Bayon/Jean-Baptiste

Chapter 1

The Suit looked like shit.

Jean-Baptiste stood with his back to the window of the Medical facility, and watched the blond male pace back and forth in front of a large cypress. The leader of the Diplomatic Faction had always given off a controlled, unruffled vibe, but as the sun died around them in a glow of pale orange fire, Raphael’s true state of mind was revealed. His clothes were wrinkled and hanging off his tall, lean body. The skin on his face was pulled tight over the bone, his eyes looked exhausted and sunken and desperate, and his hands were clenching and unclenching as he stalked from one end of the lawn to the other.

“You need to release your cat, Raphael,” Jean-Baptiste said, the irony of his words clawing at his guts, while the Nurturer inside of him—the one who was an expert on mental issues for the Pantera—pressed on. “When our minds grow weary with stress, our cats are trained to take over, give our human side a break. It’s how we survive, how we’re built.”

“Can’t,” Raphael muttered.

“I get that you want to guard your mate, but your cat can be just as effective.”

Raphael just shook his head.

Damned stubborn shifter. It seemed to be a personality flaw all Pantera males suffered from. “You won’t be able to remain in your human form the entire pregnancy without losing it.”

“You don’t understand.” The words were curt, and flung at Baptiste like they were coated in alligator dung.

Jean-Baptiste didn’t have a female—and it was looking more and more like he never would—but he knew how puma males were when something was wrong with their mate. The levels of crazy ranged from “manageable” to “batshit.” But for Raphael, and what he was dealing with, it might very well be “rocket ship to the moon” time. His mate, Ashe, carried the fate of the Pantera within her womb, and if she had truly been attacked inside the Wildlands as Bayon had claimed…

A low growl erupted from Jean-Baptiste’s throat, but he shut it down instantly. The last thing he needed right now was to allow his cat even one claw out of its cage. Even if it was to sniff out the bastard who’d had the balls to touch a Pantera’s pregnant mate on Wildlands soil. But the fantasy of catching and carving a long and deep “P” across the intruder’s chest was the kind of revenge Baptiste and his cat were hungry for.

“Bayon tell you what I want?” Raphael asked, his voice stripped of emotion as a breeze kicked up off the bayou, rustling the Spanish moss coating the Cypress.

Baptiste nodded. “Wish I could help.”

“You can.”

“Sorry, mon ami.” I’ve got problems of my own to deal with.

“This isn’t a request, Baptiste.”

“Maybe you’re forgetting, Raphael, I’m not Diplomatic Faction.”

“I don’t forget. Anything.”

“Then you know I don’t report to you.”

“True.” Raphael stopped pacing and turned to glare at Jean-Baptiste. “But what I’m proposing isn’t exactly official Pantera business.”

Baptiste’s brows shot together, and the skin on his neck, where he’d gotten inked a few days ago, started to burn.

“In fact,” Raphael said, his voice dropping as his gaze checked right and left for Pantera in the area. “I don’t think either one of us would want it to be.”

The urge to spring at the male, drop his frail-looking ass to the ground, ripped through Jean-Baptiste. But he’d grown used to the feral cat inside of him, and he forced patience into his already sour gut.

“I know you’ve been dealt a handful here,” he said coolly. “I respect that. Hell, I’m as concerned about what’s happening with Ashe as any Pantera. Maybe even more so. I’m a Nurturer after all.” He heard the bitter note in his own voice. “But I don’t have time to travel—”

“Why? Because you just got back?”

A flash of alarm moved through Jean-Baptiste, and he eased away from the window and started toward the male. He never talked with anyone about his personal trips into New Orleans. The fact that the leader of the Suits knew something like this was alarming at best.

“Was it a new piercing?” Raphael said, standing his ground as the male drew near. “Or did you get inked again?”

Baptiste’s jaw tensed. Play it off, Shifter. Don’t let him see one shred of your unease. “Didn’t know there was a problem with a puma who appreciates body art,” he said with a casual shrug.

“Not the art. But…maybe the reason behind it?” Raphael’s nostrils flared, and once again he checked to see if they had an audience. When he found the lawn behind Medical deserted, he turned back to Jean-Baptiste, his voice low. “I know about your little problem.”

Nostrils flared, Baptiste stopped a foot from the Suit. Inside his body, his cat screamed and clawed to get out. It wanted to attack. It wanted to rip the voice box from the male standing before it with all kinds of accusations swimming in his green eyes. But the only thing Jean-Baptiste allowed the feline to display was a cool, confused purr. “No clue what you’re talking about, mon ami.”

Undeterred, Raphael continued as though he hadn’t heard anything at all. “Just don’t know how it started. Or when. Few weeks ago? A month?” His eyes locked with Jean-Baptiste. “Considering how many tats and holes you have in that body of yours I’d say you’ve been trying to push down the fact that you have no control over your cat for some time now.”

The words sank so deep Jean-Baptiste didn’t have time to suppress his animal’s reaction. With a terrifying growl, he grabbed the male’s shoulders and rushed him like a linebacker. “Who the fuck told you?” he snarled, saliva forming in his mouth as Raphael’s back hit the trunk of the cypress.

“Perks of being a Suit,” Raphael said through gritted teeth, his green eyes flashing gold fire. “I have connections outside the Wildlands. That piercing there,” he jerked his chin forward, “through your eyebrow—the one coated in malachite—well, it was done by the brother of one of my spies’ girlfriends.”

Baptiste’s eyebrow twitched. So did his lower lip—the one with the twin silver rings through it. He’d been betrayed. By a foolish, foolish soon-to-be dead human male. He forced a dark laugh. The sound was hollow. “Proves nothing.”

“I don’t think so,” Raphael said. “Malachite is inside every tattoo and piercing you have.”

He was going to cut the tongue out of that human before he killed him. “I like the mineral, that’s all,” he said. “It helps me to heal faster.”

Raphael sniffed, his expression glib. “I’m sure it does. But it’s also the very mineral that’s purported to ground a cat inside the body. The elders use it as punishment to cage a wild puma.” Raphael’s gaze narrowed. “And I hear the Nurturer shrinks also use it on patients who can’t control their mind or their feline.”

Dead, fetid air sat inside Jean-Baptiste’s lungs as he gripped the male’s shoulders. Every inch of his skin had gone tight around the muscles and bones, and his canines and claws were starting to emerge. The desperate need to kill this male, end his questioning, his accusations, his impossible truth, was almost unbearable. So he did the only thing he could do.

He released Raphael and walked away.

“Any other time and I’d be all about helping your ass,” Raphael called at his back. “But today my one and only concern is my mate.”

Stopping at the window, Jean-Baptiste stared through the glass at that mate. Ashe. She was completely still, lying in the bed, and she looked as pale as a frog’s belly.

“Go to that voodoun you visit,” Raphael called to him. “The one who recommended the malachite and every tattoo that’s on your body, and bring her here.”

Fucking loose-tongued human better enjoy his last few days of breathing. Baptiste didn’t turn around. “Impossible.”

“Make it possible.”

“She won’t come. She’s terrified of the magic of the Wildlands.”

“You’ll make her come. Because if you don’t, the Pantera—starting with the elders—will know your secret.”

“Blackmail,” Baptiste uttered coldly. He glanced over his shoulder at the Suit. “You’ve fallen pretty damn far down the well, Raphael.”

The male’s eyes blazed gold fire. “I’d fall on a fucking blade for my Ashe and our cub.”

Jean-Baptiste stared at him, let the words and their weight sink in as the sun sank into the calm waters of the bayou beyond. The air around them crackled with tension and heat. They couldn’t remain here, speaking like this for much longer. Soon the Pantera would be out, their cats playing after sharing meals with their families or Factions.

“Why do you need the voodoun?” Jean-Baptiste asked. “You have the human doctor. Or was the attack more serious than Bayon let on?”

If it was possible, Raphael’s skin pulled even tighter over his bones, and his eyes grew dark with fear and rage. “Ashe was injected with something. She’s not conscious, and she’s been…taken over by…I don’t know…”

“What?” Jean-Baptiste asked.

Raphael shook his head. “Some kind of dark force.”

Holy shit. “A possession?”

“We don’t know.” The Suit’s voice broke. “We don’t know.”

“And the cub…?”

“The cub has a strong heartbeat. That’s all they know.”

