To say Vixen was distracted the next night on patrol would have been an understatement. Hands stuffed in her pockets, her shoulders were rounded as she walked, her body language screaming, “Don’t talk to me.”

She’d gotten to the compound early so Kalen couldn’t pull the same trick he had the night before and switched the names on the board. So she was now partnered with Feral. Having been patrol partners for many years, they fell into companionable silence.

A good thing since she didn’t feel like talking. Really didn’t feel like talking. If she’d ended up with Lucan, who’d looked her way with hope in his eyes when she was altering the board, she would’ve had to kill him and leave his body down an empty alley. A young warrior, he was far too enthusiastic and chatty for Vixen on a good day, let alone the foul mood she was in today.

Scowling, she wrapped her arms closer around herself as she and Feral walked down the main club strip. It wasn’t part of their usual route, but with Marak off on honeymoon, everyone had to pull extra duty. So, they’d elected to cover Southside and then head over to their usual patrol route.

Nearing kick-out time for the nightclubs, the street was busy, which was the reason they’d checked out this area first. This time of night was always a favorite for predators, paranormal or not. The people pouring out were usually high with alcohol and other substances surging through their veins, which lowered their reactions and numbed their survival instincts.

Some predators were already here. As they walked, she spotted at least three kyn feeding in the shadows. She nodded as they passed, a silent warning to not take more than the women they’d lured into the shadows could afford and to wipe their prey’s memories when they were done.

“Fucking hate this time of night,” Feral grumbled as they reached the end of the road, stopping on the corner like two club-goers waiting for a cab. Although several cabs passed the tall couple, none stopped—as if they didn’t see them.

Because they didn’t. An observer would need paranormal blood to see them, to be able to pierce the veil of obscurity that shrouded them whenever they preferred not to be seen. And if they did that, they could recognize the two warriors for what they were, and no cabbie wanted two armed kyn in the back.

Vixen grunted in reply. It was well known Feral hated clubs, claiming the lights gave him a headache. Given he was one of the most photosensitive kyn she’d ever met, she wasn’t surprised.

It didn’t take long for things to quieten down, the last of the humans finding a cab or making their way off to the subway, eventually leaving them alone on the street. Feral pushed off from the wall when the street was clear, and the club lights snapped off one by one.

“So, you gonna tell me what’s bugging you?” he asked as she dropped into step with him, automatically shortening his stride to match hers.

“Don’t know what you’re going on about.” Not in any mood to talk about it, her reply was short. Kalen snuck up on me in the shower and we screwed each other’s brains out against the wall. Not the sort of thing she wanted to admit to her patrol partner, not when she couldn’t be sure how she felt about it herself. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She knew exactly how she felt about what’d happened.

She’d loved it. Loved every hot, sweaty minute. Right up to the point where he’d bitten her. Anger rose again at that memory. She still couldn’t believe he’d done that. What did he think gave him the right to bite her? Without thinking, her hand raised to her neck. She checked the movement, annoyed with herself. It was only a little bite for god’s sake, so why did it feel as if it was lit up in neon for all to see?

“Come on, Vix. This is me. Drop the act. You’ve been like a bulldog chewing a wasp all night. So what gives?” Feral asked, sliding her a glance from the corner of his eye as they walked, easily covering the distance to their own patrol area.

“That bad, huh?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. That was why she and the heavyset warrior got on so well. He didn’t talk a lot, but when he did, he was blunt as hell. A spade was a spade with Feral.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” His comment caught her off guard, making her stride falter a little. His voice was calm, emotionless. Feral at his most dangerous.

Most warriors saw him as the sensible one, the guy always around to clean up and organize things when they needed it. Vixen, having patrolled with him, had seen him in action against the rogues. Like most of them, he fought with bladed weapons. In Feral’s case, though, those blades were little more than sharp edges on a heavy pair of knuckle-dusters. They were ancient and brutal weapons. Few used them anymore, but he was lethal with them, a beast as wild as his name lurking under his quiet and “sensible” exterior.

“How’d you know?”

“You’re wearing a turtleneck. I can count the number of times I’ve seen you in one on a single hand. Even in the middle of winter you wear a tee,” he pointed out, startling her with his perception. She had thought no one noticed what she wore or didn’t wear.

“That, and I saw you two out on the terrace the other night. Don’t take an idiot to work it out. He’s the only one that puts you in a foul mood on a regular basis,” he added, his voice quiet in the darkness as he stopped, a hand on her arm turning her to face him. She took his expression to be a concerned one, his fingers gentle as he peeled the fabric back from her neck to check the healing wound. To her surprise, she let him.

“Not too bad. It’ll be gone by sundown. You’ll be back in your favorite t-shirt by tomorrow. I like the one that says ‘this bitch bites.’” He replaced her collar and smiled. His facial expression displayed a hint of sadness. “I guess this means there’s no chance for me then?”

“Huh?” She frowned, blindsided by the comment, and looked up into his eyes. Realization slammed home as she read the truth there—admiration and sad resignation. “Oh hell. Feral, I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” was all she managed as her heart wrung for the proud man who stood in front of her.

