Bite Me

  Vic grinned. “My parents are kind of badass. Of course, they both come from two families of badasses. Stalin actively avoided my great-grandfather. And my mother’s mother was one of the most feared snipers in the Red Army. The Germans called her der Schrecken.”

  And together they said, “The Nightmare.”

  “Was she really that bad?” Livy asked.

  “Oh yeah. She was a Siberian She-tiger with amazing aim. As soon as those guys turned around, they’d get picked off from behind. Then at night, she’d shift to her tiger form and . . .”

  “Get a little snack?”

  Vic grimaced. “It was a long Russian winter, and food was scarce. She did what she had to do, I guess.” Vic shrugged. “I liked her, though. She made the best cookies.” He let out a breath. “I hope I didn’t make things weird for you and your uncles.”

  “Weird how?”

  “Accidentally suggesting we’re sleeping together.”

  “We are sleeping together.”

  “I know. But no uncle wants to hear that about his niece. Especially when he still calls his niece Little Olivia.”

  “They couldn’t care less about that. They’re more worried I’m bedding down with someone as dangerously close to a cop as they’re willing to allow.”

  They were silent for a few minutes until Vic asked, “So, what’s next?”

  “I go back to work tomorrow. Like everything is normal. You should know, though, they think a shifter might be involved. But I made it clear we’re not playing that game. We are out for Whitlan. That’s it.”

  “They could be right, though. Keep in mind all three organizations had backed off this case . . . that suggests someone with the power to make that happen.”

  “Or the money.” When Vic frowned a bit, Livy added, “Even shifters have bills to pay. But we’ll wait and see. If a shifter or shifters are involved, we’ll talk about it then.”

  “If you’re telling me that because you want me to be prepared for the fallout . . . don’t worry about it. You betray your own . . . you get whatever’s coming to you.”

  “I’m fine with that. But I’m more worried about my family using this opportunity to fuck with shifters they’ve always hated. And that isn’t what this is about. Not for me.”

  Again they sat in silence for several minutes. Then, Livy stretched out on the bed and placed her head in Vic’s lap.

  Vic gently stroked her head, big fingers easing through her hair, stopping briefly to massage her scalp.

  He didn’t speak, seeming to understand that Livy didn’t want a lot of conversation. She just wanted to lie here, quietly, and let the guy she was fucking play with her hair.

  And the fact that he got that without Livy saying a word spoke volumes about the man.

  Wearing her mink coat—something other shifters thought was tacky—and smoking one of her French cigarettes, Joan sat on the marble bench in the backyard and stared up at the sky.

  Melly had finally been dragged off by one of her cousins so there was no more crying and screaming about how, “No one understands that I loooooooovvvvveeee him!”

  So that was something to be grateful for.

  Her sisters and Aunt Li-Li had gone off, as well, to get a hotel suite at the Kingston Arms. The Yangs didn’t have the reputation that the Kowalskis did at the local Manhattan hotels, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Joan had briefly entertained staying here with her daughter, but why torment herself? They’d never gotten along, and she didn’t think that would change now. Especially since Joan didn’t think she’d done anything wrong. But leave it to Olivia to turn this whole thing into a big deal.

  Of course, any time Joan thought about what her husband must have gone through during his final moments, the indignity of being hunted like some poor animal in the wild . . . well, her rage took over. Something no one should want.

  Her anger might not come out often, but when it did, the world shuddered in the face of it.

  But, for once, Joan was going to let her daughter take the lead on this. To be honest, she wanted to see what her daughter would do. How she would handle it. If Olivia handled it well, then at least Joan wouldn’t have to worry about her safety. Not involving herself in the family business put Olivia at risk in a way she wouldn’t be if she was involved.

