Wild Things

  Mason heard the cynicism in his voice but he couldn’t stop it. He could offer Jasmine nothing but himself, and he knew it. Sure, his family had as much stashed away as any Shifters did, but he didn’t want a woman to accept him for his family’s hoard. Mason wanted Jasmine to like him for himself, no matter how much of a wreck he was.

  “Hmm, that sounded like a mate-claim to me,” Zander said. “I’m witness.”

  Jasmine leaned down to Mason and looked right into his eyes. “You get better. We’ll talk later, when you’re not in so much pain.”

  The pain was already better. Zander’s hands on his leg no longer hurt.

  “Yeah,” he said to Jasmine and inhaled the fragrance of her hair. “We’ll talk later.”

  Zander’s face paled, his cheekbones standing out in his graying face. He gave a sudden sharp cry and let go of Mason to fall to the floor, clutching his own leg in agony.

  Jasmine left the bed, snatched up a quilt from the bottom of it, and draped it kindly over Zander. “Can I get you anything?” she leaned down to ask him.

  Silently, Zander shook his head. Mason understood, from what Jasmine had told him after Zander had healed Aunt Cora, that the pain he took on simply had to run its course.

  The door opened and Olaf, a white-haired little boy once more, dressed in T-shirt and jeans, came briskly in. He carried a small pillow which he arranged beneath Zander’s head. Olaf then sat down next to Zander and looked up at Jasmine.

  “It’s all right,” he said with the wisdom of his ten years. “He’s a polar bear, like me. I’ll take care of him, now.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Zander Moncrieff met Dylan Morrissey a few days later at the house of the bears.

  Because polar bears were rare in the Shifter world, Zander wondered if Olaf and he were of the same clan. Mason had told him Olaf’s parents had been shot, which pissed off Zander to no end. It was pathetic that shit like that happened when you were a Shifter.

  Zander had considered taking Olaf back up north with him, but he’d realized in the time he’d been in this Shiftertown that the little guy was very happy living with his surrogate parents and the other cubs. Zander sought an isolated existence to protect himself, but that would be no life for a parentless cub. All those who lived in the bears’ house loved Olaf, Zander could see, and so here he would stay.

  Dylan Morrissey was a different matter altogether. Dylan was Feline, and Zander didn’t get along much with Felines. Wolves yes—he felt some affinity with wolves. Cats drove him crazy.

  Dylan was a venerable Shifter, about at his third century. He was by no means a spent force, however. Despite the gray at his temples, he was as vigorous as his sons, and he had the weight of experience and wisdom behind him. Liam Morrissey might run the Austin Shiftertown, but Dylan ran everything else.

  “Amazing what you did,” Dylan said as the two of them stood alone in the yard between the bears’ back porch and the Den. “Ferals that far gone usually can’t be helped.”

  Zander shrugged, trying to push aside the dark horror that had taken over his brain when Aleck’s insanity had infused him. He hadn’t remembered who he was, where he was, not even his own name, even though his mother had pounded the three names into him from childhood. Only the shock of seeing the polar bear cub, the knowledge that he had to protect the little guy from all danger, including himself, had stopped him. The feral-like state he’d experienced hadn’t been true like Aleck’s—Zander took on only the feeling of what he healed, not the actual malady—but it had been bloody close enough. He’d feared something even worse—that he’d not be able to come out of it and would die like that. One day, he might have to go too far to heal someone and never recover—it was a real possibility.

  “What can I say?” Zander said, trying to keep his voice light. “It’s a gift.”

  “It is,” Dylan agreed mildly. “One I can use.”

  Zander’s blood went cold. “No, no, no.” He shook his head, kept on shaking it. “I don’t have my phone number listed for a reason. If I don’t spend a certain amount of time alone, I can’t do what I do. Pen me up, stick me in a Shiftertown, and I’m no good to anyone.”

  “You misunderstand,” Dylan said. “Live where you want, take as much alone time as you need. You don’t have a Collar; you can live among humans if you’re careful. But be around when I need you.”

