CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Returning home from the convenience store the following day, Isaiah walked straight into a wall of warmth. There were times when Quinley setting the thermostat so high drove him nuts. But entering the house after a walk in the freezing cold was not one of those times.

He put down his plastic bag and shrugged off his coat, listening for sounds of his mate. She’d been wrapping presents in the living area when he’d left, but he couldn’t hear the snipping of scissors or crackling of paper now.

Having hung his coat on the rack, he nabbed the bag from the floor and walked into the living area. She was no longer sitting near the tree, but a new bunch of gift-wrapped boxes were now positioned beneath it.

As he strode further into the house, he caught a fresh lungful of her scent. There was a shift to it; a feral edge that told him she was currently in her cat form. And she had to be close, or her scent would likely have dissipated.

His own animal stirred, eager to see the little female again. He’d wanted time with her last night, but Isaiah had vetoed it, knowing the antsy feline would have marked her with every fang in his mouth.

His cat was calmer now, refreshed from having spent all day yesterday enjoying quality time alone with his mate. Then, today, they’d accompanied her to the salon and stood guard while she worked. The lack of separation, the ability to stay close to her, had soothed the feline enough that his agitated state had eventually evened out.

No issues had cropped up while they were at the salon. The Vercetti Pack hadn’t returned. Similarly, Zaire hadn’t made a reappearance. Isaiah had thought the male black-foot might try reaching her at the salon since he’d been denied access to her, but he hadn’t.

Entering the kitchen, Isaiah glanced around. He found the little cat near the back door facing the corner wall, her furry butt up in the air. He set the plastic bag on the island. “What are you doing?”

She turned to face him … a huge-ass fucking spider dangling from her mouth. Dangling alive, its legs curling and uncurling.

He jerked his head back. “Jesus.”

Then she bit into it.

He grimaced. “Oh, the fuck no. Not here.” Especially when the spider wasn’t even fucking dead yet. He opened the back door. “You want to eat it, take it outside and do it.”

It was amazing how a single look from a cat could call you dramatic. Even more annoying, his own animal thought he was being unreasonable.

“Nah, this is where I draw the line.” Okay, so he’d drawn various lines with this feline, but it had to be done. Because her idea of “acceptable” didn’t generally cohere with his own.

She tossed the insect up in the air, let it drop to the floor, and then pounced on it—killing it in one, smooth merciless move. His cat approved.

Isaiah grunted. “Better.” He kicked the dead insect outside. “You going or staying?” he asked her.

She sat down and started licking her paw.

He took that as a “staying” response. Isaiah closed the door, swiftly cleaned up the spatter of spider blood, and then squatted close to her. “Do I get to pet you?” he asked, holding out his hand.

She sauntered over, walking beneath his palm, leaning into his touch. He petted her over and over, focusing on her favorite spots—mostly her chin, neck, and forehead. All the while, he murmured sweet nothings to her, smiling whenever she scent-marked him.

His animal pressed close to his skin, pushing hard; wanting out. Caving, Isaiah stripped off his clothes and gave his feline freedom.

The female cat stilled in surprise. Not wanting to startle her, the pallas cat walked toward her slow and easy. She stayed still, not moving her gaze from him.

He bumped her nose affectionately. She startled but then bumped his right back.

The male cat slid his body against hers. Again, she mimicked his move. Their tails tangled—one slender, one bushy.

Once done rubbing themselves all over each other, they played. Tussled. Climbed. Ran around the house for over an hour.

Finally, pressured by their human halves, they returned to the kitchen and subsided, giving over the control.

Her skin hot from the shift, Quinley shuddered as the air whispered over her flesh. The house wasn’t cold, but the air felt cool in comparison to her body temperature. She pulled her clothes on so fast it was a wonder she didn’t clumsily trip over.

Isaiah—who seemed to burn hotter than any fire, the lucky bastard—lazily pulled up his jeans, his lips curling in amusement at how quickly she’d dressed.