  Then again, there was that time Olivia was snatched by full-human men who wanted her father to do a job for them. Olivia had only been sixteen at the time, and both families had quickly gotten together, plans on how they would deal with the kidnapping already in the works, when Olivia had suddenly walked in the back door of their Washington house. Covered in blood, with a handcuff still dangling from her wrist, she’d walked barefoot through the kitchen, stopping only to point at her father and inform him that, “After what I just went through, you better pay for my art school.” Something her father had initially refused to do—even after a painfully long plea from Antonella Jean-Louis Parker on Livy’s behalf—because he’d rightfully thought it was stupid.

  But when they didn’t find anything but the empty van and lots of dried blood, Damon went ahead and paid for that education he didn’t believe in.

  So maybe Joan didn’t need to worry about her ridiculous daughter with her ridiculous ideas about being a great artist.

  A glass of scotch was held in front of her face and, smiling, Joan took it.

  “Thank you, Baltazar.”

  Her husband’s brother sat down next to her. It was freezing cold out, so he also wore his mink coat.

  “Don’t be mad at little Olivia.”

  “Who says I am?”

  “You did. I heard you say to your sister, ‘I am so mad at her.’ ”

  Yeah. She had said that.

  “Besides,” he went on, “did you really expect her to do anything else once she found Damon in some full-human’s house? Stuffed and on display like some deer?”

  “You have a point.”

  Balt pressed his shoulder against Joan’s and lowered his head a bit so she had to look him in the eye.

  “Stop it, Balt.”

  “What? I said nothing.”

  “I’m still your brother’s wife.”

  “My brother’s ex-wife. Or, if you were still married . . . widow. Besides, you cannot live your life alone and miserable.”

  “Who says I’m miserable . . . or alone?”

  Balt’s back straightened. “Who? Tell me his name?”

  “Balt—”

  “I want to know his name.”

  “Stop.”

  Balt drank his shot of vodka in one gulp and poured himself another from the bottle he’d brought out with him.

  “Let’s focus on something else.”

  “Fine,” he grumbled, sounding like the seventeen-year-old she’d met all those years ago. A seventeen-year-old who never gave up on trying to get in her pants.

  Joan put her arm around Balt’s giant shoulders. “Tell me the plan.”

  “Right now, we need name. There is someone very important who protects this Whitlan. I want their name. So tomorrow, my brothers and I go to Florida.”

  “What’s in Florida?”

  “The company that shipped Damon’s body.”

  “Good. You deal with them. I’ll deal with Allison Whitlan.”

  “Olivia will not like if you kill her, my beauty. Unless Whitlan girl is involved in all this.”

  Joan chuckled. “You listen to my daughter too much. I’m a thief, not a murderer.”

  “Your daughter has never said either. My brother, though . . .”

  Joan laughed and kissed her brother-in-law on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re here, Baltazar. But I want you to be careful.”

  “I will not promise to be careful,” Balt admitted honestly. “But I do promise many will suffer.”

  Laying her head on his shoulder, Joan smiled. “I know, Baltazar. I know.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Vic woke up with Livy tucked in his arms. They were both fully dressed and on top of the cover
s. It had been a long couple of days, and they’d been exhausted. So he wasn’t surprised they’d sort of passed out without having dinner.

  It was still early, though, so Vic was ready to go right back to sleep when he caught sight of Kyle at the foot of his bed.

  “Kyle?”

  “Someone needs to feed me.”

  “Feed you?”

  “Yes. I’m hungry.”

  “You can get food on your own.”

  “I could. But I won’t. I’ve got work.”

  “You’re twelve.”

  “I’m well aware of my age. I also know that legally someone has to feed me.”

  “Where’s Cooper?”

  “Practicing in the basement.”

  “Okay, then—”

  “And he throws things at me when I interrupt him. Your soft eyes suggest you’re weaker and won’t physically harm me. So I need you to feed me.”

  “He won’t physically harm you,” Livy growled from her spot against Vic’s chest, “but I will.”

  “You won’t because of your loyalty to my sister. And she’s in Siberia. Not metaphorically, either. Literally . . . in Siberia.”

