Stray

  I’d taken two steps toward the doorway when a warm, strong hand closed around my wrist. I glanced back at Marc, trying to jerk free. His fingers tightened around my arm, grinding the bones together. I whimpered, hating the sound of weakness even as I made it.

  Owen stood, and I thought he’d intervene on my behalf, but one look from Marc stopped him in midstep.

  Marc’s plate crashed to the table. His pickle spear landed on its side on my mother’s floral tablecloth. A tomato slice dangled from the raised edge of his plate. He stomped out of the kitchen with one hand clamped around my arm, and even with his limp I had to jog to keep up. He pulled me down the hall, past a half dozen closed doors, then tossed me into my bedroom with one hand.

  I stumbled and kept putting one foot in front of the other to keep from losing my balance. My momentum took me all the way to the bed, where I banged my thighs against the footboard, and fell forward on my face.

  I came up hissing.

  Seven

  I spun around to face Marc and found my bedroom door closed. Anger, already scorching a path through my veins, blazed all new trails in the face of his audacity. Beyond the capacity for rational thought, I stormed toward him, my right hand curling into a fist.

  Marc limped backward, bringing his arm up to ward off the blow. He was too late. My fist slammed into his jaw. His head snapped back and to the left. But before I could even consider taking a second shot, he’d wrapped a hand around each of my forearms, the gold sparks in his eyes glittering in fury.

  I tried to pull free, but his fists tightened around my arms. He took a step forward, pushing me ahead of himself. Then his left foot hit the ground, and he grimaced in obvious agony.

  The pain seemed to clear Marc’s head, and his eyes regained focus. He struggled visibly to get control over his temper, his gaze shifting back and forth between my eyes. I tried to jerk my arms away again, and he blinked. Then he shoved me. Hard.

  I staggered backward, all the way to my bed. Again.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I spat, gripping the footboard to recover my balance. Since my claws were temporarily unavailable, I scrambled for words sharp enough to wound him. “Don’t you ever lay another finger on me,” I said, the calm surface of my voice hiding a churning current of rage. “You lost the right to touch me a long time ago.”

  Hurt flickered across his face, and for an instant, my inner bitch was pretty happy. But then his expression hardened into anger once more as his hands formed fists at his sides. “If you have a problem with me, by all means let me know. In private. Throwing fits in front of the entire Pride was one thing when you were fifteen, but you’re an adult now, so start acting like it.”

  I clenched the bedpost at a narrow section of the spindle, carving fresh grooves amid a tangle of older scars etched in the grip of a very different kind of passion. “You’re in for quite a shock if you thought that was a fit,” I said through teeth clenched hard enough to hurt. “Besides, four toms hardly make up the entire Pride. And there is no ‘in private’ around here, in case you haven’t noticed. They’re probably listening to us right now.” In fact, I knew they were because no one was talking.

  Marc sighed, and eased his weight onto his good leg. I couldn’t resist a little silent gloating as he winced. “It’s been a long time, Faythe,” he said, his features twisted in pain. He probably wanted me to think his ankle was the only thing bothering him, but I knew better. This was a different kind of hurt, older and far more acute. “I was just trying to get reacquainted,” he continued. “Looking for a way to reconnect with you.” He stared at the floor, curling his toes in the carpet. “I made a mistake, and I’m sorry.”

  I blinked, surprised by both his apology and the sudden change of subject. Weren’t we just talking about my “fit” in the kitchen? How had he made the leap to his forest faux pas?

  Anyone else would have just accepted his apology and moved on, but did I? No, because I can’t see an emotional scab without picking at it to see if it will bleed. “What do you want me to say, Marc? That I’m sorry, too?” I paused, and he shook his head. “Good, because I’m not. You had no right to mark me. I’m not yours. I’m not anyone’s.”

  The pain in his eyes bled into anger with frightening speed, and he clutched the top of my dresser for support. “I messed up, and you called me on it. Nearly took my foot off, in fact, so we’re even as far as I’m concerned.”

  I started to tell him we would never be even as long as I was under house arrest while he was free to come and go as he pleased. But for once, his words came faster than mine. He was learning—and only five years too late.

  “You can pretend you’re one of the guys all you want, but that means I outrank you. We all outrank you. And no tomcat would get away with punching me.”

  Marc was right, though I would never admit that to him. And though he would never say it, he wasn’t just angry about being punched. I’d insulted and embarrassed him in front of his subordinate Pride members. Anyone else would pay for that. But I wasn’t anyone else.

  “What do you want to do, drag me out back and beat the shit out of me?” I stuck my chin out and crossed my arms over my chest, daring him to come teach me a lesson.

  He looked tempted for an instant, but then he exhaled softly and shook his head, leaning against the closed door. “You know what I want, Faythe.”

  Closing my eyes, I counted to ten silently, hoping that when I looked again, I’d be back in my apartment at UNT, far from Marc, the emotional black hole. I opened my eyes. Nothing had changed. He was still watching me, waiting for my response.

  Maybe I should have counted to fifteen.

  “No,” I said, wincing as his face fell. Scarring him physically was one thing, but I’d decided long ago to keep my claws off his heart, which he typically left undefended.

