Stray

From all accounts, strays lived a miserable existence, so it was no wonder they sometimes crossed the border into our land looking for companionship, and sometimes for answers. When that happened, our enforcers were glad to fill in the many blanks—as the strays were escorted back to the border. Unfortunately, most strays who crossed our boundaries were looking for something else entirely: revenge, or even a slice out of the territorial pie. As a result, the territorial council had long since passed laws forbidding strays from crossing Pride borderlines. Marc was the exception. But then, Marc was exceptional, so that was really no surprise to anyone who knew him.

And now I’m back to thinking about Marc…Damn it.

By the time I stepped back into my pants, I could smell beef cooking. Hamburgers. It had to be, because Jace’s culinary skills were limited to burgers and spaghetti, and I didn’t smell tomato sauce. Oh well, a girl can never have too many burgers, right?

I padded down the hall on bare feet, my steps silent as I passed several closed doors on the way to the kitchen. Jace’s off-key whistling met my ears, accompanied by the sizzle of meat on the stove. I paused in the doorway, glad to see that he’d donned a pair of jeans, if nothing else.

A smile slid into place as I watched him. Jace was comically out of place in front of any household appliance, particularly my mother’s six-burner, stainless-steel behemoth of a stove. He subscribed to the Jackson Pollock theory of cooking, which had somehow led to the creation of an abstract masterpiece out of the formerly spotless, white-tiled kitchen.

As I watched, he turned from the stove toward the peninsula, dripping grease in an arc across the floor from a plastic spatula gripped loosely in one hand. He dropped the spatula on the countertop—without the benefit of a spoon holder—and began slicing tomatoes with a six-inch smooth-bladed butcher knife. I covered my mouth to stifle a giggle as tiny seeds and red juice spurted across the countertop tiles, mingling with a tangle of discarded onion skins and outer lettuce leaves.

“Shit,” he mumbled under his breath, still oblivious to my presence. Grinning, I slipped silently into a chair at the breakfast table. I inhaled deeply, tempted by the aroma of beef and onions. Beneath those were the usual kitchen smells: disinfectant, most notably, mingled with the faintly lingering scents of lemon and rosemary, my mother’s favorite ingredients.

Jace turned back to the stove, still whistling as he piled seasoned beef patties on a plate lined with paper towels. Then he spun gracefully on one foot, the plate balanced on the fingertips of one hand, and stopped in midstep, his eyes wide with surprise to find me watching him. Laughter bubbled from my throat; I couldn’t stop it. The look on his face was almost enough to cure my bad mood.

“I’m glad you’re pleased with yourself,” he said, his voice full of self-deprecating amusement. He set the plate on the table in front of me and went back to the counter to finish butchering the tomatoes. “Why were you spying on me, anyway?”

“Goldfish syndrome,” I said, pinching a chunk from the nearest beef patty.

Jace paused in midslice to glance at me quizzically.

“You guys have been watching my every move for years, and I couldn’t resist the novelty of being the observer for once, rather than the observed.”

“Oh.” He resumed hacking apart vegetables with the butcher knife. “I wouldn’t say we watched your every move…”

“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes at him. “I’m surprised my father didn’t commission a big glass bowl for me to move into.”

He laughed, scooping a double handful of smooshed tomato slices onto a clean plate.

“Speaking of which, where are my mighty sire and dam hiding out tonight?” I asked, my voice thick with sarcasm. “Have I already scared them into submission?”

“Hardly. It’s late for old folks. They went to bed an hour ago, with orders for us to keep an eye on you.”

“Oh.” Of course they had. And wouldn’t my father love to hear himself described as old.

In the silence that followed, Jace’s ham-fisted sawing captured my attention, and my eyes narrowed in suspicion. He was slicing way too many tomatoes. I glanced from the plate of condiments on the counter to the huge stack of burgers in front of me, my smile fading quickly. “You can’t fatten me up in a single meal, Jace.”

“I’m not trying to.” Finished with the tomatoes, he began fishing pickle slices from an economy-size jar. The combined scents of dill, garlic, and vinegar made my mouth water. Jace turned, a pickle slice halfway to his mouth. “You’re going to have to share and play nice.” He popped the slice into his mouth and crunched into it.

I gripped the tabletop in irritation as his meaning sank in. “The guys aren’t invited.” I wouldn’t have minded eating with Parker and my brothers, but they’d bring Marc, and I didn’t care if I didn’t see him again for another five years.

Jace shot me a stern look, catching me off guard. It was my father’s expression. “They’re giving you time to cool off, but they’re hungry too, and you ruined the hunt. So, we’re all going to sit down like civilized adults and enjoy a meal together. Fresh deer would have been nice—” he glared at me pointedly “—but burgers will have to do.”