Jean-Baptiste exhaled on a curse, ran a hand through his hair. He was surprised at the sudden and deep concern he and his cat felt for the new and important life inside Raphael’s mate. And yet, despite the hell he was experiencing as of late, he was first and foremost a Pantera. He wanted his kind to survive more than he wanted his next breath.

“What the hell is happening to us?” he whispered blackly. “The Wildlands, the pumas, the magic?” His question wasn’t meant for Raphael, for anyone in particular, but the male answered it anyway.

“I don’t know. But it’s growing worse.”

Jean-Baptiste turned to face the male. “The borders aren’t holding.”

“We must act, Baptiste.”

“I’ll go tonight. But I will have your word, what we’ve said here tonight is never mentioned again.”

Raphael nodded. “Done.”

“I’ll report back if there’s a problem. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the a.m.” Jean-Baptiste started to walk away, but Raphael called him back.

“One more thing.”

Turning, Jean-Baptiste hissed at the Suit. “Trying to keep my cat caged here, and it’s not your biggest fan right now.”

“You’re not going alone.”

“Come again?”

“I’m sending a Suit with you.”

Baptiste shook his head. “No. I do this alone or not at all.”

“I need to have backup there, a top negotiator, in case your voodoun becomes a problem.”

“We agreed to keep this between us,” Baptiste growled. “No one else can know.”

“She doesn’t know.” Raphael moved toward him. “She thinks she’s on assignment, bringing back someone to help Ashe.”

“My voodoun could tell her—reveal our connection.”

The Suit reached the window. He glanced inside, ran his hand down the glass, then fisted it and cursed. “That’s your problem. Mine is in there fighting for her life and the life of our cub.” He turned to glare at Jean-Baptiste. “The cub who might very well be the savior of us all.”

Jean-Baptiste growled. “Who’s the Suit?”

“The newest member of the Diplomatic Faction, Genevieve Burel.”

“No,” Baptiste stated flatly.

“You don’t even know her.”

“I’ve heard about her, and with my cat so unstable and ready to pounce on anyone who even slightly irritates me, taking her to New Orleans would be a batshit move.”

“She’s brilliant!”

“She’s a pain in the ass! A prickly, buttoned-up, nose-in-the-air pain in the ass,” Baptiste returned hotly.

“Good. Then she’ll make sure the journey is a success.”

He growled. “Either that or my cat will take her down before we even leave the Wildlands.”

Genevieve Burel placed the perfectly folded shirt inside her shabby overnight bag and gently slid the zipper closed. Her critical gaze moved over her room, taking inventory: the neatly made bed with the quilt her mother had made for her when she was a cub; the ancient chair that couldn’t hide its desperate need to be re-stuffed; the scuffed wood floors she’d spent hours trying to sand; and the dusty pictures and photographs that hung on the faded walls.

She exhaled heavily. She’d just cleaned an hour ago.

She slung her bag over her shoulder, then headed into the hall and down the stairs, careful not to grip the loose banister too firmly. On the small table that met her descent, the vase of Louisiana Iris she’d picked that morning were struggling to remain upright and full of color. The shockingly purple flower grew inside the magical borders of the Wildlands all year long, and was her grandparents’ favorite. In fact, it was their mating day flower. Genevieve tried to pick some every day, but the bloom was becoming harder to find.

Scooping up the vase, she entered her Grands’ bedroom with a bright smile. The room had once been the parlor, but Genevieve had converted the large space into a bedroom after her mother and father left the Wildlands six months ago. It was easier for her grandparents to get around, and despite how the ancient and errant magic was slowly depreciating the house and its furnishings, Genevieve had done her best to make the room clean and comfortable.

“Finished with your dinner?” she asked the pair, placing the vase down beside their bed. “I hope it was all right. You know I’m not so great with the stews.”

“It’s was perfect, Bé,” her nearly bald Paw-Paw said, giving her hand a squeeze.

“Yes, indeed,” her pink-cheeked Maw-Maw agreed, grinning. “Your culinary skills are far more advanced than you think they are.”

Genevieve laughed, her cheeks warming. Her grandparents were the sweetest, dearest creatures in the world, and she didn’t know what she’d do without them.

“You leaving now?” Paw-Paw asked.

Genevieve nodded at the pair who were cuddled up in bed together, as they were most days now, the covers pulled to their waists as they sipped their tea. “Shouldn’t be more than a night, if that.”

“We’ll be fine,” Maw-Maw assured her with a broad grin. “Lena’s coming. You know we adore that girl. Even if she is a Hunter,” she added with a wink. “So take all the time you need.”

Paw-Paw nodded. “That’s right. Our Bé’s an important Diplomat now.”

“Not that important,” Genevieve said. “And never too important to take care of my favorite Grands.”

“We’re your only Grands, Bé,” Paw-Paw said with a chuckle.

Genevieve met his soft chuckle with one of her own, but inside, her heart did that squeezee thing that made her feel like tears could appear at any moment if she wasn’t careful. Her Grands didn’t understand what was happening around them, just that Genevieve’s parents had decided to forge a life outside of the Wildlands. They saw the house crumbling of course, felt their bodies crumbling, too, but didn’t think—or refused to think—it could be more than just age and wear.

Genevieve knew better.

Where the magic inside their home, infusing their ancient blood, had once been impossibly strong, now it waned. The crackle of energy no longer permeated the air, and every item inside, every being, lacked luster. Genevieve’s parents might have chosen to run instead of “dealing with the shame of one of the ancient families being rejected by their magic,” as they’d put it. But Genevieve was determined to stay and fight, care for her Grands, and figure out why the weakening magic along their borders was moving inward. And why, according to the elders, hers was the only dwelling affected.

She bent down and gave each one a kiss on the cheek. They smelled like chamomile tea and soap and gentle memories.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. “And no telling Lena to spike your sweet tea. I’ve already warned her about that trick.”

While Paw-Paw snorted and grumbled, Maw-Maw cupped Genevieve’s face before she could get away. “Will you laugh at this old Pantera female if she says to have a good time? Maybe a little fun on your journey?”

“No laughing here,” Genevieve assured her before straightening up.

“I mean it, Bé.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As Genevieve walked out of the room, Maw-Maw called after her, “If anyone needs to cut loose and have a good time, it’s you!”

Placing her bag on her shoulder again, Genevieve headed for the front door. She loved her Grands more than anything in the world, and she knew they had her best interests at heart, but they didn’t understand how vitally important it was that she remain focused, controlled, and completely and utterly unflinching in her goals and assignments. Especially now. Unbeknownst to Raphael and the Suits, she was destined for the elders’ inner circle. Working alongside the three ancient females. It was a coveted position, a great honor, and it was in her blood. Many of the females in her line had worked under the elders. Even her mother had been selected as a candidate before her fear of shame had run her off.

Genevieve wouldn’t be that weak.

She headed out the door and into the warm bayou evening. Breaking loose and having a good time? Her Maw-Maw’s words echoed in her ears. Unfortunately, those two suggestions weren’t even on her radar.

“Miss Burel?”

In one second flat, Genevieve’s thoughts died and her entire body went up in flames.

Standing on her rickety porch, with the chipped white paint and the sweet double swing, was the owner of that deep, demanding baritone. Genevieve stared at him like a mole who had just seen the sun for the first time. Hot, blinding and impossible to turn away from. She was sure she had never met him before. She would have remembered if she had. Her gaze moved over him. Yes. This male in dark blue jeans and a worn, black leather jacket wasn’t someone you walked past without either staring, double-taking or running into a tree. He was so tall his head grazed the roof of the porch, and so broad across the chest, the white T-shirt he wore strained against all that muscle. But it wasn’t just his size and fierce manner that had her skin vibrating with awareness, or the thick, dark hair, or the light dusting of stubble around his mouth—or, god, even those incredible liquid amber eyes that equally mocked and studied her. No. It was the brightly colored tattooed skull interwoven with tribal markings that covered his collarbone and ran up the length of his neck.

And the piercings.

Air seemed to gather in her lungs and stay there. Her mouth was uncomfortably dry. She couldn’t stop staring. At the metal barbell poking through his left eyebrow, and the two thin, silver rings fastened to his lower lip.

