Jennifer Ashley: Hard Mated

Damn it.

She’d made a promise to Jillian to let Spike take Jordan and not interfere. Jillian had believed with all her heart that living with Spike was best for Jordan. Myka should let it alone—decision made, deed done, none of her business.

But she couldn’t wash her hands of Jordan like that.

Myka gave Carlos another jog around the ring, patting him and telling him what a good boy he was, then took him back to the barn. If she tried to train while her mind was elsewhere, she risked ruining the horse. His owner would be less than pleased, and other owners might decide to look for a more reliable trainer.

Might be a moot point anyway, because the owner of the entire stables and training center wanted to sell the place to developers. Good-bye job, good-bye stables that had given Myka the girl a haven, and Myka the adult a way to make a living.

Life sucked all over.

Myka put Carlos away, fussing over him, then she went to her pickup, scraped the dust and manure from her cowboy boots, got in and started the truck, and drove to Shiftertown.

Spike hauled himself off the floor and slid on his sweat pants to answer the phone, while Jordan announced once more, at the top of his lungs, that he wanted breakfast.

The call was from Liam. “Spike, lad, I need you to help me with Gavan. Go down to San Antonio and talk to him. Casual like. Find out what he’s up to, if he’s going to be a threat, or just likes bellyaching. He never was happy about what happened to Fergus, and I don’t need that haunting me. I know about your cub situation—which we’ll talk about when you get back.”

Spike’s hand tightened on the phone. He was a tracker—he’d pledged all kinds of loyalty to the Shiftertown leader in return for acceptance. Didn’t matter who the leader was or what he asked Spike to do, Spike did it. Without question.

But this was different. Liam was asking Spike to leave Jordan alone for hours, with only his grandmother to protect him, and go to San Antonio and meet with a guy he’d never really trusted. No way could Spike take Jordan with him to the meeting—Gavan had always had a cruel streak, and Spike wasn’t letting him anywhere near his cub.

“Liam,” he began.

“I wouldn’t ask you, but something’s going on, you know Gavan better than anyone, and I need to nip this in the bud. The lad will be all right in Shiftertown, I promise. He’s safe here. I’ll have Kim or Andrea drop by and look in on him later.”

“I can’t.” The words surprised Spike even as they came out of his mouth. No one said no to Liam Morrissey.

“Spike. Lad.”

Liam was an alpha. Even over the phone, the dominance came across that made Shifters, especially Felines, want to go down on one knee and promise him fealty. He was lead Feline, lead Shifter. The mightiest of the mighty.

“I can’t,” Spike repeated.

Liam’s voice took on a patient tone, though the dominance thing didn’t go away. “I know better than anyone that we need to look after the cubs. You talking to Gavan could help us all, lad, and every cub in Shiftertown. If Gavan’s up to something, it threatens your new one as much as anyone else.”

Spike closed his eyes and fought the instinctive need to obey, to say yes.

Let Dylan or Sean sort out Gavan. Why the hell did Liam need Spike to do it, today?

Just then Jordan ran through the kitchen, screaming, a toilet brush in his hand. Ella came charging after him with the broom again.

“I’ll call you back,” Spike said to Liam, and hung up the phone on Liam’s startled exclamation.

Spike limped back to the living room, lifted the jeans Sean had delivered to him last night, and plucked Myka’s phone number out of the pocket. As soon as he turned to reach for the phone, a pickup pulled up and stopped in front of the house. Myka herself hopped out, the October sunshine making her dark hair glow like black fire.

Myka studied the house as she went up the walk. Shiftertown was nowhere near as slum-like as she’d assumed, and neither was Spike’s house. He lived in a two-story bungalow, its second floor about half the size of the first, an upstairs gable poking up to make the house cozy.

A wide, old-fashioned porch wrapped around the front, chairs and a porch swing adding comfort. This was not a house for display, like the fine suburban homes Myka passed on her way across town. This house was meant to be lived in.

Myka had about ten seconds to observe all this before the front screen door slammed open and a whirlwind that was Jordan flew at her.

“Aunt Myka!”

Jordan flung his arms around her legs. Myka leaned down to him, worried, but Jordan sported a big grin as he raised his arms to her, begging to be picked up.

Myka lifted him. Jordan gave her a sticky kiss and started babbling excitedly about the house, his new great-grandmother, his new clothes, and asking when he could go home.

The door opened again and Spike walked out. In the light of day, he looked even more huge than he had last night. Spike was taller than most men Myka knew, though not lanky or bony. He was big, hard with muscle, though it was lean muscle, honed by natural strength, not protein powders.

He wore only loose workout pants that rode low on his hips and tied with a drawstring, so most of that muscle was on display. The lack of clothing showed off his tatts, a dragon’s tail wrapping around his abdomen to disappear down somewhere under the drawstring. Holy effing moley.

Spike came off the porch, looming large as he approached. He walked right up to Myka, stopping maybe an inch from her, never mind about personal space.

Was it getting hard to breathe? No, Myka stood in the cool, fresh air, October in Austin dry and fine.

Jordan squirmed in her arms and pointed at Spike. “That’s my dad.” He said it proudly, no fear. “Did you know I had a dad?”

“He stays with me,” Spike said. His tone was flat, no argument welcome.

“How’s he doing?” Myka asked.

Instead of answering, Spike looked her over, running his gaze from her unmanageable hair to the pointed toes of her cowboy boots. Myka had put on a form-hugging tank top under a button-down shirt when she’d left the house, then thrown off the shirt when she drove over here, the day plenty warm under the sunshine.

Spike didn’t pretend not to look—he ran his dark gaze from her neckline to where the fabric clung to her waist. Myka held Jordan a little closer, a shield from Spike’s unnerving scrutiny.

“He’s fine,” Spike said, answering her question. His hard gaze broke a moment, as though he wanted to say something more, then he shut up.

Jordan squirmed to get down. Myka let him with some reluctance. Jordan ran back to the porch, jumped up on the swing, and started swinging as hard as he could. The chains creaked, but the porch swing held. The look on Spike’s face as he turned to watch his son was such a mixture of worry, protectiveness, and terror that it stopped Myka in her tracks.

“I came to tell you that Jillian’s funeral is Saturday,” she said into the silence between them. “Sharon—Jillian’s mom—thought you might like to come.”

Spike glanced at her. “Best I don’t.”

True. A Shifter showing up at a funeral with all Jillian’s family might cause some problems.

“Jordan shouldn’t go either,” Spike said. “He wouldn’t understand.”

Here Myka had to disagree. “He should be able say good-bye to his mother.”

“We’ll say good-bye. But in the Shifter way. Human funerals are depressing. You bury your people in the ground. Or shove them into a fire. That’s just weird.”

“Not much alternative, is there?”

“Jordan will give her to the Goddess, with me.”