  Zander gave him a flat look. “I’m not in your clan, Morrissey. Not even in your jurisdiction.”

  Dylan made an indifferent gesture, an economic movement he’d no doubt perfected over many decades. “There are things going on here in South Texas, Shifter things, that I don’t like. You’re a strong fighter, and a good healer. At least stay for a while and help me out.”

  Zander held up his hands. “Nice of you to ask, Dylan, but what I really need is time to wander the wilderness.”

  Dylan’s gaze sharpened. “I’m not asking, lad.” His eyes were blue, and the force of his stare showed how alpha he truly was. Even Zander had a hard time meeting those eyes. “You endangered my people. The outcome was good, but you should have warned them better, taken precautions. You stopped in time, but it could have been so much worse.”

  Zander knew that. He’d seriously injured Mason, a young man he wanted to call friend, and he could have killed even the Kodiak bears and all their cubs. He’d been a monster, and it would take him a long time to forget the nightmare of that.

  Zander blew out a breath, stuffed his hands into his duster’s pockets, and looked around. “You know, Austin’s a pretty cool place. I might stick around a while. Take in the sights, check out the music scene, find an apartment near good eats …”

  Dylan gave him a nod. “Keep your cell phone on. I’ll introduce you to another un-Collared Shifter I’m having help me. Name of Kendrick.”

  He watched Zander expectantly, but Zander drew a blank. “Never heard of him.”

  “Hmm,” Dylan said shortly. “You will.”

  And the conversation was done.

  Zander spent some time visiting with Olaf, going bear for him so the two could romp in the yard. Then he returned to the McNaughton house, planning to gather his things and ask the human ladies there if they could steer him in the direction of a place to live.

  Dylan was right—because Zander didn’t have a Collar, no one needed to know he was Shifter. He’d move in among humans and blend in, like he always did.

  Okay, so he wasn’t always all that blendy, but he’d learned how to make humans accept him and not betray him.

  The first two people he saw when he walked up to the house were Aleck, no longer feral, and his very pregnant mate, Nancy. Nancy was planted on top of Aleck’s lap, they were nuzzling, and looked very, very happy.

  They both rose as Zander approached. Aleck wore a clean shirt and jeans, his dark hair was combed, and he gave Zander an affable smile. He looked exhausted, but sane and much relieved.

  “Thank you,” Aleck said when Zander reached the porch. Zander remained on the top step, leaning on the railing and watching the lovebirds. “I can’t believe you did something like that for me,” Aleck went on. “For my mate and cub.” He drew Nancy closer. The lines of strain around her eyes had gone, and her mouth had softened.

  “Hey, I like a happy ending,” Zander said. “But don’t waste thanks on me. Thank Mason and Jazz. They worked their asses off trying to find me, went through a lot. They deserve a truckload of praise.”

  Aleck flushed but nodded. “I know. I’ve been a shit to Mason.” He drew Nancy closer and kissed her temple. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it up to both of them.”

  “When they get back from New Orleans,” Nancy went on, her look knowing. Mason had left early this morning to take Jazz back there. Their good-byes to Zander had been cursory, both Mason and Jazz tense. “They need some time alone to figure it all out.”

  Zander’s heart lightened. “I think they’ll make it. And then I’ll take credit for bringing them together.” He pointed both f
orefingers at Nancy and Aleck. “You two kids take care of yourselves.”

  He swept past them into the house, asked his questions of Joanne and the brothers, grabbed his stuff, and left Shiftertown.

  * * *

  Jazz stood on the steps of her grandmother’s front porch and watched Mason dismount his motorcycle. They hadn’t spoken much as they’d made the long ride from Austin to New Orleans.

  Jazz hadn’t seen a lot of Mason in the days before they’d left Austin. She’d been busy helping the ladies in Broderick’s household get things back together, and Mason had absented himself from the house most of the time.

  While Aunt Cora had been healed, she’d been weak, but too stubborn to admit it. Jazz hadn’t wanted to leave Joanne to run the house by herself. Aleck had been weak as well, and Nancy spent all her time doting on him until Mason’s brothers claimed they would pass out from all the sweetness in the house.