  “It doesn’t have to be like it is with your parents,” he said. “We could start from scratch. Make up the rules as we go.”

  My heart thumped painfully, and I hated the fact that he could hear it, that he could discern temptation in the rhythm of my pulse and hesitation in the hitch in my breath. We’d only been together for two years, but they were a very intense two years, and at one point, I thought we’d be together forever. Then reality smacked me in the forehead and I realized that I certainly could have Marc for the rest of my life if I wanted. Him, and his children, and nothing else.

  But now he was offering me more than he ever had, compromising on things he’d always sworn could never be changed. But it still wasn’t enough, and it never would be. If nearly biting off his foot hadn’t made that clear, I didn’t know what would.

  “I don’t want to make up the rules,” I said, suddenly tired. This was the point where our old argument lost its vitality. The part where I turned him down. Again. “I don’t want any rules at all.”

  Marc swallowed, and I could almost taste his disappointment on the air, bitter as unsweetened tea and painfully tart.

  “There are rules for everything,” he said. “You follow the rules at school without a second thought, but you won’t bend to the few that could make you truly happy.”

  He’d summed up my problem exactly. I wouldn’t bend. Not for him. Not for anyone.

  “We are not having this argument again,” I insisted. Yet we seemed incapable of discussing anything else. No matter how our conversations began, they always came back to what went wrong with us and why I wasn’t willing to try again.

  He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “You could run things however you want, with no one to tell you what to do. I don’t have to be in charge. I don’t even want to be.” He paused and I shook my head slowly. “Come on, Faythe, just think about what I’m saying.”

  I didn’t have to think about it; I already knew what he was saying. According to traditions that were already well in place when the first colonists came to America, it was my responsibility to mate a man qualified to become the new Pride Alpha, someone capable of getting all the
toms in line and keeping them there.

  Marc was saying that if I married him, I could be in charge—that when Daddy turned the Pride over to him, he would hand it over to me. I would be my own boss, and his too. Sure, I would have the independence I’d always wanted, but it would come at a steep price: I’d be responsible not just for myself but for the entire Pride.

  Not counting his enforcers, my father had more than thirty loyal tomcats spread across Texas, Oklahoma, and parts of Kansas, Louisiana, and Arkansas, each living his own life in his own way, just like Michael. They’d sworn loyalty to their Alpha and to the south-central Pride, and they would be available for more active duty should the need arise. But until then, they lived in relative peace under their Alpha’s protection, secure in his ability to lead and protect them.

  And protect them he did—Daddy was a damn fine Alpha. But if Marc was right, and my father got his way, every tom in the territory would one day depend on me to lead him and keep him safe. Unfortunately, unless the job description included a translation of the prologue to The Canterbury Tales, I was dreadfully underqualified. And completely unmotivated to remedy the situation.

  Marc thought he was offering me a deal I couldn’t refuse, but he didn’t understand. Giving me the Pride wouldn’t be giving me freedom. It would be chaining me hand and foot to a responsibility I didn’t want, and probably couldn’t handle.

  Or maybe he did understand. Maybe he wanted me tethered to him and to a life I’d already rejected.

  In the foyer, my mother’s antique grandfather clock chimed, and I counted along with the tones. Both of them. It was two o’clock in the morning, and I saw no end in sight for what had already been one of the longest evenings of my life.

  “You’ll have to give them a leader one day, whether you like it or not,” Marc said on the tail of the last chime. “You can’t lead them by yourself.”

  “The hell I can’t.”

  Damn it! I stopped, squeezing my eyes shut in frustration. I’d been so ready to argue with him that I hadn’t actually listened to what he was saying.

  Wood creaked as I leaned against the bedpost and rubbed my forehead, trying to clear away a thick mental fog. “I don’t want to lead them—with or without you.” Opening my eyes, I stared at him, letting him read the conviction on my face. “I don’t know anything about defending a territory, and I’m not interested in learning.”

  Marc favored me with a patronizing smile, yet another of my many pet peeves. “You know, for a smart girl, you sure can act dumb.”

  I frowned, unsure how to take the combination compliment/insult. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You already know most of what you need to know. All you need now is some experience.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I snapped, clenching the footboard behind me. I rubbed my fingertips over the polished grain of the wood, using the sensation to ground myself in reality, in the world where I spoke with poise and confidence, and Marc spouted his usual nonsense with the fervor of a true fanatic. My mind rebelled against the idea that Daddy had been cultivating me as his replacement for years and I’d never even noticed. That wasn’t possible. Was it?

  “Shut up and think about it for a minute.” He pulled out my desk chair and sat, staring at me with an irritatingly smug confidence. “Have you ever taken dance lessons?”

  “Is there a point to this question?” I put my hands on my hips, tapping my foot with exaggerated impatience.

  “Just answer me. Have you ever had a dance lesson? Or a shopping spree? What about a manicure?”

  My decidedly unmanicured hand clenched around a handful of denim, one finger snagging in my belt loop. “If this is a joke, it isn’t funny. You know me better than that.” Unfortunately.