Besides the individual black birth markings each Pantera had, she’d never seen anything like this on their males. She wanted to rush at him, place her hands on the skin of his neck and trace the colored lines, inspect them, study them. But instead, she backed up toward the closed front door, protective not for herself but for the two vulnerable Pantera inside. Was this indeed the Nurturer, Jean-Baptiste, who Raphael had assigned her to? Or someone else? Someone who wished her harm? After all, the Wildlands had been infiltrated, and everyone was being cautious.

That eyebrow with the metal lifted. “Raphael told you I was coming.”

It wasn’t a question. She suspected he wasn’t the type who asked a lot of questions. At least she knew he wasn’t the enemy. Not the kind she needed to be worried about anyway.

She stuck out her hand. “I’m Genevieve Burel.”

He didn’t touch her, just glanced at her hand, then dragged his gaze back up to her face. “I know.”

Heat warmed her cheeks at his slow and obvious perusal. Males didn’t look her over this way. Inspect her. At least if they did, she’d never noticed it before.

“Right.” She dropped her hand. “And you’re—”

“Jean-Baptiste,” he finished for her.

“Yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Baptiste.”

A brief flicker of what she believed to be amusement crossed his features. “You sure about that?”

“Pardon me?” His tongue had darted out and swiped at the twin rings of silver on his bottom lip. Her mouth filled with saliva and she gripped the strap of her overnight bag until her knuckles turned white. What the hell was going on with her? She’d never felt so flustered in her life.

This is not acceptable. For a Suit, a Pantera or a female. But especially not for a disciple of the elders.

“I’m asking,” he pushed away from the porch railing and moved toward her with sensual, cat-like grace, “if you’re sure it’s nice to meet me. Because frankly, Miss Burel, your face and body language scream the opposite.”

Body language? She touched the pearl buttons at her throat, and tried to control the sudden outbreak of sweat under her arms. Lord, this was three shades of irritating. “I assure you, Mr. Baptiste,” she said, clearing her throat. “My body does not scream.” Wait. Did that come out right?

His eyes narrowed. “That’s too bad.”

No. It hadn’t.

“What I mean to say is that I’m focused on our mission.” She cleared her throat again and tried to look him directly in the eye without her legs feeling funny. “Getting in and getting out.” Oh Christ, that wasn’t much better.

His eyebrow—the one with the metal barbell through it—raised a good quarter inch.

They needed to go, leave her porch, the Wildlands, get to New Orleans, complete their task, bring it back to Raphael, and never have contact again. Or at least never speak to each other again. Never look at each other again. Specifically her looking at him. And at that mouth. Those tattoos. Wondering where they disappeared to. How far down they traveled—

“Ready?” he said, interrupting her thoughts. Her incredibly inappropriate thoughts.

“Absolutely,” she said, wishing she could slap her own face without it looking odd, and possibly a little insane. “Shall we shift?” she asked, moving past him and down the steps. God, he smelled good. Leather and something completely indescribable, yet almost debilitatingly mouthwatering. “At least until we hit the border. I know the magic will refuse us once we’re on human soil.”

“We’re not heading to New Orleans on foot, Miss Burel,” he said, suddenly appearing beside her. “That would take too long. And I want this trip over as quickly as possible.”

She made the mistake of turning to face him again. The sun had set completely now, and twilight ruled lavender and gray around them. The evening bayou breeze moved through his shoulder-length dark hair, batting at his dark, fearsome face. As petite as she was, Genevieve had never felt intimidated by anyone in her life. She was a strong, hard-nosed female who dealt in reality, who knew what she wanted and went after it. The fears and insecurities of her heart never made it past their respective barriers. But under this male’s imperious, scrutinizing, sexually-fierce gaze, she felt like a small, tasty woodland creature who knew she was on borrowed time if she remained out in the open.

“If we’re not running,” she said finally. “How do you propose we get there? Did your voodoun acquaintance arm you with a generous supply of fairy dust or something?”

His eyes flashed with heat under the cool light of the bayou moon. “No fairy dust, Miss Burel. Just a ride.”

Genevieve’s legs threatened to buckle at his words—no, just that one word—and her mouth opened but nothing came out. Struck dumb by a great, inked-up beast of a Pantera male. She’d never been so ashamed of herself.

With a slash of a grin, Jean-Baptiste turned and started down the path. “Come along, Miss Burel. I promise I won’t go any faster than you can handle.”

Chapter 2

The female beside him would be smoking hot if it weren’t for all the buttons, zippers and pins, Jean-Baptiste mused, racing down Route 90, his cat eyes stunningly sharp in the dark. Sitting bone-straight in the passenger’s seat of his 1967 Jaguar Roadster convertible, her milky white fingers splayed on her wrinkle-free lap, the small, fantastically curved, wondrously-busted Suit was the very picture of prickly put-togetherness.

Except for all that honey blond hair trying to escape the confines of an overly tight bun.

Fuck, he hoped the bun lost.

“Too fast for you, Miss Burel?” he called over the breeze.

“Not at all, Mr. Baptiste,” she returned, her eyes forward, her expression tight.

“What about for your cat?”

“She’s also quite content.”

She. Jean-Baptiste’s brows shot together, and his fingers wrapped around the steering wheel just a hair tighter. He’d never heard a Pantera refer to their cat as he or she before, and damn if it wasn’t intriguing as hell.

“Do many Pantera have cars outside the Wildlands?” she asked, her eyes on the road in front of them.

“There are a few of us.”

“Us?”

“Car enthusiasts. We like to buy and restore. Keep them in private garages in and around La Pierre.” He touched the dash. “This one was a real piece of shit when I took her on.”

Genevieve turned to face him. Her eyes were wide with surprise. “You fixed up this car yourself?”

“Rebuilt the engine, but it was mostly body restoration.” That moonlight overhead was really working on her, he mused, and the wind whipping threads of blond hair about her face. She looked like a goddamn angel.

“You did an amazing job,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

Shit, Female. So are you.

“How many Pantera are in this car club of yours?”

“Around ten. Something like that. It varies from year to year.”

“All males?”

His mouth twitched. “No. There are two females,” he said. “Both Hunters. Both crazy for Mustangs.”

“And is one of them your mate?” she asked.

His gaze cut back to her. She was staring at him, all prim and proper. He wanted to toss out a smartass remark like, ‘What do you mean, one?’ over the rush of bayou air, but this female didn’t seem like the type who’d find his brand of humor funny. In fact, she’d probably be insulted.

Damn, she really was just as Xavier had described her.

The Geek had told Baptiste all about Genevieve Burel, the supposed genius recruit he and his tech brethren had tried to bring on board the wannabe Faction last month. Rumor was she killed at decoding, and the Geeks had really pushed for her to give it a try. But after a couple of weeks, she’d bailed. The stories of her starched-collars, imperious attitude and one-word answers, however, had become legend.

“I have no mate, Miss Burel.” Jean-Baptiste let his gaze travel down her skirt to the sexy legs beyond. He might be willing to take on her imperious attitude if those legs were wrapped around him, and the starched collar removed.

Or ripped away, courtesy of his canines, he thought with a wicked grin.

“So, this woman we’re going to retrieve,” she said tightly. “She’s just an acquaintance of yours?”

“Something like that.”

“A friend?”

The wind turned cool around them. “She’s not my mate or an object of my imprint, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m not trying to get personal with you, Mr. Baptiste.”

“Clearly.” Spotting his exit, he banked the wheel to the right sharply. “Since you don't even seem to know my last name.”

The sudden movement made Genevieve jerk, and she reached out for something to steady herself. What she got was the door handle on one side and Baptiste’s thigh on the other. “Again,” she said yanking her hand back. “Not getting personal.”

But the movement came too late for Jean-Baptiste. And his cat. Her palm, her nails, had gripped him like a hungry lover, and his cock was now turning to steel behind his zipper.

“I only want to know more about the subject we’re to obtain and transport,” she said. “Collecting data. That’s all.”

Holy fuck, he mused. This female might be prickly and buttoned-up. She might be cold as dry ice on the outside. But her blood ran hot. Molten lava hot. He’d felt her sensual burn through his jeans, and the strike had awakened his already restless puma.

“I take my work seriously, Mr. Baptiste,” she continued.

“I can see that,” he uttered, his gaze narrowing as he headed for the Vieux Carré.

“I don’t have time to waste.”