  As a result, Jazz had seen almost nothing of Mason once he could get out of bed again. He’d been working on her guitar, she knew, but he said very little to her when he did come home.

  He only made love to her in the silence of the night, rocking into her in hard, desperate strokes, then kissing her until they both wound down into sleep. Talking had been pushed aside, both of them knowing that the wrong word at the wrong time could shatter the bubble they’d formed around themselves.

  Now Jazz watched Mason approach the house, as she had days and days ago, and was again blown away by his physical strength and his aura.

  Mason unstrapped the repaired guitar from where it had ridden in its case and carried it up the walk. He hesitated at the bottom step of the porch, looking at the spread of the house, the veranda, the gingerbread trim, the flowering vines.

  “Sure the cops are done with this place?” he asked.

  Late afternoon light dappled Mason’s dark hair and touched his light gray eyes as he assessed the house, looking for danger. The only reason Jazz had walked up here and unlocked the door was that she’d not listened to Mason when he’d growled at her to wait. Besides, she had the key.

  “Pretty sure,” Jazz said. “I told my friend at Inspirations to tell the cops that Lucas broke in and started shooting up the place, and I hightailed it out of town. Then he trapped himself under the stairs. Lucas apparently was babbling something about wolves and ghosts when they rescued him, and he was taken away, suspected of being high or crazy.”

  Mason didn’t smile. He completed his once-over of the house and mounted the steps. He brushed past Jazz, his nearness making her burn, and walked inside.

  He stood in the hall and inhaled, taking in the scents, testing the air, before he nodded and motioned Jazz to come in.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Jazz said as she dropped her bag in the hall. “I can sense auras. I know no one’s here and that the house is glad to see us.”

  Mason gave her a long look. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll always protect you.”

  Jazz’s blood heated at the dark note in his voice. So few men she’d dated had even noticed she was in the room with them unless they wanted sex. The exception had been the Feline Shifter, and she’d mistaken his focus for love.

  Mason turned and walked into the dining room, the double pocket doors standing open. The long dining table, a relic of the eighteenth century, stood waiting for meals that hadn’t been set on it in years.

  Mason put the table to a different purpose now. He opened the soft-lined case he’d found for the guitar, lifted the repaired instrument from it, and laid it on the table.

  Sunlight filtered through the vine-shrouded windows to touch the polished wood, and Jazz’s eyes widened in awe. Mason had cut a new front and back for the guitar, but instead of leaving it plain as the old guitar had been, he’d used an exotic wood, a warm golden red with wide stripes, and embellished it with inlay.

  “Koa,” Mason said, touching the guitar with blunt fingers. “Ukuleles are made out of it. It’s got a rich, mellow sound, especially on an acoustic guitar.”

  Inlay made of a tiny band of crushed stones ran along the rim between the guitar’s top and body, and around the rosette that bordered the hole in the center. The work was so fine that a lump formed in Jazz’s throat.

  “Mason, it’s beautiful.” Her eyes stung with tears as she looked up at him. “No wonder I didn’t see you for days.”

  Mason cleared his throat, cheekbones flushing. “I wanted to get it just right. It needs to cure for a while, so be careful with it.”

  “Can I play it?” The sudden urge to hold the guitar, to hear it, welled up inside Jazz and wouldn’t leave her alone.

  Mason considered. “Sure. Wouldn’t hurt for now.”

  He lifted the guitar but instead of handing the instrument to her, he carried it out of the room and down the hall to the veranda.

  Jazz followed him to the shady gazebo, which would be a special place to Jazz from now on, where she and Mason had shared their first kiss. She warmed at the memory, wanting to laugh at the clumsy way she’d launched herself at him.

  Mason handed Jazz the guitar while he put the table and chairs to rights and cleaned up what Lucas had knocked over. Then he sat down in the chair next to hers, took the guitar again, and tuned it for her.

  He did it quickly, bending his head to listen as he tightened and loosened strings, needing no gadget to tell him when the note was true. Some people could tune instruments by ear—apparently Mason was one of them.

