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  He had an equal effect on her. Turned her to a melty mess with just one of his possessive looks.

  Snaking one arm around her hip, he grabbed her backside, squeezing to bring her near.

  “Don’t waste that on my cheek, woman. Give it to my lips.”

  Grinning, she pressed her mouth to his, loving the way his beard rasped against her chin when he worked her lips seductively. Malcom was the king of kisses. Crowned by her. And only her, because no one else was getting his mouth ever again if she had any say about it.

  He pulled back, his eyes dancing. “What’s that about?”

  “What?”

  “You feel… possessive of me.”

  Francesca frowned. She did. But how did he know that. “I feel?”

  In a blink, his face changed, shuttering something. “Francesca, I need to tell you something.”

  His tone sounded wary, careful, and entirely too guarded. It forced a nervous quip from her lips. “Is this about that mysterious blue bag that appeared under our tree? It looks like Santa Claus came early. He’s not supposed to leave presents until after we go to bed.”

  “It’s not that. It’s something… bigger.”

  He paused, trying to find words, and her tummy knotted at what was coming. All sorts of scenarios ran through her mind: he was leaving, going back to his family, didn’t want to be with her anymore. Maybe the present under the tree was a goodbye gift. Maybe he was going away to school somewhere like Kyle. Could they make a long distance relationship work?

  “I need to tell you who I am.”

  “I already know who you are. You’re Malcom. A tender-hearted badass, that I’ve fallen hard for. A soft soul with a hard shell exterior that I’ve somehow managed to crack open and burrow inside, like a little fox finding home. And… I like what I’ve found. I know who you are. And…” Shit, this was risky. But if he was going to pull away, he needed to at least know the truth. The crazy, unbelievable truth. “I love you,” she squeaked out.

  It happened fast, yes. But maybe it does with all epic love stories. Maybe when it’s real, you don’t need months to realize it. Whatever was to come of things from this point on… she loved Malcom.

  His eyes went wide, his gaze going so naked she could swear she saw right into his soul. His entire face lost all its hard edges. He looked equally devastated and euphoric, and she grappled for something to say to fill the empty space. There shouldn’t be silence like this after spilling her feelings. It seemed sad. Lonely, the way she’d been for so long.

  Crap, crap, crap. What was she thinking? She should have hidden that in her heart until he ferreted it out. Could have taken years. Or maybe never at all. But there wouldn’t be this hurtful silence hanging between them.

  “You… love me?” he asked finally.

  This was her chance. She could take it back or spin it in a way that left her less exposed. I love… the way you make me feel. That would be true.

  But it wasn’t what she meant.

  Shit, this was so scary. Now she understood why it was so hard for characters to say it in movies.

  “Yes.”

  “You love me.”

  She swallowed the aching knot in her throat. “Yes, Malcom.”

  “Well. Good,” he said slowly, like he could barely catch his breath. “We match.”

  She recognized the phrase she said to him the morning after their first time:

  “Aw, Malcom. I think you might just like me a little.”

  “A little.”

  “Well. Good. We match.”

  Did he love her too?

  “Which means,” he continued, “I have to tell you what I am. You have to know. And maybe I should have told you sooner, but this is all new to me, having someone to share my life with, understand?”

  “Tell me what, Mal?”

  He took her hand in his, linking their fingers together against his chest. “Francesca, I’m not… human.”

  Of all the things she’d expected to come from his mouth, that wasn’t even close. Not even on the list.

  The world took a loop-de-loop under her feet, and she blinked, waiting for him to drop the punchline to a bad joke.

  “I’m not human. Physically not like you. I’m part something else. Part animal. Or… I was. At one time.”

  “What?” The word didn’t even make sound. It was just a breath. A desperate exhale as her world came crashing down.

  I’m not human.

  He thought he was something other. Like… what exactly? But it didn’t matter. He was telling her he was unstable. He was mentally unhinged. Psychotic break maybe? Or he’d created this alternate truth to cope with what his family had done. Oh, shit. Was any of that even true.