“Why? You got a hot date later?”

He hadn’t meant to say it. After all, he was pretty sure she repelled all things humorous, and when she glanced over at him, pinned him to his seat with a glare so fierce her pale blue eyes resembled twin icebergs, he knew that assessment was spot on.

“You know,” she said tightly, “I was hoping you’d be more of a Pantera.”

The hard-on in his jeans, combined with the growling cat inside him—not to mention the unwanted sexual interest he was sporting for this female—caused him to abandon any shred of manners he might still have possessed. “Oh, I’m all Pantera, baby,” he said with a husky growl as he took the Toulouse entrance. “If you don’t believe me, I can pull over to the side of the road and show you.”

She wrinkled her nose. “That’s disgusting.”

“No, that’s the truth.”

“If you were truly Pantera you wouldn’t be making inappropriate comments when there is so much at stake—when the life and health of Raphael’s mate and cub are in danger.”

He turned onto Bienville, sharp and quick, and didn’t acknowledge her squeal of concern. She was starting to piss him off. Which, along with the attraction, was a pretty shit combination. “Don’t pretend to know the behaviors of our kind, Miss Burel. Pantera instinct, character and function are my department. You are as green as the moss that grows along the banks of the bayou. A student, an observer, barely out of your training pants—sent along to make sure I follow the rules. Which I won’t.” He raced up the street, getting hit with the scents of night-blooming jasmine and a hundred restaurants. “Now. I didn’t ask for company. But I got stuck with it. So, my prickly little puma, you’re going to have to deal with inappropriate and whatever else I toss your way.”

He was surprised when she uttered a very calm, “Or?”

“Or I get uncooperative and difficult to control. I know this is your first big Suit gig.” He stopped at a crosswalk, waited for a passing pedestrian or two. “You don’t want it to go badly, right?”

She was staring straight ahead, her jaw tight, a flood of color creeping up her neck. She looked damned good in pissed-off pink. And he was a jackass for noticing.

“Raphael should’ve been more forthcoming about you,” she said tightly.

No, he shouldn’t have. “What did he say?” He hit the gas, made a sharp right and headed down Chartres Street.

Genevieve’s gaze scrolled over the crowds streaming in and out of the restaurants and galleries to her right. “That you’re a Nurturer. An expert in the field of brain study. Brilliant and…” Her eyes darted toward him, and she snorted. Actually snorted. “Serious.”

He wasn’t sure why, but her easy censure bothered him. “And you think I’m not serious, Miss Burel?”

“With all that you’ve demonstrated so far, no.”

“You think because I crack a joke, I don’t understand the magnitude of what our people are facing? Or because I come on to a hot female, I’m not swimming in concern for Ashe, and rage for whoever has dared to betray us?”

“That’s exactly what I think,” she said quietly. “And don’t call me hot again, unless you want a nosebleed.”

Jean-Baptiste was silent as he pulled up in front of Isi’s place and killed the engine. The pale pink shotgun house was pretty unassuming, except for the massive blood-red shingle that read, THE CARE AND FEEDING OF VOODOO, and underneath it, Isi Rousseau. But Jean-Baptiste knew the depth and intensity of the magic that lived and breathed inside, and he never underestimated it. Beside him, Genevieve turned to get out of the car, but the sudden click of the locks halted her.

She whirled around, her expression stony. “Problem?”

His eyes moved over her face. Pale, perfect skin, a mouth that invited hot, hungry kisses, and a severe attitude that was supposed to ward off all male attention, but somehow managed to turn Jean-Baptiste into a brain-dead, lusty, adolescent Pantera male.

Problem?

Fuck, yeah.

“Believe it or not, Miss Burel,” he said with barely contained aggression. “I would do anything to help the Pantera, to help Ashe and the cub. And I am. You have no idea.” He stabbed at the lock, growled softly as it released. “Let’s go.”

As Genevieve walked past Jean-Baptiste into the dimly lit shop, she once again reminded herself of the rules of this game she was playing. Make sure the voodoun didn’t get anywhere near the Wildlands, while acting as though that very journey was her one and only goal. All she knew was that the elders believed this human to be detrimental to the Wildlands, to Ashe and the child. And that was all Genevieve needed to know. The elders were not to be questioned. After all, they were the essence of Pantera, the wise ones and the ultimate protectors. They and their judgment were valued beyond all things.

“Remember, Miss Burel, I do all the talking,” Jean-Baptiste said, following her past a row of books, crystals, voodoo love dolls, and potions, all backlit by a mass of blue-flamed candles. “Isi’s not going to be happy about this.”

Isi. Very pretty, Genevieve thought. Exotic. “Why’s that?”

“Let’s just say that the Wildlands’ magic and her own don’t mix well.”

Lucky for me. “How would she know that? Has she been to the Wildlands?”

“She’s been to the border.”

Genevieve’s insides hummed, and she glanced over her shoulder. Tall, broad, eyes wary, tattoos and piercings glistening eerily in the candlelight, Jean-Baptiste looked like the sexiest demon alive. “Alone? Or with you?”

“Curb the questions, Miss Burel,” Jean-Baptiste said coolly. “And don’t forget you’re here in a diplomatic capacity only.”

“I know why I’m here,” she returned.

Did the elders know about this? The voodoun at their borders? Was that their reasoning for keeping her out? Did they believe she had something to do with what happened to Ashe?

“Well, well, Baptiste,” came an almost otherworldly voice near Genevieve’s ear.

Startled, Genevieve whirled around to find one of the most extraordinary-looking women she’d ever seen. Not near her ear as she’d believed, or felt, but standing a full ten feet away in front of a cobalt blue curtain. For a second, Genevieve couldn’t put her thoughts together. She blinked several times. A sudden blast of incense impaled her nostrils, and her head grew fuzzy and slow. She reached out for something to steady herself, but there was nothing.

“Isi.” She heard Jean-Baptiste’s voice behind her, his tone thick with warning. “Cut it off.”

“But it’s so much fun,” she nearly whined.

“Now,” he growled.

The scent of incense died away, and the haze inside Genevieve’s brain vanished. She drew in air, and had the most extraordinary urge to turn around and run. But her feet were planted to the floor, and her eyes pinned to the woman.

Isi.

She was dressed in skin-tight jeans, black heels, and a sleeveless red top that showed her flat stomach on one end and her firm breasts on the other. She had short, jet black hair with blue streaks running through it, a tattoo of a rose wrapped around a candle that ran from just under her right ear down to her shoulder, and a diamond piercing in each nostril. Genevieve’s mind felt murky as hell, but even so she knew that this was the kind of woman Jean-Baptiste probably went for. A real kindred spirit, complete with ink and metal. And she wondered if he had lied about them being more than just friends.

“Hello there.” She shoved away the urge to fiddle with her top button and walked straight for the woman, her hand outstretched. “I’m Genevieve Burel. Diplomatic Faction for the Pantera.”

Her expression stony, the woman ignored Genevieve and her hand, and pushed past her. Genevieve watched. Heels clicked on the stone floor and hips swayed as Isi made her way to Jean-Baptiste. Goodness, the woman moved like she knew how to work her body at all things.

When she reached him, she instantly brought her hand up to his neck. “Looks good.”

“I think so,” he said.

She ran a finger down the cord of muscle in his neck. “Healed and ready for another?”

He grinned. “Always.”

The fuzzy head thing was gone, but something else—something far more worrisome—moved through Genevieve as she watched this woman. Isi’s hands moved over Jean-Baptiste’s body as if they had eternal permission to do so, and her voice practically licked at him, it was so intimate.

Were they lovers? And if so, why had Jean-Baptiste not disclosed it?

“I need to speak with you,” he said to the voodoun, his voice grave.

“Problem?” Isi asked.

He nodded.

Isi glanced over her shoulder at Genevieve. “Another foolish female fall in love with you, Baptiste? Must we administer a reverse spell?”

“No,” he said with a smooth chuckle. “Nothing like that.”

“No, nothing like that,” Genevieve returned with barely disguised irritation. More for herself than for them. She was getting real sick of this back and forth, pseudo-flirtatious, weirdly possessive behavior she was feeling and exhibiting. Her future, and her family’s future, rested on this pick-up and delivery. Or preventing it, and that was all she was going to be focused on for the next twenty-four hours.

