Rachel Vincent - Stray

I spun around to find my body pinned between the glass case and someone tall, hard and tauntingly masculine. Jace . I inhaled his scent. Bar soap, fabric softener, and something meaty, maybe beef jerky. But under those was something more, something wild, and pungent, that woke up my instincts and made my heartbeat echo in my throat. It made me crave things my human form couldn’t accommodate, things my brain couldn’t even articulate, but my heart and my nose recognized instantly.

I tilted my face up to look at him. “What about the other side?”

He grinned, showing two rows of perfect white teeth, framed by lips that would have been wasted on mere speech. “I’ve never been south of the river, but I bet you could hold your own down there, too.” Jace bent his face toward my ear. I closed my eyes as he sniffed the length of my neck, trailing the tip of his tongue along my skin as he came back up. I shivered and gasped, and he responded with a moan as he pressed his hips against mine, nipping the flesh at the base of my neck.

“Get off my sister.”

Jace hissed in my ear, and cool air brushed my stomach where his body had been a second earlier. I opened my eyes. My brother Michael stood in front of me, holding Jace at arm’s length by the back of his neck.

“I was only saying hello,” Jace purred, his lazy smile still aimed at me.

“Do it without your tongue.” Michael enunciated each word carefully and slowly to make sure he was understood. He shoved Jace to one side, a little too hard to be playful.

Jace stumbled, catching himself on the edge of Daddy’s desk. “If I were Marc you’d let me greet her properly,” he said, a hint of resentment in his voice.

“There was nothing proper about that.” Michael frowned, but I glimpsed amusement behind his stern, I-mean-business face. “And if you were Marc, she’d have tossed you off herself. But you’re not Marc.”

“If I were, she wouldn’t have left us in the first place.” He turned his back on us both, slinking to the door with a fluid grace no human could have duplicated.

I blushed, thinking of the carnal promise in his casual words. No one else would have gotten away with such a comment, much less the intimate greeting, but I took a lot from Jace that would have lost anyone else an ear. Or worse. Jace got away with it because I secretly suspected he was right, that his body could really do what his teasing kisses and caresses hinted at. And because he’d never really tried. Our relationship had always been fundamentally platonic, a safe zone for playful flirting, which Michael either couldn’t or wouldn’t understand.

High heels clicked briskly on the tiles in the hallway, and I turned toward the door, steeling myself to face my mother. She stepped into the office, pausing for effect in the doorway as she spread her arms in greeting. “Faythe, we’re so glad to finally have you home.” As if I’d returned for a friendly visit, instead of for a command appearance.

My mother looked exactly as I remembered, down to her gray pageboy and charcoal-colored slacks. She had a closet full of them, hanging right next to a collection of novelty kitchen aprons, printed with not-so-funny sayings, like “I’d give you the recipe, but then I’d have to kill you.”

She came toward me, pausing almost imperceptibly when she realized I wasn’t going to rush forward to meet her. Michael and Jace stepped back, making way for my mother, a tiny life raft of estrogen bobbing amongst the waves of testosterone.

She hugged me, her embrace bringing with it the scent of homemade cookies, with cinnamon and nutmeg. Who cooks with nutmeg in the middle of the summer? Only my pretty-kitty version of a mother, a remnant of the June Cleaver days of intact families and repressed emotions.

Over her shoulder, I watched Marc come in, followed by my father, who pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to polish the lenses of his glasses while he waited patiently for my mother let me go. Daddy was always the last man to enter any room, so he could take charge of everyone all at once. Tall, and still firm at fifty-six, my father commanded respect everywhere he went, and it was all innate. He could never have explained why people did what he wanted, but his authority was undeniable, and unless I was at home, unquestioned.

I frowned at him, preparing to argue my case. “Daddy, what—?”

He smiled, cutting me off with a wave of one thick hand. “Give me a hug first, before we let business get in the way of family.”

I hugged him, but was bothered by his statement, because the business was family. Always. No matter how much he loved creating beautiful buildings, and how many days a year it took him away from home, his true passion—his life’s calling—was the Pride. We were his family, some by blood and others, like Jace and Marc, by association and employment.

Daddy released me, leaving one heavy hand on my shoulder as he turned to Jace. “Go unload Marc’s car, please, and let everyone know the prodigal daughter has returned.”

Again, this was unnecessary; everyone knew I was home. It was just Daddy’s polite way of getting rid of Jace. I took it as a good sign. If my father had been mad or upset, he wouldn’t have bothered with tact. He’d have merely started shouting orders.

Jace nodded and left without complaint. Marc closed the solid oak door behind him, cutting off the masculine buzz of conversation coming from the back of the house.

Suddenly nervous, I wiped sweat from my palms on my pants. I’d never been comfortable in Daddy’s office when the door was closed. Unlike the rest of the house, the walls of the office were made of solid concrete, which made them virtually soundproof, even for us. At least in human form. Most families use rooms like that as an indoor tornado shelter, or as safe rooms in case of home invasions. My father used it for privacy, a hot commodity in a house full of people gifted with a cat’s hearing.

Marc leaned against the door frame with his hands in his pockets, apparently relaxed. I wasn’t fooled. Daddy hadn’t forgotten to post a guard at the door since the summer I turned eighteen, and considering how long it took them to find me that time, he probably never would again.

My mother sat on the leather love seat, patting the cushion next to her—not for me, but for Michael. He glanced at me for a moment before sitting, and I couldn’t resist a tiny smile. Michael was what you’d get if you mixed a Chippendale dancer with a Law Review editor: a handsome face crowning an athlete’s body, all dressed up in a hand-tailored suit, with silver, wire-rimmed glasses added for effect. Seriously. His vision was better than perfect, but he thought he looked more like an attorney in the spectacles. And maybe more like our father, who’d been fitted with prescription lenses three years earlier.

Daddy sat in his armchair, where he could see everyone. And they all stared at me.

Shrugging, I plopped down on the couch, all alone. I glanced back at Marc, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. Once again, it was me against the world. Or at least against the Pride, which, unfortunately, was my world.

I took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then let it out all at once. Time to get it over with . “So, tell me about Sara.”

“We don’t know much yet,” my mother said, crossing one ankle over the other. “She went shopping in downtown Atlanta, and never came back. Your father sent Vic home to help with the search, and he’s promised to keep us informed.” Vic was Sara’s brother, and one of my father’s enforcers.

“That’s it?” I ignored my mother and frowned at my father. That couldn’t be all they knew.

“So far.” Daddy nodded, and I noticed absently that the gray streaks at his temples had broadened since I’d seen him last. “From the credit card bills, they know where she actually made purchases, and her brothers have been in all the stores, discreetly questioning the salespeople. Most of the clerks remembered her, but no one saw anything unusual. Bert has his men out looking, but so far they haven’t found anything.”