  Her heart cracked open, bleeding with this new reality. Trying to swallow it down, but it was like barbed wire. She loved Malcom. Maybe he loved her. But he needed help. Professional help. Where were the signs? Even now, she couldn’t look back and see them. He’d seemed normal. Damaged, but sane.

  Her vision flickered with black and her ears rang with her own heartbeat but somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard whistling. An ominous chorus that seemed to come from every direction.

  Malcom went stiff, jerking his head toward the back door, then around in the direction of the living room. And the whistling grew louder.

  “They’re here,” he announced. “That was fast. I’d figured on a few more days. Skittles must have had trackers out for me everywhere.”

  But his words made no sense to her. Tears pricked her eyes. Her man was stark raving mad. The world was pretty unfair if this was how things were going to go for them. She’d always believed in karma, but it was probably time to give that up. If karma existed, it had failed her badly. Malcom too.

  “Francesca, listen to me.” He was in her face, demanding her attention as if it would be anywhere else. “Things are about to get ugly. Just remember what we’ve shared. Remember what we are. What you just said to me. You do that, and I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” He kissed her hard on the lips. “You’re my everything. I’ll never let them hurt you.”

  Them?

  The whistling was so loud now, it broke through her grief, bringing reality rushing in. Someone was outside her home.

  Not someone. Lots of someones. Lots of someones whistling a strange, ominous tune that Malcom recognized.

  “Skinner, Skinner where are you?” A rough voice sing-songed. It sent chills of warning racing up her spine. “Behind door number one or door number two?”

  “Who is that?” she hissed.

  “Felix,” Malcom answered darkly.

  Okay, so that part of his delusions was true. He really did come from some fucked up mafia family. And now they were here for him.

  What could she do? Police. 911. But how many of them were out there? Could the police actually do anything?

  “Getchur ass out here, fucker,” Felix shouted this time. “Or we’re coming inside. And five bucks says your girl will just love it. The coming inside part, that is. Sooooo many of us, coming inside.”

  Malcom let off a ferocious snarl that had Francesca flinching. And Felix’s implication was clear. If Malcom didn’t go outside and deal with them, they were going to take it out on her in the sickest way.

  She felt the blood drain from her face.

  He stalked to the back door, but before he could open it, the whole house rumbled as all the entrances were forced open.

  And the monsters streamed in.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The plan was to talk to his former crew. Try to make them see he was starting over with Francesca, and they should forget about him. Move on with their broken beasts the way he did. “Get a life, assholes,” was going to be his catchphrase.

  But now they were being fucking rude, calling him a name he no longer had any part of. Taunting him. Coming into her house and threatening unspeakable things.

  They weren’t getting whatever reasonable man he’d become over
the past eight months. No, they were getting something else.

  His beast growled inside, pawing to get out.

  Francesca loved him. She truly loved him. Said the words and didn’t take them back when he offered her the chance to.

  She was his. And he was ready to be complete again. Ready to fight, like Gash did, for a chance at a better life.

  He pushed her behind him, up against the counter so the group couldn’t circle them. He recognized every face… Skittles, Monster, Ratchet, Fang, Smokes, Weaver, and Felix. It wasn’t the whole clan. Not even close. And he was sure there were more outside. Waiting as backup. And more still at the warehouse back in Memphis.

  The leather and chains they wore were familiar. The weapons strapped to their bodies were new. They hadn’t needed them when they could call their werecats forward to fight their battles. Broken beasts meant finding new ways to fight.

  What was strange to him though, was the ragged expressions each of them wore. So unlike the last time he saw them, when they lived in supreme confidence that nothing and no one could defeat them.

  How wrong they’d been.

  They were crippled. Broken beasts living inside them trying to heal, just like Malcom’s. But he’d found a way, while they were slowly dying from it.