  “So does your father. He never encouraged your interest in anything frivolous, but he made sure you had a say in every decision about the Pride from the time you were twelve years old, even if he didn’t actually use your input.”

  Marc let his gaze slide to the floor, clearly searching his memory for another example to support his harebrained theory. “He taught you how to fight.” His eyes snapped back to mine, as fast as a flash of lightning. “Why would he do that? None of the other Alphas teach their daughters to fight. You’ve never worn a tutu, but how many afternoons have you spent in sweatpants, sparring with the guys?”

  I studied my fingernails, bitten to short, jagged edges. “Too many to count.” The sparring sessions had started when I was ten and wanted to take karate with a girlfriend from school. Daddy wouldn’t let me. He was afraid I’d really hurt someone. My first face-off against Ethan had proven him right, to my simultaneous horror and delight.

  “Who taught you to control your breathing when you sprint and how to pounce from the trees?”

  My father. There was no need to say it aloud because, like any good prosecutor, Marc never asked a question unless he already knew the answer.

  “What about council diplomacy?”

  I groaned and glanced at the clock on my stereo. Apparently time really could stand still. “What about it?” I asked, turning back to him reluctantly. My father had dragged me to at least one Pride council meeting a year until I left for school. After listening to two Alphas negotiate interterritory traveling rights for their college-bound sons, staving off boredom in Advanced Grammar class hadn’t even been a challenge.

  “You know the details of every treaty negotiated by the council since you had your first Shift.”

  “So what?” I tossed my hands into the air in exasperation. “What’s the point?” But understanding came even as I asked, and his next words only confirmed it for that last, stubborn part of my brain.

  Marc stood straighter, barely pausing this time when his full weight hit his injured ankle. “Those are the things you’d have to know to lead a Pride. Your father doesn’t just want you to marry the next Alpha, Faythe. He wants you to be the next Alpha. To succeed him.” He searched my eyes, trying to gauge my reaction.

  It struck me all at once, as if hearing it spelled out in small words made it real.

  I’ll be damned. Daddy wasn’t teaching me to be independent. After all, how would that benefit the Pride? He was teaching me to be responsible.

  Still staring at Marc, I sat down on the bed—not because I wanted to, but because my legs refused to support me any longer. Numb with shock, I let my gaze drift down from his face to the Berber carpet. I studied the familiar design, tracing the overlapping diamonds one at a time, as if the answers to every question floating around in my head must lie hidden somewhere within the pattern. But if they did, I couldn’t find them.

  “All this time, I thought you understood,” Marc whispered. I glanced up to find him staring at me with wide eyes, the surprise in his expression bordering on disbelief. “I thought you knew what he wanted and were refusing on general principle. I can’t believe you never realized.”

  “Yeah. Me neither.” I barely recognized my own voice. I sounded dazed, or maybe drugged. But then a deeper understanding hit me like a slap in the face. Everything he’d said was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Not by a long shot.

  My eyes returned to him slowly. “You have all the same qualifications, Marc.” The stunned quality in my voice had been replaced by an unsettling calm, and as I watched, his face flushed. “You know everything I know, and you already have the experience.”

  Yet without me, he would never be Alpha. And we both knew it.

  Marc studied the collection of CDs lined up next to my stereo. “My training as an enforcer was very thorough, and my areas of study often overlapped yours.” He was hedging, covering up the truth with a thick layer of bullshit.

  “How long?”

  He met my eyes, his own carefully blank. “How long what?”

  “How long has Daddy been grooming you? How old was I when he chose you for me? Eight? Ten?”

  He had the decency to blush. “He didn’t choose me, Faythe. You did.”
/>
  I considered reminding him about a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, but didn’t think it would help. “I’m not an idiot, Marc. Daddy picked my boyfriend to be his top enforcer, and I’m supposed to believe that’s just a coincidence?” I heard my voice rise in pitch but couldn’t seem to stop it. “He wasn’t training you to defend the boundaries. He was preparing you to take over for him as Alpha.”

  “No.” His denial was earnest and simple. “I’ve been trained to help and support you. To be your top enforcer, like I am for Greg.”

  But I couldn’t believe it. Of course, that’s what Marc would say. He’d say anything to get us back together, and so would my father, but he had an ulterior motive.

  I’d always known my father wanted me to marry Marc, but I’d assumed he was trying to make me happy, misguided though his efforts were. It had never occurred to me that because I was his daughter, Daddy was stuck with me. But he’d chosen Marc. My father wanted Marc as his heir, and the only way to accomplish that was through me.

  Marc saw my thoughts on my face and shook his head at me slowly, as if I should have known better. “It wasn’t like that. You can’t train someone to be an Alpha. You know that.”

  Of course I knew. You couldn’t teach a cat to utilize strengths and instincts he didn’t possess. But inherent talents could be molded if they were caught early enough, and that was exactly what Daddy had done with Marc.

  An Alpha had to be fast, strong, and very good under pressure. He had to be able to make critical decisions quickly, with little information to go on. And most important, he had to have that indefinable something—akin to charisma, but infinitely stronger—which drew loyal tomcats to him and kept them true under even the worst circumstances.