I scowled, but he turned around to keep from seeing it. I hadn’t ruined the hunt. Marc had, but it would do no good to explain that to Jace, so I kept my mouth shut. When the battle lines were drawn, the guys would stick together, and I’d be left with only my thick skin to protect me from testosterone-laced barbs and daggers. Unfortunately, the nearest tabby other than my mother was several hundred miles away.

No, wait. Sara was missing, which was the reason for my unscheduled trip home.

Tense laughter and the shuffling of bare feet on tile preceded the guys as they filed into the kitchen, in varying degrees of undress. As usual, Owen was the only one who did justice to the phrase “fully clothed.”

Marc limped in last, his hair damp and smelling of shampoo. I glanced at his left ankle but couldn’t see the wound because his foot was wrapped in a clean white gauze bandage, extending beneath the cuff of his jeans. He crossed his arms over his bare chest and leaned against the wall, staring past me with flushed cheeks. He was either embarrassed or mad, and probably both.

So what? Screw him. He’d brought it on himself.

The other three stood clustered around him, avoiding my eyes. “Grab a plate, guys,” Jace said, ignoring the obvious tension. He set a stack of my mother’s everyday plates on the table, but I made no move to take one. The guys came forward one by one, beginning with Ethan, who had half of his first burger eaten before he settled into the chair next to me.

While the others filled their plates, all except Marc, who still scowled from the doorway, Parker knelt next to my chair, smiling up at me. “How long has it been, Faythe?” he asked. We’d already greeted each other as cats, but it was hard to catch up on lost time with a purr and a lick on the cheek. “What, two years?” His eyes twinkled at me, daring me to disagree.

“More like two months.” I swatted his shoulder fondly. “I saw you at the concert, you know. You don’t exactly fit in with the college crowd.”

He smiled and shrugged, running one hand through prematurely graying hair. “I had my orders. You know that.”

I did know. Everyone always had orders, and for some reason the guys felt honor-bound to follow theirs. I felt no such obligation. But then, I wasn’t getting a paycheck, either.

Parker stood and leaned down to give me a chaste kiss on the cheek before going to fill his plate. Marc followed him, limping past me without so much as a glance in my direction.

Looking around the room, I took in the familiar faces one at a time. It was just like old times, pigging out on junk food after my parents went to bed and arguing about who had to clean up. Even the tension between me and Marc felt familiar; we’d been one of those couples for whom one kind of passion was as good as another. We’d fought as often as we’d made love, and one often led to the other.

“So, Jace,” Owen said from his seat at the bar. “Did Burger King blow up in here, or what?”

“I didn’t see you sweatin’ over a hot stove,” Jace said around a mouthful of food.

“He was sweating?” Ethan glanced at me for confirmation.

I shrugged. “I didn’t see any sweat, but I did see some dancing.”

Parker raised an eyebrow, bemused. “There was dancing?”

“No. There was no dancing.” Jace scowled at me.

I grinned. “Not only was he dancing, he was twirling.”

Parker snickered, and Ethan laughed outright, nearly choking on the last bite of his first burger.

“Okay, I may have taken a graceful step or two,” Jace admitted, a barbecue-flavored chip halfway to his mouth. “But it’s not like I was doing Vic’s rain dance.” He crunched into the chip, and for a long moment his chewing splintered a tense silence.

It was a harmless reference to a very funny night several summers before, when Vic had danced naked in the backyard, appealing to the heavens for some much-needed rainfall. But mentioning Vic had brought to mind his sister, which reminded me forcefully of just what I was doing there, surrounded by my brothers and lifelong friends.

I was home because my parents saw a strike against one North American Pride as a strike against us all. They were closing ranks, circling the wagons to protect the women and children, and as insulted as I was to be included among those in need of protection, I seemed to be the only one who considered their precautions unnecessary.

Could I be wrong? I’d assumed my parents had seized upon Sara’s vanishing act as an excuse to bring their stray sheep back into the fold, where they thought I belonged. But what if they were right? What if someone had taken her?

That one thought changed everything.

All at once, the gravity of Sara’s disappearance hit me like a fist in the gut. Air whooshed from my lungs, and I gasped, trying to draw more in. Doubled over, I panted, near panic. I’d been convinced that she had run away, but what if I was wrong? What if Sean had taken her? If he was crazy enough to snatch her from her own territory, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t hurt her.

A hand settled on my shoulder, heavy and warm. I looked up, fighting back tears. Marc stood in front of me, with a plate in his other hand and concern in his eyes where there had been only anger moments earlier.

Embarrassed by my near collapse and still furious with Marc, I slapped his hand from my shoulder. The sound echoed throughout the room for much longer than I thought it should have. His eyes widened in shock as his arm dropped to hang at his side.