Jennifer Ashley: Hard Mated

Spike shrugged again, burying deep any thoughts of his new cub, but he knew Gavan would scent Jordan on him too. “Can’t complain.”

“I saw you fight last night,” Gavan said. “You’re good. You wanted to kill that bear.”

“Could be.”

“Not could be. You did. I saw it in your eyes. You backed off because you had to. The kill would have felt good, yeah?”

“Yep.” No question. Of course Spike had wanted the kill. He was Shifter.

But Spike wasn’t as stupid as people assumed. Most Shifters and humans looked at Spike and thought, boneheaded fighter. Spike let them. Easier to keep them off guard while he figured out exactly what they were up to and what to do about it.

He’d have been stupid as hell to try to go for the kill with Cormac last night. The bear had been holding back his true strength, and Spike had known it.

Bears were stronger than all Shifters—they’d learned to temper their strength in order to live in Shiftertowns with other Shifters. They had to, or they’d crush every hand they shook.

Even in the ring, in a fight to show off skill, Cormac hadn’t wanted to accidentally kill Spike. Spike had won through strategy and opportunity, not strength.

If Spike had gone for the kill, today his grandmother would be lighting candles and planning a ceremony to send him to the Goddess. Spike wouldn’t have met Myka, who wouldn’t have taken him to Jordan.

Thank the Goddess the bear had held back.

Gavan looked at the two Lupines. “Beat it,” he said. “I want to catch up on old times with my friend.”

The Lupines looked annoyed, but Gavan out-dominated them, so they laid down their cues and strode off to the bar for more beer, pretending it was their idea.

“Let’s set ’em up, Spike. And talk.”

Ellison didn’t consider himself part of Gavan’s command. He bent over the far table and took a shot, landing two solid balls in two different holes. He set up another shot as though happy to play a solo game. Gavan said nothing, which meant he didn’t care whether Ellison heard what he had to say. Interesting.

Spike shoved balls into the plastic triangle, lining it up to the top of the table, while Gavan put away the Lupine’s cues. Spike lifted a cue from the rack, hefted it a few times, put it back, chose another.

“Your break,” Gavan said.

Spike leaned down, set his cue, and punched the cue ball hard. Balls spun wildly across the table, a striped one falling into the far corner pocket.

Gavan watched while Spike sank three more balls. Polite of the Feline to not talk while Spike concentrated on his shots.

Spike enjoyed playing pool more than he enjoyed fighting. Fighting released tension in him, a coiled snake that had to be appeased as often as possible. Sex could ease that tension a little, but fighting, even with the Collar-shock hangover, let out his pent-up aggression so he could get on with life.

Pool, on the other hand, let him think, plan, test his skill. There was something about figuring out how to make a tricky bank shot at misaligned balls, something about the spark of triumph when hearing the correct ball thunk into the correct pocket.

This game didn’t depend on strength; it depended on planning and finesse, which the jaguar wildcat inside Spike found satisfying.

He’d love to play pool with Myka, came the unexpected thought. She had the look of challenge that said she’d be interesting to play against. And if she didn’t know the game well, Spike could always teach her.

He’d lean over her to show her how to hold the cue, his lips brushing her ear while he explained what to do . . .

The memory of her scent filled his brain, as did the feeling of her fingers in his pocket when she’d pushed in the scrap of paper with her number on it.

Spike mis-stroked, catching the cue ball wrong, and the cue ball zipped right past the ball he was trying to hit.

“Distraction,” Gavan said, grunting a laugh. “Is a bitch.”

Spike straightened, upending his cue in silence. Gavan took his shot, sending a solid red ball caroming off two banks and into a pocket.

“Distraction is killing us all,” Gavan said as he lined up his next shot. “It’s taking away our instincts, depleting us.” He let fly his next shot, the balls banging together with a sound like a gunshot, a solid ball fleeing to the safety of a pocket.

Too much strength. Pool was a game of subtlety.

“I thought we were having more cubs in Shiftertowns,” Spike said. He thought about Jordan, and his heart soared.

“Oh, yeah, I’m not denying that, health-wise, Shifters are doing a lot better. In the wild, I lost a mate when she brought in my cub, who died too, and I never want to live through that again. But wearing the Collars, giving in to human rules—it’s not what Shifters do. Humans can’t kill our instincts, no matter how much they try. But they don’t need to. We’re killing those instincts ourselves.”

Spike nodded as though he thought hard about what Gavan said. “What are we supposed to do then? Make our dominance battles to the death? We wouldn’t last long if we did.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. Dominance battles are only to the death if they need to be. Mostly the other Shifter backs down, knowing he’s defeated and conceding dominance. But that’s hard for you, isn’t it?” Gavan upended his cue and stepped closer to Spike. “You’re a dominant, reduced to working for another dominant. That can’t sit well with you.”

“I’m a tracker. It’s different.”

“I know. We pledge ourselves to the leader of the clan, to be their eyes and ears, their best fighters. We do it even if the leader is an asshole.”

Spike wondered if Gavan referred to Fergus, for whom they’d both worked, or the new leader of San Antonio, for whom Gavan now worked.

“But this isn’t the wild,” Gavan said. “Liam Morrissey isn’t even in your clan. Neither was Fergus.”

But Liam and Fergus’s clan had adopted Spike and his grandmother when they’d been brought in from the wild. Gavan knew that—he was just trying to stir Spike’s anger. “Being tracker to the Shiftertown leader is a high position,” Spike said, pretending not to understand what Gavan was getting at.

“Sure it is, but you’re the dominant tracker, and you know it.” He glanced at Ellison, another of Liam’s trackers, who went on shooting pool, ignoring them. “Nate’s got nothing on you, and neither does Ronan, no matter how big he is. Liam’s using you, Spike. It’s not disloyal to say that—it’s blinking obvious. You’re a fighter, my old friend. A killer at heart. I say, use it.”

“To do what?”

Gavan gave him a patient look. “Let me show you something. I’m going to bet a hundred dollars that you can’t make this shot.” He grabbed the cue ball and positioned it at the top left corner of the table. “The orange stripe into the center left pocket.”

The orange-striped ball rested near the far right pocket. Spike eyed it skeptically but nodded. “I’ll take that bet.”

Spike lined up his cue, aiming the cue ball at another ball that would smack itself into orange stripe, to give orange stripe enough spin to glide the other way up the table.

He shot. The second ball popped into orange stripe just right, but without enough spin. Orange stripe rolled most of the way but bumped the table just shy of the center pocket.

Spike stood up without chagrin and fished into his pocket for a wad of twenties. “Doesn’t always work.”

“Hang onto your cash. Let’s try it again.”

Gavan repositioned the balls in the same places. Spike bent over his cue again.

Gavan’s body heat covered his side, the Feline’s voice harsh in his ear. “How about if, this time, I tell you that if you don’t make that shot, I kill your cub?”