“Miss Rousseau,” she said tightly. “As I said before, I’m here for the Pantera. To assist Mr. Baptiste in making sure you—”

Jean-Baptiste interrupted sternly. “I got this.” He took Isi’s arm and ushered her down the candlelit aisle. His eyes were hard, his mouth too. “If you’ll excuse us, Miss Burel.”

“I absolutely will not!” Genevieve called after him, far more passionately than she’d intended. “This wasn’t the arrangement.”

She heard Isi grunt, and ignored it.

“We’re supposed to do this together, Mr. Baptiste,” she continued, going after them.

“Mr. Baptiste?” Isi said with a husky laugh. “What the fuck is that about?”

His expression fierce, Jean-Baptiste guided Isi through the curtain, whispered something in a terse tone, then re-emerged.

“I warned you, Miss Burel,” he said, halting her progress. “I don’t follow rules. Especially ones that were decided upon without me.”

She stared up at him, hated how fast her heart was beating. “I don’t care about any of that. I have a job to do. Raphael sent me—”

“Raphael sent you as a backup. In case I didn’t get the job done.” His voice dropped. “And I always get the job done, Miss Burel.”

Instead of muscle and bone, it felt like water suddenly resided inside her legs. And his scent, that heady, masculine, animal-like aroma, was forcing itself inside her nostrils, battling for dominion with the remnants of Isi’s head-screwing incense. This was impossible, she thought with deep irritation.

“Now,” he continued in a soft, deadly voice, “You’re going to remain out here, while I have a conversation with my…friend.”

“That’s not fair,” she growled. “Not how this was supposed to go.”

His eyes flashed amber fire. “Life is made up of the unfair, Miss Burel. Learn to accept that and you’ll never face disappointment.”

“Disappointment is my elixir, Mr. Baptiste. It gets me going, fires me up, turns me on.” She tried to yank herself back, but she couldn’t seem to curb her tongue.

“Well then, expect to be highly aroused for the next twenty-four hours.”

She could hardly breathe as they stared at one another. Dark hair fell over his cheekbones, a few stray wisps brushing against the two hoops in his lower lip. Her eyes traveled down to the full, lush flesh. What would it be like to kiss him? How would she do it? Would it hurt him if she tried to get the tip of her tongue inside, spear one of those small rings? Tug on it? Ease him closer?

A soft, male growl pierced the thick air between them, and Genevieve’s brain lurched back to the ‘on’ position. Oh, Christ. What was wrong with her? The things she was saying…the way she just openly stared at him, challenged him. The female who was all set to enter a life of service with the elders—a life where she would have no mate, no sex, no intimacy—was openly lusting over the very Pantera male she had to outwit.

This was bad.

Jean-Baptiste’s eyes narrowed, and he pulled back sharply. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Look around. Maybe you’ll find something you like.”

Too late.

“Or maybe you’ll find some happiness. Isi puts that in the gray bottles, I believe.”

What the hell was she doing? Genevieve thought shakily as she watched him walk away and disappear behind that blue curtain. Why was the top button on her blouse digging into her throat, irritating her, begging to be bitten off, when it had always lain so comfortably against her skin?

And why had her mission of making sure the voodoun never entered the Wildlands suddenly expanded into the disjointed goal of never allowing the dark-haired woman to put her hands on Jean-Baptiste again?

She turned to a table of potions, released a heavy breath, and started picking up random bottles. Forget happiness. There had to be something here that returned sanity to a clearly insane mind, and calm to a body that had never experienced the true meanings of the words lust and possession until just a few moments ago.

Chapter 3

“Have you lost your fucking mind?”

Jean-Baptiste eyed the petite woman with the foul mouth, quick wit and fiercely sharp brain. “You know I have.”

Isi smacked the seat of the leather recliner in front of her and huffed, “Then get your ass under Derek’s needle again because there’s no way in hell I’m stepping foot back in the Wildlands.”

“Derek,” he uttered blackly. “That idiot’s cat food.”

“What?”

“When I see him again, he’s dead.”

“Oh, Jesus,” she muttered, pulling on a pair of gloves. “What happened?”

“The guy you hired to perform magic-laced tats can’t keep his mouth shut. He told one of our spies, who informed the leader of the Suits just what goes in my ink and metal.”

Isi sighed, picked up some tools and dropped them in the autoclave bag. “I’m sorry. Seriously. I’m sorry. But if that’s what you’re looking for from me—a Wildlands house call—I can’t do it.” She gave him a pointed look. “Don’t you remember what happened the last time?”

Damn right, he remembered. It was a week after he’d realized he had a problem, that his cat wasn’t behaving. He’d popped a few capsules of the malachite drug he gave his patients, testing to see if it grounded the feline inside his body once again.

It had.

But not for long.

He’d known right then he needed something permanent. Knew that if he didn’t want to be caged liked the very ones he treated, he’d have to hide it. He’d heard about Isi, her incredible magical abilities, and tried to get to her. But even though Pantera couldn’t shift outside the borders, his cat had. Twice. And had nearly taken down a couple of tourists in the process. In the end, he’d slunk back to the Wildlands and begged Isi to come to him.

The attempt hadn’t turned out well. For either of them.

“You got sick,” he said, trying to play down the truth as he watched her shove the autoclave bag inside the machine.

She snapped the latch, then turned to glare at him. “What I got was the equivalent of seasickness on land, times ten. I could barely stand, keep anything down.” She shuddered in remembrance. “I don’t care what the reason is or how dire it is, I’m not going.”

Jean-Baptiste sighed, crossed his arms over his chest. “How much?”

“What?”

“How much? We’ll pay. Even in stones, minerals…whatever you want. I know you’ve been dying to get your hands on all that ancient shit below the surface of the Wildlands’ soil.”

Baptiste saw a flicker of excitement light her eyes, then a shroud of fear quickly overtake it.

“No.”

“Isi. That could’ve been a one-time thing.”

She pointed to the curtain. “You have to go. I have a client coming.”

For one brief second, Jean-Baptiste thought about putting up a fight, scaring the shit out of the human who was coming to see her, offering her more than just cash or crystals. But he knew her. Knew what worked and what didn’t. Fear played her hard and often, and if he was going to get what he wanted, negotiation wasn’t the way.

Unfortunately, the way was probably going to get him despised, hunted and, more importantly, cut off from the ink and metal his body and his feral cat desperately needed.

Anger simmered below the surface of Genevieve’s skin as she watched the two males greet each other in the lobby of the swank Hotel Fils de France. At first, when Jean-Baptiste had walked out of the voodoun’s shop and headed for his car, Genevieve had assumed she’d just become the luckiest female in the world. Isi had said no to the trip, and the inked Nurturer hadn’t put up a fight. She’d be home by midnight, she’d thought smugly, and standing before the elders at dawn.

Her cat had practically purred along with the engine of his Jag.

Then he’d made a call, and two minutes later they’d pulled into the valet line of a beautiful French Quarter hotel. Before she’d even gotten a word out, a question, a demand to know just what the hell was going on, another male had pulled up beside them in an equally gorgeous car and they’d all walked inside together.

“I appreciate this, Michel,” Jean-Baptiste said in a low, almost conspiratorial voice as they entered the sumptuous, violet-hued lobby.

“Anytime, mon ami.” The suit-and-tie male was extraordinarily handsome, with a skull-shaved head, shockingly broad shoulders, and piercing green eyes that seemed to move over every inch of the hotel and its patrons. “How are things at home? How is the human female recovering?”

Baptiste’s voice dropped to a growl. “You’ve heard.”

Michel nodded. “We’re working on it from our end.”

“Any leads?”

“I’m afraid that’s classified,” he said, his gaze coming to rest on Genevieve. Though his eyes remained watchful, his mouth relaxed into a very charming, confident smile. “I recognize a fellow Suit when I scent one. And you, ma chérie, smell like magnolia flowers and twilight on the bayou.”

Genevieve felt a sudden shock of heat hit her cheeks, and she wanted to kick herself. She wasn’t appreciating this new and embarrassing side of her nature. For goodness’ sake, handsome males were a dime a dozen. So were compliments.

He reached out. “Michel.”

She shook his hand. It was warm, strong, and, knowing his profession outside of the Wildlands, probably able to kill her with just the tiniest of efforts. “No last name?” she asked him.