  He pitied them, where once he’d feared them.

  And it hit him like a fist to the jaw: he was truly free.

  “Wellllll what do we have here?” Felix mused, chunks of his dark hair falling over his eyes to make their golden color seem darker. The wicked gleam that normally lived there was dimmer than Malcom had ever seen it. He was all bark right now. No bite. “Looks like a fine little piece of ass you got there, Skinner. Wanna share her with the rest of us? We’d make it good for her, you know. Got a dick or two for every hole.”

  Malcom snarled a warning and Francesca’s fingers curled into the back of his shirt. She was terrified. Using their bond, he tried to reassure her. Things were going to be fine.

  Bloody maybe, if it came to that. And it sure as hell would if Felix kept talking about her like he was. But fine all the same.

  “This why you left your family, Skinner? To find pussy?” Felix clucked his tongue before running it along lips that used to be dreamy, according to some of the whores, but were now pale and dry. Three claw marks formed a scar across one cheek. Remnants from the battle that his beast was unable to heal.

  Still, the evil undertone that dressed up all his words was missing. The words without the salt to back them up, rubbed Malcom’s beast all wrong. His family was more weakened than he realized.

  “Should have come to me ‘bout that. I could have given you our new girl to borrow. She’s got tits for days and a hole so tight it takes some time to get into it.” Felix winked obnoxiously, but there was zero humor there. “Just the way you like ‘em.”

  Despair hit Malcom in the chest, and he knew it was coming straight from his mate.

  Damn it. Remember us, he thought. I’m not that guy anymore. Remember what I am now, what you’ve made me.

  “Leave now,” Malcom demanded, somehow keeping his voice calm. “Go back to Memphis, and leave me and my mate alone. Do that, and I won’t hurt you. This is your only warning.”

  Felix’s eyebrows shot up, and he rattled off a surprised laugh. He turned to Skittles. “You hear that? Guy’s got nuts like cantaloupes. Big ‘ol fucking balls on that one. He’s out numbered, seven to one, and still thinks he can tell us what to do.”

  Skittles shrugged, seeming bored, his colorful tattoos rippling with the motion. But Malcom knew better. Skittles was the smarts behind the Alley Cat operation. He was sizing up the situation while Felix taunted.

  Felix turned back to Malcom, stepping forward. “Naw, man. I think we’ll stay. But if you don’t want to share… you can always watch. Maybe jerk your cock a little while the rest of us fuck her. What do you think?”

  Another step closer. Malcom’s fist clenched. He should break his face. Shred him. Finish the job the witches started.

  But… did Felix stumble a little? His footing wasn’t sure. He was like a sick person pretending to be well. Why the hell would he come here like this, in this condition, tossing his threats around? It made no sense.

  A fire was building in Malcom’s chest. So hot it felt cold. Whatever game the cats were playing, he was done trying to figure it out. Felix had crossed a line. He was scaring Francesca. Malcom could feel her shaking all to hell against his back.

  But he had to play this safe. There was too many of them. One wrong move on his part and she could be hurt.

  “Malcom,” she whispered at his neck, her voice cracking.

  “I got this, mate.” It came out garbled. Ragged. Like… like… a beast.

  Felix whistled low, his distorted tune of warning, but Malcom wasn’t bowing to it. Not now, not ever again.

  “Naw, forget it,” Felix drawled. “We don’t want him watching, do we? Ratchet. Fang. Grab her. I’ll take care of this rat-bastard traitor. Then we’ll have our way.”

  “As long as I go first,” Ratchet muttered, marching forward, long hair swinging around his shoulders.

  And it was too much. Empty threats or not, he wouldn’t stand by and hear another sickening word from their twisted lips.

  Done.

  A sharp hiss split the air and Ratchet froze. They all froze. But it was too late.

  With a searing pain, Malcom’s body exploded. Heat like he’d never felt engulfed him. Fiery whips licking at his nerves to make him jerk and contort.