“Your cat is super cranky,” she groused. The feline had played, but he liked to control the game. And if he hadn’t been winning a chase or able to herd her cat in the direction he’d wanted her to go, he’d gotten all moody.

Isaiah fastened his fly. “He doesn’t like that your cat won’t obey him all the time.”

“He also doesn’t like to lose, but he’ll never beat her in a race.”

“We’re never going to talk about that out loud, though.”

She felt her lips bow up. Dominants and their egos. “Oh, right, okay.”

He snatched his long-sleeved tee from a stool and slipped it on. “So … we’re gonna make a new rule.”

She groaned. “Another one?”

“No eating spiders in the house. And it isn’t my fault your cat needs rules.”

“And it isn’t her fault you’re squeamish. You overreact about the littlest things. Like when she caught the mouse. I mean, she’s a cat; it was a mouse. These things happen.”

“I didn’t freak because she’d caught a mouse. I freaked because she buried it alive, though not before breaking its legs and taking a bite out of its tail.”

“Squeamish,” she sang low.

He shrugged, snagged her hip, and drew her close. “Call it what you want.” He pressed a long kiss to her mouth that she couldn’t help but hum into. “On a whole other note, have you finished wrapping?”

“For tonight,” she replied, curving her hands around his shoulders. “If there’s any stuff you want me to wrap for you, let me know; I’ll do it.” She liked wrapping. There was something soothing about the mindless activity, especially if she stuck on a Christmas movie to half-watch while doing it.

He nuzzled her hair. “Thank you.”

She glanced at the bag on the island. “Are there snacks in there? Because I’m feeling peckish.” He’d only gone to the store to stock up on bread and pastries, she knew, but he had a habit of coming home with snacks for her.

“I did in fact buy you a candy bar.”

She smiled. “You shouldn’t spoil me, you know.”

“I like spoiling you.” He scraped his teeth over the brand on her neck. “And if it turns you into a brat, it just gives me excuses to spank you.”

“Since when do you need excuses to do that?” she grumbled.

A wicked laugh came out of him. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it.”

Just then, a knock came at the front door.

Isaiah tensed, his amusement fading as tension slipped into his muscles.

Quinley sighed. This was a “thing” now. They’d had a few visitors today. Each time they’d realized someone was at the door, his mind had automatically flicked to the possibility of it being goddamn Zaire.

She still couldn’t quite believe that the ballsy bastard had come here yesterday morning. He had some real nerve to even think about seeking her out, all things considered.

What pissed her off most about it was that him turning up now and then could very well interfere with the forming of a bond between her and Isaiah. Zaire’s presence not only dredged up bad memories for her and her cat, it evoked some seriously negative emotions in Isaiah … none of which was conducive to starting off the imprinting process.

Also, she didn’t want her mate worrying that Zaire might somehow win her to his side if he ever chose to try. It would never happen, but she wouldn’t be able to blame Isaiah for worrying about it.

He raised a finger. “Wait here.”

Uh, no. “I like to nosily peek out of the window. That’s as far as I’ll go if it’s Zaire.” She didn’t want to award the shithead with her acknowledgement or attention—he deserved neither.

“You swear it?”

“I swear it.”

Isaiah grunted and said, “Fine.” His protective instincts demanded he be cautious, but he knew he had to be careful not to let his protectiveness become oppressive.

Plus, he could insist she remain here but, knowing Quinley, she’d head to the window anyway and then later claim ever so innocently that she could have sworn she’d heard him say, “Go nose, it’s good with me.”

It wasn’t Zaire at the door, or anyone who’d be similarly unwelcome. It was Isaiah’s parents. They hurried inside to escape the cold.

“We were just on our way home after having a late dinner at the diner,” said Andaya before dabbing a kiss on Isaiah’s cheek. “We thought we’d pop in and say hi. Where’s Quinley?” She was gone in a flash.

Watching as his mother and mate greeted each other warmly, Isaiah spoke to his father, “They bonded fast.” It pleased both him and his cat.

Koen grinned. “Son, your mother would take her home with us if she could.”

