?” The bitterness in his voice stung.

“It’s not like that.” But it was. It was exactly like that—in no way he could possibly understand.

“Oh? What is it, then? Your parents? You’re scared to introduce me to your parents?” I started to answer, but he spoke over my protest. “They don’t even know about me, do they? You never told them.” His accusation was sharp and pointed. But this time he was wrong.

“Of course I did.” My words came out rushed; I was eager for something legitimate to deny. “They know.” Did he honestly think my parents thought I was a virgin? That I was afraid to tell them I’d gone off to college and had sex? Sure, my mother looked like she belonged in a fifties sitcom, but my parents were neither stupid nor naive. Which was no doubt one of the reasons they’d sent the guys to watch over me.

“You told them?” He didn’t believe me; that much was obvious. “And they’re okay with it?”

I shrugged, though he couldn’t see the motion. “Well, I doubt they’re thrilled by it.” They were no more pleased with my perceived promiscuity than any parents would be. But their real problem was not that I’d let a guy into my bed, but that I’d let a human guy into my bed. A guy I could have no future with, who could never marry me and give them grandchildren.

None of which I could tell Andrew, naturally.

“You’re lying,” Andrew shouted into the phone, and I could actually hear his teeth grinding together as he spoke through them. “You’re fucking lying, and we damn well know it.”

“We?” I frowned in confusion. “Who’s w—”

“You didn’t tell them about me. You didn’t tell your family any more than you told him.”

“Andrew…” On the radio, the All-American Rejects gave way to an announcer rambling on about the weather and the traffic, and I lowered my voice, hoping no one would walk by my room before the next song came on. “Andrew, what the hell are you talking about?”

“You owe me, Faythe. I know where you are, and I know who you’re with. And when the time comes, that won’t make one fucking bit of difference. He won’t be able to prote—”

Another voice barked in the background, pounding through Andrew’s fury like a hammer through a block of ice—quick and violent. And effective. I couldn’t make out what he said, and before I had a chance to think about it, Andrew was back. “I’ll see you soon, Faythe. Tell Marc I’ll see him, too. I think he and I have a lot to talk about.”

Oh, no. Oh hell no. Alarm shot through my limbs and I stood so fast my chair fell over on the carpet in front of me. “Andrew!” I whispered into the phone, glancing at my bedroom door, just to be safe. “You have no idea what you’re—”

But he was gone. He’d hung up on me. Again.

Furious, I snapped my phone shut and tossed it onto the desk behind me, then bent to pick up my chair. What the fuck is wrong with him? I slammed the chair on the floor, but that did nothing to help burn off my anger. Andrew and I had only dated for four months and we’d now been apart almost as long as we were together in the first place. So what the hell did he hope to gain by coming here and confronting Marc?