  Mason gave Jazz back the guitar, then leaned his elbows on his knees and made a quick gesture with his fingers. “Go ahead.”

  Self-consciously, Jazz placed her fingers on the fretboard, her right hand ready to strum. The guitar felt good, the strings hovering close to the refitted neck but not too tight, the familiarity of the guitar’s curve on her leg comforting.

  Jazz knew she didn’t play very well—she simply loved to play. There was no concert hall in her future, and that was fine with her. Some things should be done for the pure enjoyment of them.

  She fingered an E chord and strummed her right hand over the strings. A sweet, mellow sound came forth, which was partly the voice of the old Martin, partly the richness Mason had instilled in it. She switched to an A minor, with its darker tone, hearing an entirely different facet to the guitar.

  Jazz drew a breath. “Mason, this is—”

  Mason fixed her with a gray gaze. “Just play.”

  Jazz closed her mouth, strummed a few more chords, and then began the song her grandmother liked, the one she’d sung for Mason when he’d first asked her to play.

  She fumbled with the changes as she always did, her voice cracking with emotion. She pictured her grandmother in the background, nodding her encouragement. Then her grandmother faded, and it was just Mason, watching her with those moon-gray eyes.

  Jazz faltered to a halt. Mason reached out and touched her cheek.

  “Stay with me,” he said. His words were soft, blending with the whisper of wind in the roses.

  Jazz tried a smile, her heart beating hard. “This is my house.”

  “You know what I mean.” Mason didn’t look away from her, his touch strengthening, his voice clear. “I made a mate-claim. You never answered.”

  Pain stabbed at her. Jazz slid the guitar from her lap, carefully setting it in the stand that was its home. “Because I know about Shifters. I love you, Mason, but I can’t face the day when you come to me and tell me you formed this mate bond with another Shifter and have to leave. That would kill me. Please, don’t make me go through that. Better to have a clean break right now, right?”

  Tears filled her voice. Mason’s brows came down as his face darkened with fury.

  “The Feline you went out with was a fuck-wad,” he said in a hard voice. “He should have told you he hadn’t formed the mate bond with you, and that he could form it with someone else.” Mason put his fist on his chest, over his heart. “I don’t have that problem. The mate bond grabbed me, and I know it. It reached out an
d snared me when you sat here and kissed me in this very spot, and it hasn’t let me go since. Maybe you didn’t form it; I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. You’re my mate. Always will be, even if you run off with some other dickhead like Lucas or that dumb-ass Feline.”

  Jazz’s lips parted, her fingers going numb. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about me forming the mate bond for you, Mason said steadily. “It means I’ll always be bound to you, no matter what. I’ll protect you and love you. Forever. You’re my mate.” Mason tapped his chest as he spoke then he returned his hands to his knees. “You read auras. Look.”

  Jazz forced herself to calm. She unclouded her thoughts, let the warm breeze blow the scent of roses to her, and studied the man she loved with her inner mind’s eye.

  Mason’s aura was as hot and strong as ever—gray shot with golden streaks the color of the amber. But something had changed from the first time she’d looked at it. Mason’s aura surrounded him like a cloud of mist, and in the center of it, right over his heart, fire blossomed. It was a deeper gold in the midst of his golden hue, its center red hot.

  Under Jazz’s scrutiny, the fire grew brighter, tendrils of it reaching from Mason to Jazz. She jumped as the stream of this fire touched and met the glow that burned in the center of Jazz herself.

  That fire now pounded through her heart. Jazz found herself smiling hard, her mouth almost aching as she felt something inside her complete, the acknowledgment that she’d found the other half of her whole.

  She stretched out her hand and touched his face.

  “I love you, Mason.” Jazz laughed, the laughter filling her with effervescent happiness. “What the hell have you done to me?”

  The heat in Mason’s eyes flared. “I haven’t done a damned thing. A mate bond has a mind of its own. We’re helpless in its power.” He said the words with an ironic twist, then flattened his mouth in the next moment. “That means—I love you back, Jasmine. My mate. Stay with me.”