“Well, she can’t. It ain’t happening.” Too many people had the bright idea to do it—including Alex, who hadn’t given up on convincing Isaiah to consent to Quinley being his and Bree’s live-in nanny. “I like having her right here where she is.” Where she belonged.

His gaze darting from Isaiah to Quinley, Koen noted, “Something shifted between you two.”

“Hearing your mate got shot has a way of making you face a few things.” Like just how much said mate was coming to mean to you. Like just what it would do to you to lose them.

Koen gave a slow nod. “I suppose it doesn’t help that the new Crimson Pride Alpha came around. It can’t be easy for you or your cat having her true—”

“Don’t call him her true mate,” said Isaiah, his tone flat. “That term will never be used to describe his association with Quinley. That’s not what he is to her.”

“Fair enough.” Koen slanted his head. “Do you think he’ll be back?”

Unfortunately … “If his imprint bond is crumbling, probably. The breaking of such bonds are hard on shifters. It would be instinctual—both consciously and subconsciously—for him to seek out the one person who’ll fill the void and make everything better.”

Koen’s gaze moved to Quinley, who was still talking rapidly with Andaya. “She won’t leave you.”

“No, she won’t. I know that in my bones.” She had never let Isaiah doubt her commitment to him. Not once. “Doesn’t mean I’ll ever be good with him showing up here or anywhere else she might be.” Isaiah paused. “But I doubt you came to talk about him.”

“Your mother wants to know what your plans are for Christmas day. She’s probably persuading Quinley to join us for dinner that day as we speak. While they’re distracted … I did want to ask if you’ve heard from Alex’s uncles yet?”

Isaiah gave a grim shake of the head.

Koen frowned. “I would have thought they’d have found the Vercetti Pack by now. Luke said that he, Camden, and Farrell have still had no luck with it.”

“A whole lot of shifters have been hunting the pack for quite some time. None succeeded. So I wasn’t expecting this to be a quick or simple hunt.”

“You want to be out there tracking them,” Koen sensed.

“Part of me does, but the rest of me wants to stay with her. Besides, I don’t think I’d be much good out there. I’d only keep wondering if she was all right; if they’d come back for her. I wouldn’t be able to focus well.” He stopped talking as his mother and mate approached.

Andaya gave him her prettiest smile—the one she always tossed his way when she wanted something. “I was just saying to Quinley that, if you don’t already have plans, you should join me and your father for Christmas dinner.”

“You also said we should do it even if we did already have plans,” said Quinley, her lips quirking.

“Well, it makes sense,” Andaya told her. “Your sisters and their families would be welcome, too.”

“Thanks, but I doubt they’d come. My old pride throws a feast and has music and dancing—it’s wildly popular among the unranked. The ranked members have a separate celebration that’s more prim and proper, of course.” Quinley rolled her eyes. “I’ve never envied them that. Sounds boring.”

“The whole ranked and unranked business is just galling and wrong,” stated Andaya. “At least you’re away from all that now. You two will come to dinner, won’t you?”

Isaiah sighed. “Stop pressuring her, Mom.”

“Stop leaving me hanging, boy.”

Quinley gave him a “I’m up for it if you are” look.

In that case … “We’ll be there.”

Andaya predictably beamed in a triumphant delight.

Once his parents were gone, Quinley said to him, “Your mom’s pretty bossy, but she’s so sweet about it that I could never call her on it. It’s sneaky in a way I admire.”

“You sure you don’t mind us eating at their table Christmas day?” Isaiah asked her.

“Positive.”

“All right.”

She put a hand to her belly, grimacing. “All this talk about dinner has made me hungry.”

Typical. “When are you not hungry?”

“Rarely. But you don’t get to complain—I warned you before you claimed me that my appetite rivals that of a wolverine. You knew what you were getting into.”

“I thought you were exaggerating.”

“Little late to whine about it now. I own your ass.”

A smile pulled at his mouth. “Yeah, you really do.” And he found himself completely fine with it.