Chapter 1
Roman Velazquez stood alone in the dark Hall of Alphas. Although he was in the center, his attention focused on the images of the two alphas on either end: Garcia, the first and most long-lived alpha of their streak, and Antonio, the most recent, now-deceased, alpha of their streak of tigers.
Garcia, with his long, silver hair, was the founder of the first San Antonio tiger streak. His reputation was as a fierce warrior and a wise leader, the standard all the streaks’ later alphas strived to emulate. Antonio had been charismatic, and had died far too young. The Incas, from the southwest part of town, had waged an unprovoked war against his streak and too many shifters had died, on both sides—including Antonio.
Although Roman’s streak had eventually won, it was at great cost to both sides. Now, he stood in this room dedicated to his streak’s history and remembered that day, at the beginning of the war, when he was ambushed by some of the largest Incas, and kidnapped, held for leverage.
He’d been taken in the middle of a battle in the early hours of the morning, deep in Inca territory. He had been subdued in his hybrid form, as a tiger who walked on two feet, like a man—but he’d been forced to shift and tortured as a human. When he woke up, everything around him was hazy. He’d screamed only once, not when they’d hacked off his arm, but when he realized that the drugs they gave him were designed to keep him from shifting and repairing the damage.
Two years, Roman said to himself now. That’s how long they’d fought the savage streak so determined to take over their territory. When he’d finally escaped, he’d tracked down Jackson, Antonio’s second-in-command, at the small diner the other tiger-shifter owned.
Jackson’s eyes had rounded as he took in Roman’s battered form. “We thought you were dead.”
Roman snorted without any real amusement. “So did I.”
The alpha’s lieutenant glanced behind him into the kitchen. “We should get to the hotel. Come on. I’ll take you.”
As he and Jackson traveled to their streak’s intact home, Jackson caught him up on the fighting. “We lost too many of our own. But there are so few Incas left, that we’re having trouble finding any.” Jackson relished the new information that Roman had killed five more of them on his way out. “Perhaps that was the last?” Jackson added hopefully.
Roman’s noncommittal grunt seemed answer enough, and the two men made their way through the San Antonio streets back to the building most of the streak called home.
The hotel hadn’t been discovered to be theirs before the Incas were wiped out, Roman was glad to learn. But when he and Jackson arrived, there weren’t many tiger-shifters left in residence, either. But the war was over now, and his streak had won. For all that it mattered. The battles over their territory had taken so many from them—and almost all the females of their streak had been killed in the fighting. Or worse, captured. And those who’d survived to be rescued bore psychological scars so intense that Roman had arranged to send them to another streak in upstate New York, a stable territory where they might eventually recover. He’d issued a general pardon to the remaining Incas, but so far none had responded.
We’ll be lucky if enough tiger-shifters remain in the city to support a complete streak.
Roman stood in human form, staring at the framed photographs of the alphas in a room with a name far too grand for the photos it held.
I’m not ready to be alpha—not even interim alpha.
His missing arm burned, phantom nerve impulses sending shooting pains up to his shoulder.
I’m half a man. Half a tiger. Not enough.
And suddenly he couldn’t stay here any longer.
He’d entered the Hall of the Alphas hoping some of the former alphas’ wisdom would be imparted to him. When that wisdom wasn’t forthcoming, he couldn’t take it any longer.
“I’m going to for a walk,” he told Jackson. “A long walk.”
“Should one of us go with you?” the other shifter—now his own second-in-command—asked.
“No. I’ll stay on the River Walk—I promise I’ll stick with the crowds.” With any luck, among the many businesses along the tourist-ridden San Antonio River Walk, his favorite restaurant would still be open for the night.
* * *
With a strained smile, Lana accepted the check folder from the last customers in her section.
As soon as they’re out the door, I’m grabbing a glass of water and getting off my feet. I don’t care what Phil said.
The assistant manager was a dick, though—he’d probably report her to the head manager. And she couldn’t afford to lose this job. She wasn’t ready to leave San Antonio.
Not yet.
She could stand next to the windows open to outside seating without setting Phil off, though, and catch the air blowing into the building from the River Walk. Closing her eyes, she let the breeze flow over her.
The wind outside shifted, and a scent caught her attention. Human words didn’t exist to describe it.
Spicy? A little. Definitely familiar. Tempting.
It had been a long time since she’d smelled it.
Another tiger.
Terrifying.
But that scent was the whole reason she took a job at the restaurant with the enormous windows in the first place. Being able to smell anyone—or anything—approaching from quite some distance away was the best way she knew to stay safe.
I ought to leave. Now.
Oddly enough, though, the scent didn’t send chills up her spine, as it had in the past. Even though she’d been in hiding for some time, relocating e so often to avoid detection, this particular scent had a calming effect on her. A sense of almost relief washed across her. Might that mean that the nearby tiger was someone loyal to her father? Would that maybe make them loyal to me?
At the thought of her father, her stomach clenched. God, I miss him. Even if he and Ian’s father had manipulated the two of them into falling in love with one another. Within a few weeks, how they’d gotten together hadn’t mattered.
Sometimes she missed her father as much as she missed Ian.
Her father, the alpha of their streak, had treated her like a princess. As a result, the entire streak treated her like a princess. Her childhood was a happy one, spent in a streak that was not only prosperous, but at peace. There were no warring factions within, and most of the streak members her age were great friends.
When she was twenty, he’d set her up with Ian, and pretty soon, life seemed perfect.
Then Trevor Cawyer staged a coup in the streak.
Lana never knew how Trevor accomplished it, but the entire Inner Guard had been immobilized. Lana saw it happen like a blur, right before her eyes—she and Ian had been having dinner with her father when Trevor and his cadre attacked.
She and Ian had leapt to his defense, but four large male tigers had grabbed her, held her back as she fought to reach her mate and her alpha. They made her watch as Trevor, in tiger form, slashed her father’s throat, crushed his chest and removed his heart, and tore out his entrails.
Then he turned his attention to Ian.
She heard her own screams as if they came from outside of her, from a long way away. By the time Trevor turned to her, drenched in the blood of the two men she loved most, he’d shifted to a half-tiger form and wore a smile. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction and lust.
“Cage her. Keep her for me,” he ordered the four tigers who held her.
From inside the cage, Lana watched Trevor transform to fully human. She’d never liked him—she knew her father had turned him down for a position in the Inner Guard—and she knew he was reckless and generally lacked discipline. But she’d never thought of him as evil. Not until he killed her mate and her father.
And then things got worse.
Shaking off the memory, she took the last drink from her glass of water in La Encanto. Almost time for her short, surreptitious break to end. She moved away from the window, thanking whatever gods might exist that she’d had the shaman in Arizona work with her to help her mask her own tiger scent. She allowed herself the luxury of feeling that she was safe, undetectable, even though she could no longer tell what became of the tiger’s scent from a few minutes ago.
Time to get back to work. Behind her, a chair slid across the floor. From one of her tables, a handsome, rugged man smiled at her, and unexpectedly, a rush of heat flashed through her. It’s the first time since Ian’s death—almost two years ago, now—that she’d reacted to anyone that way and for an instant, she didn’t know if she was glad or angry that this man had chosen her section.
But then the scent of the tiger returned—a scent that came from him—and fear took precedence over anything else.