He shrugged. “Don’t be. Should’ve had the balls to say something… just thought you’d notice if you wanted. Realized a long time ago you wouldn’t… I saw the way you light up whenever he enters a room. Just… if he hurts you, I will kill him, okay? No,” he corrected himself with a small snarl. “I’ll fucking destroy him. You’re my buddy, and no one messes with my friends.”

Tears prickled at the back of Vixen’s eyes for the second time that night, although this time for a different reason. She pulled him into a fierce bear hug, too choked to speak. She’d grown up in a one-parent family on the outskirts of the kyn community where neither a converted kyn nor a child destined to be a warrior had been accepted. Besides her mother she’d had never had a family, or a big brother. Not ever. So his unexpected caring filled a gap in her heart she hadn’t realized was there.

“You’re a good man, Feral,” she smoothed his collar down where it always stood up, smiling. “The woman who takes your heart will be a lucky lady indeed.”

He chuckled, his lips twisted in a wry smile. “Well, if you see her anywhere, tell her to get a move on, would you? Or at least give me a hint she’s real?”

“She’s out there. I promise,” she said, lifting on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. She’d caught the loneliness and fear in his eyes, that he wouldn’t find his mate before blood-rage rose to claim him. Because of what they did, what they needed to do, warriors were only ever half a step from blood-rage and going to the rogue side. Tears burned in the back of her eyes at the thought of losing him that way but she ignored them, smiling. “Probably as stubborn as you are as well—”

“Well now, isn’t this cute?” The comment cut Vixen’s words off and startled both warriors. Leaping apart, they went for their weaponry simultaneously. Feral’s hands drove into his pockets while Vixen’s went over her shoulders for the heavy blades sheathed across her back.

They were surrounded.

She cursed as she turned, putting herself back to back with Feral as her gaze swept the alley. Figures leaned against walls, crouched on dumpsters and hung off fire escapes all around them. Tall, lean figures she recognized, her lips curling back to reveal her fangs as she hissed.

Dressed like street punks, their hair an array of bright colors cropped and styled into spikes or Mohawks, with bodies covered in piercings and tattoos, it would be easy to mistake them for a standard street gang. But they weren’t. They were something far more dangerous.

“Pixies. Why does it have to be bloody pixies?”

Feral’s voice was filled with the same disgust Vixen felt. To be surrounded without realizing it was bad—an unforgivable mistake for the experienced warriors they were supposed to be—but to be caught with their pants down by pixies added insult to injury.

Nastier cousins of the fae, pixies were violent, bloodthirsty creatures who lived in packs. Unlike their tree-hugger kinfolk, their “might makes right” philosophy would have done the average warlord-dictator proud.

They all appeared to be young men, but as with most of the night races, appearances could be deceiving. Pixies were as long-lived as the kyn and retained their youthful appearance well into old age. An elderly-looking pixie was a rare creature, as were female pixies. To her knowledge, no one had ever seen a pixie woman.

Old-looking pixies might be rare, but because of their volatile tempers, pissed off pixies were more common. A hell of a lot more common, especially if toadstools were mentioned. Thanks to the human fairy tale books depicting pixies as cute, androgynous creatures who sat on the things, the average pixie got somewhat sociopathic if the word was even hinted. Trouble was, the word hovered on Vixen’s tongue.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Feral’s voice was pitched so only she heard it. He had to know what was going through her mind. He’d worked with her for years. With a street load of pixies, even though they were massively outnumbered, he knew what she was thinking.

“Spoilsport.”

She pouted in disappointment. A good fight was just what she needed to dump some anger from her encounter with Kalen yesterday. Warriors didn’t have anger management issues. They just beat the living snot out of something until they felt better. Problem sorted.

“Not here to get into a fight, lads,” Feral stated, his voice a deep rumble as they stood in the middle of the street. With blades drawn and bodies tensed for fight, all their senses were on alert, ready for the first sign of attack.

“Perhaps we are,” a pixie ahead of them said. Spiked hair colored a sky blue she knew hadn’t come out of a bottle and an armful of tattoos proclaimed him the leader of the little gang surrounding them.

She frowned. Why would they pick a fight? Even though they were fiercely territorial, pixies usually left kyn warriors alone. Rogues did no one any favors and with the warriors clearing them out, the pixies didn’t have to do it themselves. Her hands tightened on the leather grips of her swords. Something wasn’t right here.

“Now why would you want to go and do a thing like that?”

Unlike the man, Feral’s voice was soft. She looked over her shoulder with a frown. At least twenty pixies surrounded them. Even with those odds, they had to know some weren’t walking away from this. If the two kyn were going down, then they’d take as many pixies with them as they could.

However, it seemed the pixies had their own thoughts on that matter. Her attention diverted over her shoulder for a second. She almost missed it, briefly glimpsing movement out of the corner of her eye.