“Oh, now you’re into last names?” Jean-Baptiste muttered.

Genevieve ignored him.

Michel drew closer. “I find I don’t need one.”

“How convenient.”

His grin broadened. “And your name, chérie?”

“Genevieve,” Jean-Baptiste supplied with more than a trace of annoyance.

Green eyes raked over her. “Beautiful name for a beautiful female.”

A low, fierce growl echoed throughout the bustling lobby, and both Michel and Genevieve turned to look at Jean-Baptiste. The male looked ready to rip Michel’s head from his body. His eyes were narrowed into slits, his nostrils flared, and if she wasn’t mistaken, his canines were a hair longer than they should be outside of the Wildlands.

As a bellboy passed them, followed by a giggling young couple, Genevieve turned back to Michel and said quickly, “Thank you. But I’d say I’m more of an impatient, annoyed, and confused female at the moment.”

Michel’s gaze remained fixed on Jean-Baptiste. “Are you the cause of this, mon ami?”

“Probably,” the male uttered, his tone so near to menace it actually made the hair on the back of Genevieve’s neck lift.

With a soft chuckle, Michel pressed something into Jean-Baptiste’s hand, then clapped him on the shoulder. “You have the entire top floor. The owner is a good friend. Anything you want, it’s taken care of.” His gaze flickered toward Genevieve, then back to Jean-Baptiste. “And I apologize. I didn’t know.”

Jean-Baptiste nodded, then inhaled deeply, seemingly trying to get himself under control.

“Know what?” Genevieve asked, staring at the key in his hand. This had better be a joke. And if it wasn’t, there had better be a cab waiting outside. Hell, if she had to, she could run home.

When neither Michel nor Jean-Baptiste answered her, she looked up. There were plenty of humans milling about the lobby, checking in, but the Pantera spy was gone—as if he’d never been. Panic flared within her, and she turned in a slow circle looking for him. “Where did he go?”

“Come along, Miss Burel.”

She whirled back to face Jean-Baptiste. But he wasn’t there either. He was heading for the elevator.

“Hey!” she called after him.

He didn’t respond, though several hotel employees looked her way.

“We’re not staying here!”

“You don’t have to do anything, Miss Burel,” he called back. “The front door is that way. Just let Raphael know I’m on it.”

“On what?” Dammit. She ran after him, bypassing three giggling, stumbling, women who had clearly been out enjoying their evening cocktails. “Your voodoun friend said no, didn’t she?”

“She did.”

“Then there’s nothing else we can do.”

“I’m giving her some time to calm down, think.”

“Think about what?”

“Giving up a little easily, aren’t we, Miss Burel?”

“What?” Her heart stuttered. “Of course not.”

When they reached a bank of elevators, Jean-Baptiste ignored the gathering crowd and walked straight past, to another, smaller elevator at the far end of the hall. He held his key up to a strip of metal, waited for the keypad to turn red and beep, then glanced over his shoulder at her. Dark brows lowered over amazing eyes. He studied her. “Isn’t it your job to step in if I can’t get the job done?”

“I thought you always get the job done, Mr. Baptiste.”

That elicited a wry grin before he stepped into the waiting elevator. “I think I’m starting to like that name. I’ll speak to Isi again in the morning.”

Morning? “Are you actually suggesting we stay here all night?”

“In or out, Miss Burel.”

Dammit. She couldn’t go back to the Wildlands without him, and she couldn’t let him talk Isi into coming. She needed time to think. She needed time to—

“Goodnight, Miss Burel.”

Guess she wasn’t getting it.

She lurched forward and slipped inside the elevator just as the doors closed.

To Jean-Baptiste’s vexation and possible ruin, the female who’d just entered the elevator brought not only her ire and concern into the luxurious leather and suede box with her, but her particular brand of body heat. And the warm, honey-like sensation was quickly fusing into his skin, turning him—and his cat—into a hungry, sensual predator.

He leaned back against the wall and hissed. The last thing this mission needed was an underlying sexual attraction, and yet he’d steered it there too many times to count. Wanting what he shouldn’t be wanting. The prickly Suit female. And he’d displayed his desire and possessive instincts for her in front of another Pantera male. Fuck. Michel’s flirtation had been innocent.

His gaze slid over Genevieve, taking in her stunning body and beautiful face. He grunted. Who was he kidding? Nothing a Pantera male did was innocent when it came to their females. Michel had been completely and frustratingly into her, and Jean-Baptiste didn’t blame the randy bastard one bit. Genevieve Burel was the most desirable female he’d ever laid eyes on, and the fact that she was wrapped up too tightly for anyone, including him, to see just how true that assessment was, made it all the hotter.

“Was this planned from the beginning, Mr. Baptiste?” she asked in a tight voice, her eyes locking with his across the elevator.

“What’s that, Miss Burel?”

“The sleepover?”

His body twitched. “There was always a possibility our mission would take more than a few hours.” He crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her. “Something you’re clearly aware of as you brought a bag with you. So, what are you really asking?”

She swallowed tightly and shrugged. “Just want to know if there’s something more going on.”

“Like what?”

She gave him a sharp look. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

His mouth twitched. “Yes, I think I am.”

She took a deep breath. “Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Baptiste?”

Just the query alone had his heated blood ratcheting up to blistering, and his fingers flexing with the need to rip clothing from skin. This female was making him crazy, and he wasn’t sure exactly why. She was beautiful and sexy and intriguing, but it was more than that. He pushed away from the wall and moved toward her. Her scent wrapped around him, infusing his skin, permeating his nostrils with every step. Michel had been right. She smelled like flowers and twilight, and it pissed him off to no end that the Suit had been the one to notice it first.

Her eyes grew wide with his approach, and she drew back, her shoulders hitting the smooth suede walls of the elevator.

“Seduction is a fallacy, Miss Burel,” he said, coming to stand before her. “A way to diminish your own wants, deny what your body needs, refuse responsibility for taking what belongs to you.” He couldn’t help himself. He inhaled deeply. Then cursed. “If your mouth is ready, your eyes are pleading, your hands are itching to grab and grope, and your pussy is hot and wet and turning the cool air around you into steam, then its mutual. And if it’s not? A simple no is all it takes for an honorable male to back the fuck off.”

The elevator was moving upward like a goddamn snail, yet Genevieve’s breathing was rapid.

He watched as her tongue slipped from her mouth and swiped at her bottom lip.

“I could do that for you,” he whispered. “I want to.”

Her eyes lifted to connect with his. White fire swimming in bayou blue. God, she was gorgeous. Debilitatingly so.

“And you want me to, don’t you, Miss Burel? You want me to lick you?”

Her nostrils flared, and a soft whimper escaped her throat.

“I’ll admit it. Don’t think I can stop myself.” Or my cat. “I’ve wanted to taste you since the moment I saw you.” He leaned in, near her ear. “And not just your mouth.”

Her sharp inhale made him growl. And the scent of her arousal grabbed hold of the innocent waft of magnolia flowers and the bayou at twilight and shoved them aside, claiming Jean-Baptiste’s nostrils, and making his cock swell painfully.

“The door,” she whispered in a pained, breathless voice.

“What door?” he uttered, running his nose across her cheek.

“Behind you.”

Her skin was so damned soft. He knew it would be soft in other places, too. Her belly, her lower back, behind her knees, between her thighs…

“We’re here,” she continued almost painfully.

Fuck.

He eased back, his teeth grinding together, his entire body rigid with a hunger he knew he shouldn’t be encouraging. His cat was already scratching to get out, get at her, and the feline didn’t give a shit where it showed up and who it took out these days. With the way this female was staring at him—with longing and fear and sexual curiosity in her sleepy eyes—he wouldn’t be able to control the wild cat if it broke free.

“What now?” she whispered, her eyes drinking him in.

“We could take another ride,” he uttered. Goddammit. He was an idiot.

She nodded slightly.

“Or we could get off here.” He grinned. Dangerous, foolish, bastard.

His words, and their double meaning, weren’t lost on her, and she blushed furiously, prettily. He wondered if she grew pink all over when she was teased.