  Livy pushed herself up on one elbow, locked those beautiful black eyes on Kyle, and said, “But you’re also a shifter, which means you’ll heal before she gets back in the country. So get out of my room!” she ended on a screech.

  Vic watched the boy bolt, and Livy dropped back against his chest.

  “You’re going to have to learn to be firm with him without breaking any of his bones,” Livy said. “That kid can smell weakness and will take full advantage.”

  “It was kind of weird finding him just standing there . . . staring at us. You think he was plotting to kill me?”

  “Kyle? No. You’re confusing him with his sister Delilah. You find her watching you from the end of your bed, shoot first and ask questions later. Trust me . . . it’ll be the only time Toni will forgive you for killing one of her siblings.”

  “Good to know.”

  Livy propped her head up with her chin on her fist and her elbow buried in Vic’s chest. “What time is it?”

  “Six-thirty or so.”

  “Okay.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to go in to work.”

  “You’re going to leave me here? Alone? With your cranky uncles and Shen?”

  “And Kyle.”

  Vic shuddered. “That kid asked me to pose naked.”

  “That kid’s got an eye.”

  “Please tell me you’re not okay with him asking me to pose naked.”

  “Not now, but when he’s sixteen—”

  “Stop. Just stop.” Vic pressed his hands to either side of Livy’s face.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Thinking about how beautiful you look in the morning.”

  “I’m not making you breakfast.”

  “Come on,” Vic whined. “I’m starving!”

  “Too bad. You can, however, take me out to breakfast once I have my shower.”

  Vic grinned.

  “I didn’t say you could join me in the shower.”

  “Do you want breakfast or not?”

  Livy sat up and ran her hands through her short hair. “Look at you. Making me give you sex so I can get some food.”

  Vic kissed the back of her neck and teased, “As long as we understand the parameters of this relationship . . . we’ll be just fine.”

  Livy was late getting to the Sports Center but it was for two very good reasons . . . waffles smothered in honey and great sex.

  Besides, she didn’t have any appointments this early. Of course, she never booked anything this early. She would never say she was crabby in the morning, but she did notice that her normal responses to situations seemed to annoy others more before noon.

  The elevator stopped on her floor, and she walked out. She was heading down the hallway when someone grabbed her from behind. Her ski jacket, zipped in the front, choked her when she was lifted off the ground and carried off like laundry.

  Livy hissed and tried to twist out of the grip of whoever had her. Unfortunately, they didn’t have her by the back of the neck, where the elasticity of her honey badger skin would make it impossible for her opponent to keep a good grip. Instead, whoever this was had her by her jacket. Her stupid, stupid jacket!

  Snarling, Livy tried to dig her pocketknife out of the back of her jeans, but before she had it in her hand, she was shoved through a door and tossed across a room.

  Livy hit the wall face-first, which only managed to piss her off more. Crouching down, she unleashed her claws, and spun around to face . . . Dee-Ann.

  The hillbilly pointed a damning finger at her. “I want you, little girl, to explain to me—right now—why honey badgers are settin’ up house outside my baby cousin’s den!”

  Livy stood, stared, and finally asked, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Why is your clan of honey badger felons across the street from Bobby Ray’s house?”

  “My clan of felons? Do you really want to go down that particular country road with me, Smith?”

  Dee-Ann was coming at her when Cella Malone ran through the door. She jumped between them, her arms pressed against their chests.

  “Stop it! Both of you!”

  “Move, Malone,” Smith snarled.

  Livy snorted. “Bring it, Ellie Mae.”

  “That is enough!” Cella shoved, and the Siberian She-tiger forced them to either sides of the room. “And no more Beverly Hillbillies jokes, Livy. Only I can do that.”

  Pointing a finger, Dee-Ann snarled, “I will not have that little weasel puttin’ my kin at risk.”

