White Tiger

The other supernatural creatures that were real kept to realms like Faerie, a place where they were considered more or less normal. Everything else—ghosts, demons, and other hellish types— didn’t exist.

So what was it?

One thing Shifters were good at, Felines in particular, was waiting. Kendrick slid into the shadows and did so.

He could hear Addison inside the house chatting to their host, making him laugh. The cubs cheered when breakfast landed on their plates, Addison’s voice joining them.

Like a real family. A real life.

That was all Kendrick wanted, why he’d fled the humans who were passing out Collars twenty-odd years ago. The dream he’d had—was it a warning that he’d never have a real life? Or had it been a simple manifestation of his needs and fears? Just his brain blowing off steam?

Kendrick didn’t deny to himself that making love to Addison would be deeply satisfying. Dream Addison had also been right that he had been resisting living his life. Taking care of his Shifters had always been his first priority, having a life of his own second. His mate, Eileen, had known this and Kendrick had always considered that he’d failed her because of it. Would he fail Addison too? And his cubs?

These thoughts poured through his head as Kendrick waited but they didn’t interfere with his watching. He’d had a hundred years of experience at seeing without being noticed.

Then a man walked out of nowhere, up to the back porch, and knocked on the door.

Kendrick swarmed up the porch steps, grabbed the man by the neck, and pulled him back down.

With surprising strength, the man wrenched himself out of Kendrick’s grasp and swung to face him. He had buzzed short black hair and dark brown eyes, looked Native American, and had a broad, hard-muscled body, like a Shifter, but lacked Shifter height. He was tattooed on his neck, arms, and hands but not all over as Dylan’s tracker Spike was.

“Before you go all Shifter on my ass,” the man said. “Dylan sent me. And before you panic, he doesn’t know exactly where I am.”

“Good,” Kendrick growled, “then when I break your neck, only the coyotes will find your bones.”

The man raised his hands. “It might be your bones, so don’t mess with me. I’m trying to say that Dylan might ask me to do something for him but that doesn’t mean I work for him.”

“What does it mean then?” Kendrick asked in a hard voice.

“It means I like to find things out for myself. What are you doing out here?”

“What are you?” Kendrick countered. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Gil if you want. Dylan’s looking high and low for you, but I like to assess a sitch for myself before I decide what to do.”

*   *   *

Addie watched out the window while Kendrick faced the unknown man. She remained poised, ready to grab the kids and hide them—maybe in Charlie’s cellar with the icebox—until Kendrick finished with the intruder.

The man wasn’t very tall, only reaching Kendrick’s shoulders, but he was bulky with muscle. The tatts on his neck and the ones cupping his elbows were the kind men gave each other in prison, at least as far as Addie knew. One of Bo’s dishwashers had been in prison a while and he’d explained what his tatts meant to Addie one slow night.

The tension between the two men crackled. Addie held on to the lip of the sink and watched.

Kendrick’s hand flashed out and gripped the man by the neck again. The man did nothing this time, didn’t fight. Kendrick marched him up the steps and into the house.

“Another for breakfast?” Charlie asked without surprise.