  It was hell. He was in literal Hell, being devoured by eternal flames, finally paying for all his sordid sins, those of his father, and his grandfather. Of all the beasts before him, the shadow clan. Felix. For what they did to Gash. For what they did to his new family. For it all.

  And then it was over.

  His beast ripped forward, splitting his skin. Bones snapped into his new form. Fur covered him from head to tail. Claws pushed out of his newly formed paws, sharp as razor wire. His mane… he had a mane where he didn’t have one before… was fire, crowning his head and raging in his ears. It matched his anger as he let off a furious roar. But to his surprise, a streak of fire burst from his throat along with it, singeing three feet of air in front of him.

  Felix jumped back, throwing his arm up to shield himself from the heat while Ratchet and Fang skittered backward, hitting the wall behind them. Skittles’ eyes were peeled wide, no longer feigning boredom, and Malcom gave him a flaming roar too just in case he got any ideas.

  The man stood his ground, straightening his shoulders as if he was reconsidering everything he thought he knew. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “Holy motherfucking shit. What are you?”

  Malcom paced before them, creating a barrier between the monsters and his mate. He was fully beast. Complete.

  The curse was broken.

  But just like he’d suspected, his beast of old was no longer with him. That beast, a cougar shifter who hurt others without cause, had to die, and come back as something else. Something better, stronger, braver, fiercer and… kinder. Something that could love and be loved. Something that was fair and just, and couldn’t be influenced my money and power.

  “The curse…” Felix stuttered out. “His animal… he found a way to break the curse.”

  Monster shook his head. “Not his animal. Not a cougar.”

  Malcom let off a growl and smoke puffed from his nostrils. If they didn’t leave now he’d burn them to ash. That would be justice served.

  No one threatens mate.

  Smokes held his hands high. “Calm down, man. It was a test. Skittles suspected you had your animal back if you weren’t hiding from us anymore. We were trying to see if we could make it come out so you could tell us how you did it. Just calm the fuck down before you incinerate us all. Including your girl.” He nodded over Malcom’s shoulder.

  He swung his head to see a wide-eyed Francesca staring at him like he was a stranger.

  Calm, his beast
whispered. The fire will fade with your anger. Show her you’re still you.

  Eyes on her, he focused on drawing his anger back inside, pulling the flames back into their hot home. The place inside she’d touched with her caring heart, and sweet blue eyes that cooled him.

  She’d made him this. Broken the curse. Made him feel. Made him love.

  Loved him. His Francesca loved him.

  She only needed to accept him now, like she did when she thought he was a bum.

  His flaming mane faded until there was only fur and his lion body. He snarled a warning at the others and they took several steps back, Felix falling on his ass on the tiled floor, stunned speechless.

  Malcom eased closer to Francesca, ducking his head in surrender. Bowing to his Queen.

  Dropping to his front paws, prostrate before her, he inched forward, nose to the ground. She owned him now, heart and soul. He’d serve her until death.

  Whether she accepted him or not.

  The room seemed to hold its breath. No one moved a muscle.

  And he waited. Waited for her to make the first move. Waited for what seemed like an eternity, pushing his love to her through their mating bond.

  “I-I… I want you out of my house.” Her words whipped him. But when he lifted his eyes to her, she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking over him. “All of you. Now. Leave. And don’t even think about coming back.”

  “But we need answers,” Skittles argued, frustrated. “He’s the only one that can help us, and we’re sick. Can’t you see that?”

  Malcom gave a low snarl. One word from his Queen and he’d light them up.

  “Yes.” She shook with fear and anger, but Malcom knew her strength. “I can see it. Your sickness is in your heart.”

  “We know that,” Skittles snapped, rushing forward. “We just want to know how to fix it…”

  Too close. Too close to mate.

  Malcom turned his head, snapping his dagger-sized teeth at the man, and Skittles jerked backward just missing getting chomped.