Eve Langlais - Jealous Freakn’

“Blah, blah, blah. You know, I believed that whole sister line you fed us ten years ago when you guys were still kids, but seriously, Mitchell. You haven’t seen or talked to her in at least the last five or six years. She’s changed, so how can you still claim that?”

“Because.” What no one else seemed to recognize, except him, was while he’d always found Francine cute, she didn’t make him want to throw her down and ravish her. If they truly were mates, why hadn’t the mating fever hit him? The wild urge to claim her, growing in intensity until he couldn’t help himself and he fucked her until they both passed out from pleasure. He’d heard enough stories to know that in a true mating, hormones went wild, and while his heart did race when he knew Francine got close, and his palms sweated, it appeared more a recurrence of his childhood fear that she would tackle him and force him into something he didn’t want-like a sloppy kiss tasting of watermelon gum. He didn’t want that for either of them, not when it meant the right person, their true mate, still hadn’t come along.

“Idiot.” His sister cuffed him again before she waddled off, a prime example of a mating done right. Ornery and scary as shit, his baby sister found happiness in the arms of not one, but two shifters. Ethan and Javier, a bear and jaguar, who’d managed to tone down some of Naomi’s wilder impulses, but more remarkably, loved her for her feisty nature. Sick bastards.

The rumble of a motor drew his attention back to the window and he wondered if the time for his departure had arrived, but no, he didn’t spot Francine’s blue Hyundai Accent. Instead, a sleek motorcycle pulled up out front. Then Mitchell blinked because if he weren’t mistaken, the driver held a present out to the side in one hand as he coasted to a stop. Only once he lowered his arm, did Mitchell notice his passenger. His heart sped up and his jaw dropped as Francine unhooked her arms from around the guy’s waist and slid off the bike.

Of course, this Francine looked vastly different from the high school one he recalled with pigtails and braces, although she remained just as short. But the rest of her, shit, when had her plumpness turned into curves that gave her an hourglass shape? Since when did she have breasts that strained her blouse, and wild red hair that corkscrewed around her face and brought attention to her full-lipped smile? He’d spent so much time avoiding her, he’d not actually ever seen the grown up version. Not that it changed anything.

The driver slid off the bike, and set the present down before he yanked down the bandanna covering the lower half of his face. He then pulled off his helmet, shaking out shaggy black hair, and even from where he stood shielded by the sheer curtains, Mitchell couldn’t miss the masculine grin he threw Francine. It roused his wolf, who growled with hackles raised. Mitchell didn’t bother to stop and try to figure out what about this guy put his beast on edge -or why-suddenly angry, he just stormed out to confront them.

Stomping down the porch steps, Francine turned his way, delight lighting her expression as she saw him. And damn it all if he didn’t feel an answering tug-in his cock. Totally inappropriate. To ignore her and his reaction, he looked at her companion. The strange dude, who’d pulled off his aviator glasses and tucked them in his pocket, flicked him a disinterested glance before letting his gaze stray downwards to ogle Francine’s jean-clad ass. It made Mitchell, both the man and his beast, growl in annoyance.

Coming to a stop before a little girl who’d grown into a much too pretty woman, Mitchell’s terse words wiped the smile off Francine’s face. “And just what the hell do you think you were doing, young lady, riding a motorcycle without a helmet?”

Ire flashed in her eyes, and she planted her fists on rounded hips before retorting. “Whatever happened to ‘Hi, Francine?’ or “How’s it going, Francine?’ I don’t see you in, what, five years, and you freak out because I rode a few miles on a bike without a helmet? I’m a shapeshifter. Short of decapitation, I’ll heal.”

“A few miles?” he shouted back. “It’s at least thirty clicks from here to your place. Your hotshot boyfriend is lucky the cops didn’t pull you over.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she growled. “Although, if he were, what we did together would be none of your business.”

“And might I add, we’d do some very interesting things.” The tanned biker, who this close, Mitchell recognized by scent as some sort of large cat, should have kept his mouth shut. Mitchell’s fist came flying out of nowhere to hit him in the jaw. Not that it rocked the bastard. The big guy took it and grinned wider.

“Is that the best you can do, wolfie? I’ve had human girls give me love taps harder than that.”

A red haze descended over him at that point, and Mitchell couldn’t stop himself from snarling and slamming into the other man, sending them to the ground in a tussling heap, one his wolf entirely approved of.

Damned cat. I’ll teach him to sniff around a guy’s adopted little sister.

Francine couldn’t stop herself from gaping at the wrestling men. She still couldn’t quite grasp what happened. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Mitchell was jealous. Crazy, of course. He’d made it perfectly clear he didn’t think of her that way.

What didn’t surprise her was the way he’d yelled at her just like he would with his sister Naomi. A part of her wished she could dislike him. After all, look at the way he’d just treated her, and in front of the gorgeous looking stranger who rescued her. Heck, his reluctance to even be in the same room as her should have made kicking him to the curb a cinch. But, she couldn’t stop her heart from beating faster, and her cleft from moistening as she watched the two big men trading blows. If only they would get naked as they fought. Talk about real entertainment.

“Not even here two minutes and already causing trouble, I see,” her friend announced, coming down the steps, her belly leading the way. Behind Naomi strode Javier, his step light as he bounded over the rolling combatants, followed by Ethan, a giant of a man who could recite poetry one evening, and crush a whole team of lacrosse players the next. Naomi was such a lucky bitch.

Pursing her lips, Francine glared at the snarling men. “It was Mitchell who started it. I was just trying to say thanks to the guy who rescued me from the road after my car broke down when Mitchell got all bossy and then attacked him.”

“Hmmm.” Naomi peered at her brother pensively for a moment. “Interesting. I wonder what set him off?”

“He’s your brother. Since when does anybody in your family need a reason to fight?” Francine said dryly. She’d often joked they should hand helmets out at the door.

Naomi laughed. “True. But they’re usually better behaved when they come over. You know how Ethan gets when they upset me.”

Francine snorted. Naomi kept insisting she was a delicate freakn’ flower-Not!-and both her mates treated her like one. Ethan usually acted as the peacemaker-his huge fist acting as a deterrent to misbehavior-while Javier used his smooth tongue to ensure nothing disturbed her, not even her family. Again, luckiest skank alive.

“So who is the hottie anyway?” Francine asked, wincing as Mitchell bashed the biker’s head onto the ground. She then bit her lip as the tanned stranger head butted him back.

“That would be my baby brother, Alejandro,” Javier said with a shake of his head as he slid his arm around Naomi’s rounded middle. “And, as usual, he’s causing shit wherever he goes.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Francine said in his defense. “Mitchell swung first.”