At first, she thought the pixie by the dumpster had a gun, which made even less sense than them picking a fight. A bullet had no chance of putting down a kyn, just pissing them off. Before the shooter could get a second shot off, they’d be on him and have his throat ripped out. Even a hail of bullets wouldn’t put one down for long. It was the reason the warriors fought with blades. The rogues, for all the kyn didn’t like to admit it, were vampires too. Admittedly, a corrupted and insane version, but they had the same strengths. Decapitation and ripping the heart clear of the body were the only sure-fire methods of killing any vampire. Few warriors carried guns, and if they did, they were strictly backup and for dealing with other paranormals.

It wasn’t a gun in the pixie’s hand. Her eyes widened as he pointed the device at them. The only other things that could take a vampire down were military spec Tasers.

“Feral. Taser!”

The weapon fired. Metal barbs slammed into her, puncturing her jacket before they grazed her skin. She took a breath a second before electricity poured through her body, turning her into a crazed marionette before she tumbled into blessed darkness.

* * *

He was a fucking idiot. No, worse. He was an asshole and a fucking idiot.

What had he been thinking, biting Vixen without her permission? A groan broke from Kalen’s throat and he rubbed his hands over his face. He had no excuses. Crap like that had no excuse. She’d just felt so good in his arms… Taking her, making her his finally had felt so good he’d lost all common sense.

He bit back a curse as his body reacted to the memory of being buried balls deep in her. She’d been so tight and hot around his cock, her silken skin moving against him in an erotic slide and dance burned into his memory for all time.

He’d been so mad when he’d stormed into the changing room, so mad that she’d put herself in danger, he couldn’t think straight. All he could see was the body of the young human woman the rogue had killed, her broken form and ruined throat as she lay in the dirt. It could have been Vixen lying there, the light gone from her lovely eyes and her lips still, no longer able to shoot sharp comments at him. It had broken what little control he’d had, and he’d stormed in there intent on giving her a roasting for taking the three rogues on herself.

But he hadn’t counted on her being just out of the shower. Her scent, warmed by the steam of the shower, and the sight of her without her usual black leather and attitude… he’d lost it. Before he knew what was happening, he’d had her pinned against the wall blurting out what had really been bothering him. Why she’d run from him. She had to know he’d have stood up to Astra for her? That he wasn’t such an asshole that he’d let even his ex-wife hurl abuse at another warrior. Hurl abuse at her?

It had gone downhill from there. Vixen had always known how to push his buttons and after he’d taken her mouth, felt her surrender… he had no defenses where she was concerned. When she’d opened up to him, given him her body… things would never be the same between them again. He couldn’t get the feel of her out of his head, the feel of her hands on him as he took her. Her soft pants and moans, the bliss as she came around his cock, pushing him over the edge. Her teeth as she nipped him, the ecstasy of her blood over his tongue as he came so hard and fast he felt turned inside out.

He growled, raking a hand through his hair as he stalked down the alley, the first of several he needed to clear. Now he’d had her, there was no going back. When he returned to the compound, he and Vixen were going to have a little talk. He’d apologize for the bite, prostrate himself in front of her, but one thing was certain.

She was his.

He turned into the next alley and stopped. There at the end was a slumped figure. Not an uncommon sight in alleyways frequented by the homeless and the drug addicted. But usually they weren’t huge mounds of men dressed in leather and bristling with enough weaponry for a small army.

Big. Shaven-headed and wide as a truck… there was only one warrior with a build like that.

Feral.

He surged into motion, running down the alley as he bellowed for his patrol partner. “MIKAL! Man down over here!”

Reaching the fallen man’s side, he dropped to his knees, not caring there was a puddle. Water splashed up his thighs as he reached out to check the man’s pulse. It was there, strong against his fingers.

“Shit. Feral,” he muttered, turning the man onto his back to assess his injuries. “Someone gave you a right kicking, didn’t they?”

The big warrior was covered in blood, one eye all but swelled shut. His clothes were tattered, cuts and bruises showing through the ruined material. In the center of his chest were small circular wounds. Kalen frowned, leaning forward to look at them. They weren’t bite marks, they almost looked like…

A big hand grabbed the back of his neck and he looked into Feral’s one open eye.

“Taser,” Feral got out. “Pixies. They beat the crap out of me and took Vix. Too many… I couldn’t stop them.”

The news sent ice down Kalen’s spine and a snarl built in his soul, rolling up his throat to escape his lips. “Who? Where?”

“What’s going on—” Mikal’s voice cut off as he rounded the corner. Pebbles and dirt were kicked up by his boots as he skidded to a halt. “Shit. What happened?”

“Feral and Vix got jumped by pixies. They took her. Call it in. Get all the warriors out,” Kalen ordered and grabbed Feral’s hand. “Can you stand, brother?”

When the warrior nodded, Kalen stood, hauling the other warrior to his feet. Pain flared across Feral’s face and he went pale but he didn’t make a sound. Instead, determination set in his expression as he looked around.

“They jumped us between Southside and our usual patrol route,” he said. “They must’ve dumped me here after they took me down. But why?”

“I have no idea. But I’m going to find out.” Kalen’s voice was grim as he looped Feral’s arm over his shoulders and took the other man’s weight as they began to walk back to the road for the pickup.

“Then they’re going to die.”