White Tiger

“But you’re not even a wolf,” Addie pointed out.

“He’s with me because I’m leader. All my Shifters are my pack, as it were. Though Felines say pride.”

“What about me?” Addie asked. “Will I be part of your pride?”

Kendrick stopped. He stared at her as though she’d stunned him. His face went very still, his jaw firming then easing.

He skimmed his gaze down her body, taking in her shirt that was about four years old, her generic blue jeans, her sneakers. Then, very slowly, Kendrick lifted his hand and smoothed back a lock of her hair.

He’d stripped off his gloves, and the touch of his bare fingers tingled heat through her blood. Kendrick’s jaw tightened again, his lips compressing until little creases formed in the corners of his mouth.

Addie resisted leaning into his hand, much as she wanted to. His palm was large, which would nicely cup her cheek, warm her cool skin. She closed her eyes and let out a small sigh.

Kendrick abruptly dropped his hand, and Addie opened her eyes in time to see him turning away. The draft of his swift withdrawal chilled her.

“Get some rest,” he rumbled, then yanked open the door and took himself out.

Addie blew out her breath as the door clicked closed behind him. She needed to flop somewhere, as she liked to when the world got too much for her. In this room, she had to climb the ladder to the bed before she could throw herself down on her back.

The bed was as comfortable as it looked. Addie’s bones began to soften, her sore muscles and her shakes relaxing.

She was far, far from anyone and anything she knew, with a taciturn Shifter biker with a sword and his three kids, in a run-down dude ranch with no electricity, its proprietor a sad old man taking care of it in memory of his late wife.

Addie should be terrified. Kendrick could do anything to her—he was a Shifter without a Collar, uncontrolled, unregulated. She should fear him.

But she’d seen the sadness in his eyes when he’d run the sword through the other Shifter, even though that Shifter had been doing his best to kill Kendrick and his sons. Addie had witnessed Kendrick’s protectiveness with the cubs, and now with Addie.

He wasn’t a rampaging, killing beast . . . All right, at least not all the time. He cared about his kids, he’d not let Addie take the blame for the shooting, he’d handed Addie five thousand dollars to help her out, and then shrugged when the police took it away from her. He’d spoken casually about buying this house, which was large, and probably on a lot of land. Not cheap. So somewhere, Kendrick had enough stashed that he didn’t have to be concerned about money.

Addie spread out her arms and breathed in the silence. She’d regain her equilibrium then check on the boys and get them to bed. No worries about springing up tomorrow morning, with nothing to look forward to but putting on her waitress uniform and heading to the diner for another grueling day on her feet.

Addie was here by her own choice, lying on a very comfortable bed, while a hot man who didn’t look at her with boredom was running around somewhere, insisting she take it easy while he did all the work.

Dreams really did come true.

*   *   *

Kendrick fixed the generator, which was located in a room under the house entered by the outside. A storm cellar, he reflected, built to withstand the tornadoes that sometimes marched across this land.

Charlie helped him by training the flashlight on the gears and wires while keeping up a stream of talk.

This had been a pretty famous ranch at one time, Charlie was saying. All the greats came out here in the early days of Hollywood—John Wayne, Clark Gable, Gary Cooper, Audie Murphy, Gene Autry . . . Charlie and his wife hadn’t taken over until the seventies but they’d seen their share of movie stars of that day. Kendrick let him natter on, suspecting the man hadn’t had anyone to talk to in a very long time.