His eyes flicked up, past her blond bun, to see the open elevator and beveled glass door of the suite a few feet ahead. There was nothing he wanted more in that moment than to remove each one of those hundred or so buttons on her shirt, and stare, then touch, then feast on what was beneath. But he wasn’t going to be that big of a selfish prick. Even if he could keep his cat caged long enough to taste her, he could never be the male for her. He could never offer her a mating. And she was the kind of female who would not only require it, but who wholeheartedly deserved it.

He growled softly, grabbed her hand and her bag, and led her out of the elevator. Xavier had been right about two things: her intelligence and her starched collars. But besides that, the male didn’t know shit. This female was not only hot and sexy, but she was intriguing and innocent. And if Jean-Baptiste had been the male he was before, the one with unmarked skin, an optimistic attitude and a cat he could cage with only a thought, he would’ve dropped to his knees and asked Genevieve Burel to consider his imprint. Shit, maybe even consider him as a mate—and the only male who would ever be allowed to see and explore the soft, sexual playground she hid beneath all that fabric.

Chapter 4

Genevieve encircled the hotel suite’s sumptuous living room furniture for the fifth time, her cell phone pressed to her ear. Her skin was still humming from the elevator encounter with Jean-Baptiste, and her mind refused to drop the memory curtain on his face, his eyes, those lips. She didn’t understand what was happening to her, and why she didn’t seem capable of releasing it, forgetting it. He was gorgeous, yes. Had a body so long and heavy with muscle that she felt tiny and nondescript in comparison. He wore that dangerous, mysterious, don’t-get-too-close attitude like a second and very sexy skin. But she was a smart female. Logical and thoughtful. She had a job to do. A future to procure. A home and family to save and protect. And no male—not even the very captivating Jean-Baptiste—was going to get in the way of that.

No matter how much her body begged her to think otherwise.

“Dammit,” she grumbled, then yanked herself back to reality as the female on the other end of the line questioned her outburst. “No, no,” Genevieve said quickly. “Nothing to do with you. Everything’s fine, and I’ll be home in the morning. I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Miss Burel,” came a sharp, masculine growl behind her.

Genevieve startled, jabbed at the off button.

“Canceling that hot date?” he continued.

“I told you, I don’t have a…” Her words died away, never to be found again, as she turned around and her eyes focused on the drool-worthy specimen before her.

Standing in the bedroom doorway, only a white towel wrapped around his lean hips, was Jean-Baptiste. Clearly he’d just come from the shower because his hair was wet and slicked back from his face, and a few water droplets clung to the heavily tattooed skin of his hard chest. Her gaze ate up every inch, every marking, every color. She’d seen the skull and tribal ink adorning his neck and collarbone, but beneath that, covering his broad shoulders and down both massive biceps, were two gold and black pumas baring their teeth. Artistic lines of green and blue seemed to move beneath their paws, like water and grass, like the bayou.

Her perusal continued inward. His pectorals were free of ink, but one nipple was pierced, and down at the very base of his ripped abdominals the word Pantera was scrawled in cat-scratch markings.

For one brief second, Genevieve nearly demanded he turn around. God, she wanted to see his back, wanted to see what kind of tattoos had been inked into his smooth, tanned, thickly muscled skin.

But then her sane mind returned.

“I thought that was my room,” she said, gesturing behind him.

“It is.”

“And my shower.”

He sniffed with irritation. “I have a bathtub.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“I don’t do bathtubs, Miss Burel.” His eyebrow lifted. “Unless I have company.”

She might have had her sane mind back, but her body was still completely and totally refusing her call for control. Her legs were doing that made-out-of-water thing again, and her skin was pulling tight around her muscles. She could do nothing to stop it. This strange, new compulsion to attack.

Lust and deep sexual interest had never played a part in her life. She’d been too busy with establishing her career and caring for her Grands. And lately, refusing to be angry with her parents for acting cowardly and taking off, leaving her to deal with the dying magic inside their home. Sure, she’d found males attractive. But wanting them? Needing to feel their skin? Taste their lips? Run her fingers through their hair as she growled and begged them for all things dirty?

Not until now.

Until Jean-Baptiste.

Her stomach clenched. This…this attraction, this lust, this hunger, this desire to run at him and lick her way down his throat, chest, abdominals, hipbones…

It was going to ruin her if she let it. Working alongside the elders required full focus, a vow of chastity, and a gold star with this mission. She could not allow herself to be swayed.

“So, who was that on the phone?” he demanded.

Genevieve started toward him. If she could just get past him, get into her bedroom and close the door…

“I was just letting my family know I’m all right.”

“They worry about you?”

“Of course.” She moved around the leather couch.

“You don’t seem like the kind of female who would make a parent worry.”

Unlike you, Mr. Baptiste. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.”

His mouth curved into a wicked smile. “Yes, you do.”

She stopped before him, waited for him to move aside. But he didn’t. “You have very strong opinions about who I am, Mr. Baptiste. I’m curious to know where that comes from. Are you listening to rumors, or simply judging a book by its cover?”

He looked her up and down. “Which one would bother you more?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You should be sure, Miss Burel. Because one is understandable, the other is not.”

“And which one are you?” God, he smelled good. Like soap and hungry puma.

His eyes lifted to meet hers. “Let’s just say we all make judgments based on appearances.”

So, he’d heard rumors about her? Who the hell was talking about her? And what were they saying?

“You may think it’s understandable, but I don’t judge others,” she said, trying like hell to control her breathing. He was just so close. His clean scent, and all that naked, heavily inked, heavily muscled skin was making her dizzy. If her legs buckled and she fell, would he catch her? Maybe she should try it and see.

“Come now, Miss Burel. Don’t pretend you didn’t take one look at me, at this,” he pointed to his lip, “and these,” he brushed a hand across his shoulder, “and decide I’m bad news.”

Lucky hand. Lucky, lucky hand. “I’m not going to deny it,” she said primly. “But I think my judgment in this case was right on.”

His eyebrow—the one with the metal—jacked up.

Her eyes locked with his. “You are bad news, Mr. Baptiste.”

“I’ve done nothing to you, Miss Burel.”

Nothing except make me question the direction of my future. Nothing except make me forget again and again why I’m here.

He reached out then, and touched her hair, snagged a piece that had long ago escaped her miserable bun, and wrapped it gently around his index finger. “You have beautiful hair. Feels like silk in my hand.”

“Thank you.” God, what else could she say? Her heart slammed against her ribs.

His eyes narrowed on the crown of her head, at her bun. “I have this irrepressible urge to take it down. I want to see what all that pale gold looks like floating around your face, kissing your neck, playing against the pale skin of your shoulders.”

Her chest tightened. Her breasts and nipples, too. “You mean against the fabric of my shirt.”

He shook his head. “No, Miss Burel. That’s not what I mean.”

Her stomach clenched with awareness, and below her waist, between her unsteady legs, she felt the heat in her sex turn liquid. Her lips parted and she started to pant. The button at her throat once again constricted her breathing, and she touched it with her fingers. Maybe she could undo just one button…

A knock at the door startled them both.

“Dammit.” Growling with true menace, Jean-Baptiste stalked past her.

Genevieve took the opportunity to make a break for her room, for safety, for a place to get her head on straight.

“You get that door,” she called after him. “And I’ll get this one.”

The last thing she heard was a great whoosh of air as Jean-Baptiste hauled back the thickly beveled glass, then snarled at whoever stood on the other side.

He’d put clothes on.

He’d even set the table.

But as he stared across the black marble at Genevieve, all he wanted to do was strip them both bare and take her on top of the china.

She was drinking a beer. That’s all she was doing. But it was the way she was doing it that was making his cock stand up tall and scream for an exit inside his jeans. Her long, pale fingers were wrapped around the bronze, pony neck, and her lips were sealed against the wet rim as she swallowed.

Fuck, he was in trouble.

His cat snarled and spit inside his chest in agreement.

Stay put, you bastard.

Never in million years would he have pegged this female for a beer drinker. Possibly a margarita. Wine, maybe. Shirley Temple, more like.

She looked up then and caught him staring. She gestured to the full plate in front of him with that nearly drained Bayou Bock in her hand. “You’re not eating.”

Very observant, Miss Burel. I’m too busy watching, lusting, and trying to keep my cat caged and my steel prick from exploding.

“I’ll get to it,” he muttered.

“Well, don’t wait until it gets cold,” she admonished. “It’s amazing. Best étouffée I’ve ever had. It was nice of your spy friend to arrange this.” She cocked her head. “Michel, wasn’t it?”