  “Can I talk to you outside for a minute?” Cella asked Dee-Ann.

  “No.”

  Apparently not liking that particular response, Cella grabbed Dee-Ann by the hair and yanked her out of the office.

  “We’ll be right back,” Cella said, trying to sound cheery.

  While they were outside, Livy saw one of her recent team pics behind what she now realized was Cella’s desk. It had been blown up so it covered most of the wall. And Livy had to admit that as mundane as this work felt . . . she was good at it.

  The door opened, and Cella and Dee-Ann walked back into the office. Now Dee-Ann looked contrite.

  She nodded at Livy. “I’m real sorry to hear about your daddy.”

  Livy wasn’t surprised the protection organizations had already heard about what she’d found. Anytime large numbers of honey badgers moved into a single location, the local shifter populace tried to find out why and how soon they would go away.

  “Well,” Livy said calmly, “you can take your countrified pity and shove it up your flat, hillbilly—”

  “Okay!” Cella cut in. “No need to let this get nasty. We just wish you’d come to us, Livy. You know we would have helped you.”

  “I guess calling in my honey badger family was unreasonable of me . . . then again, maybe I just can’t get it out of my head that if you’d found Whitlan when you’d first locked on to him, my father would be alive rather than a stuffed carcass in some rich bitch’s living room. So you’ll have to forgive me if you’re not the first people I came running to in my time of need.”

  “Wow,” Cella muttered. “Honey badgers are mean.”

  Livy slowly nodded. “Yes . . . we really are.”

  Vic had taken Livy to the Sports Center after their breakfast, with every intention of going back to the rental house to work with Shen. But then Vic remembered he’d have to deal with Kyle again . . .

  Look, Vic would admit it. He didn’t have the brains to keep up with that kid. The twelve-year-old managed to overwhelm a full-grown adult with his arrogance and awkward requests.

  Deciding to wait a while—at least until he was sure that Shen was up and functioning, so he could deal with that kid—Vic went into the Sports Center. He worked his way through all the full-humans who utilized the top levels for exercise and sports tra
ining, and followed the scent of shifters to a hidden stairwell that then led him to the floors below.

  Although it was the middle of a workday, it was still pretty packed. Shifters of all breeds and species were there to work out, train, or get a glimpse of their favorite shifter sports star.

  Vic didn’t have a favorite sports star. He hated sports. He worked out to keep himself in shape and to work off excess energy that could lead to his shifting into his animal form and rampaging the streets of New York, but other than that . . .

  He did tolerate football, though. Could sit with friends and watch it without complaining if he had to. He enjoyed the rigidity of it. The definite lines and rules. He loathed basketball and baseball, however, and seeing really big guys on skates did nothing but weird him out. Of course, he’d felt the same way when he’d seen full-blood grizzlies on skates in Russia.

  Stopping by the Starbucks located in the Sports Center—because there really always was one everywhere, even among shifters—and getting himself a large coffee and a few honey buns, Vic went and sat down on an empty bench to eat and people watch.

  He thought about stopping by Livy’s office, but he didn’t want to crowd her. She hated that, and Vic didn’t want to become someone she actively avoided—like the pretty woman skating by him . . . once . . . twice . . . three times before she finally rolled herself over and stopped in front of Vic.

  “Hi, Blayne.”

  “Hi, Vic.”

  “Honey bun,” he offered out of the Russian politeness his parents had drilled into him for years while he was growing up. But he was really hoping she’d turn him down.

  She did.

  “So, what’s up?” he asked around another honey bun.

  She rolled closer. Blayne really was a beautiful woman. And there were few women who could wear shorts that tiny and still look good. She had long, athletic, muscular legs that said she worked out a lot. Maybe she lived on those skates. Did she wear them all the time? To family events? To bed? Did that meathead hockey player make her wear those skates?

  “I heard about Livy’s father,” she whispered. “You know . . . about what really happened to him.”