“Something like that,” Jean-Baptiste said, not liking the Suit’s name on her lips. “And he’s not being nice. Males don’t think that way. Pantera males don’t think that way.”

She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “Really?”

“We stalk, claim and possess, Miss Burel. We’re natural predators. We see something we want, and we go after it.” He stabbed his fork into the center of the catfish and came up with a steaming chunk of white flesh. “He was trying to impress you.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment, then grinned. “Well, if he really wanted to impress me he would’ve had them bring beignets and coffee along with this étouffée.”

“I’ll let him know for next time,” Jean-Baptiste said, then stuffed the fish into his mouth.

“You will?” she asked, slightly taken aback.

“No.”

She laughed. Then took another bite of her food and groaned happily. “What do you think of the catfish? I like it spicy, don’t you?”

Did she have to keep taunting him unknowingly? Christ, he could practically feel the malachite leaching from him. “Just like mama used to make,” he said.

“Really?”

“No.” He glanced up. His face broke into a smile that mirrored hers. Damn, he couldn’t help himself. “She’s not much of a cook. How about yours?”

That smile suddenly died. “She was.” She started picking at her rice.

Shit. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “It’s okay. It’s just me and my Grands now.”

“You live with your grandparents?”

She nodded.

Was that who she was on the phone with? And why did that belief, that hope, fill him with far too much relief?

“Do you live with your family?” she asked.

“No. Haven’t for many, many years.” He took another bite of fish. “They’re Nurturers. Very important. Very brilliant. Very consumed with their work.”

She nodded her understanding. “So no family dinners.”

“Not since I was five.”

She studied him for a moment. “That bothers you, doesn’t it?”

He shrugged. “You know, what kid doesn’t want his family crowded around a table, barking at him to sit up straight, to stop making disgusting noises, eat his peas?”

She laughed. The sound was like fucking church bells. “Most kids don’t want that, Mr. Baptiste. To be bossed around.”

“Sure they do.” He put down his fork. His eyes locked with hers. “They may gripe about it, but they want it. They want the structure and the boundaries and someone to take control so they don’t have to. All that strictness and nitpicking—just means someone loves you enough to give a shit.”

Her mouth fell open, but she didn’t say anything. She just stared at him, her eyes boring a hole in his head.

“What?” he said.

“You.”

His chest squeezed with tension. And maybe the thing beating rapidly inside it, too. “What about me?”

“Never judge a book by its cover?” She shrugged, her eyes glowing a little. “Never again.”

He nodded. “Back atcha, Miss Burel.” He tipped his beer bottle in her direction, and she instantly scooped hers up and gave his a solid clink.

“And who knows?” she said, after taking a quick swig. “Maybe you’ll have it.”

His brows knit together. “Have what?”

“A cub to boss around at the dinner table.”

His gut tightened. “Odds are against it, don’t you think? Fifty years and counting.”

“There’s Ashe.”

“She human.”

“So, go get yourself a human.”

This time, it wasn’t just his gut that tightened. It was every damn part of him. Even his fingers curled around his fork. “I don’t want a human.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

“Maybe you just haven’t met the right—”

“What are you doing, Miss Burel?” he said, placing his fork on his plate.

She shook her head, her eyes uneasy, taken aback by his gruff response. “What do you mean? I’m just talking—”

“Do you want me to go out and find a human? Really?”

She started chewing her lip. “I don’t understand what you’re—”

“Yes, you do. “ He leaned forward, his meal completely forgotten now. “Acting naive is almost as grating as believing you’ve been seduced.” His eyes narrowed on her gorgeous face and his voice lowered almost conspiratorially. “Tell me, Miss Burel. Can you continue to sit here, across from me and pretend there’s nothing going on? Nothing between us? Eat and drink and talk about our families and our history when all we want to do is answer the real questions on our minds?

She looked startled, and her cheeks flushed.

“What does she taste like?” he continued. “How would his arms feel around me? Would she like it slow and deep, or completely and totally out of control?”

“Oh my god,” she uttered hoarsely.

“I don’t think I can pretend, Miss Burel.” He stood up. “Never been any good at it.”

“Sit down and eat. Please.”

“No.”

“It’s getting cold.”

“I’m not hungry,” he growled.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment and whispered, “Neither am I.”

“Then what the fuck are we doing?” With a roar of lust-fueled ire, Jean-Baptiste swiped at the food on the table, sending it crashing to the ground. He heard Genevieve gasp, but all he wanted to do was get to her. He jumped onto the table, then leapt down on her side. His puma pacing inside his chest, he had her in his arms before she even had time to fully register what had happened.

“What are we doing?” she uttered, panic-stricken.

“Exactly what we both want.”

“I can’t…”

“You already are,” he returned, lifting her up, placing her on the table.

“I should go to bed,” she whimpered. “And we should forget this ever happened.”

“What you’re going to do, is keep your eyes open and brace yourself. After I take your mouth for a good long while, I'll be working my way down to all the bits and pieces you keep so tantalizingly and irritatingly covered."

Her eyes widened, but she whispered the only word that mattered to him in that moment. “Okay.”

“Don’t be afraid, Miss Burel. This won’t hurt a bit.” He ran his teeth over his lower lip, tugging at the silver hoops. “Unless you want it to.”

Chapter 5

Heat, tension and anticipation barreled though Genevieve as Jean-Baptiste tugged her to the very edge of the marble table, then splayed her legs with one of his powerful thighs. The table that had once held their dinner, she thought inanely— the dinner which was now somewhere on the floor. Maybe on the walls, too.

But did she care?

No, she did not.

He took up residence in the empty space between her legs, so big, so imposing, his hands plunging into her hair, and his gaze roaming over her with such predatory hunger she broke out in goose bumps. Clearly, this male was accustomed to taking what he wanted—no questions, no invitations—and Genevieve was stunned to realize just how sexy and irresistible she found that.

His nostrils flared as he breathed her in, and his fingers pressed into her scalp. He looked on the verge of attacking, and for one brief second, Genevieve swore she saw his puma push through his skin, saw his canines drop and his eyes flash gold.

But then his mouth covered hers, his body pressed against hers, and she forgot everything.

He feasted upon her like a starving male, his tongue plunging into her mouth, demanding a groan, a moan, a cry of his name, and she gave him all three. It was the most perfect, lusty, mind-blowing, sensual kiss she’d ever experienced, and she wanted more. So much more. Everything above and below her waist ran hot and suddenly frantic, and she curled her arms around his neck and clung to him as he took her mouth in kiss after kiss of perfect ocean waves; wet and pliant and drugging. She could feel the smooth metal of his lip piercings pressing into her skin, and it made her crazy with desire. She dropped her head back, forcing him to release her, just enough so she could run her tongue across the cool silver.

A sexual growl escaped Jean-Baptiste’s throat, and he tried to nip at her, lap at her tongue. But she wouldn’t allow it. She grinned wickedly, hungrily, and drove her fingers up into his dark hair, cupping his scalp. God, she felt out of her mind. Irrational. Uncaring about anything except this, him, her. Is this what lust was? The desperate need for another? Wanting him, needing him, as badly as you needed air or sunlight? Because truly, Genevieve had never wanted anything or anyone more in her life.

His eyes locked on her then, but her focus was entirely on those hoops. She’d thought about them so many times since they’d met. Now she was going to know.

Slowly, gently, she let her tongue probe inside the first ring. Then, just a hair inside the second. She heard him curse under his breath, felt his arms leave her hair and grip her hips. He yanked her closer, and she felt his cock pulse against the apex of her thighs. Her breathing turned ragged, and her mind went blank except for one thing, the one impulse she knew she couldn’t shake.

She curled her tongue around the silver rings and tugged.

It was as if she’d unleashed a wild animal. With that one simple movement, Jean-Baptiste’s face went from a sensual hunger to a mask of fierce, feline possessiveness. He glared at her. Snarled at her. Sweat broke on his brow, his eyes flashed burnt gold and he looked ready to attack.

Maybe she should’ve been scared. Or at least, cautious. But when she eased her tongue from the rings, she grinned.

“Lie back,” he growled at her. “Now.”

Her heart slamming against her ribs in a rhythm of total thrill and desire, she let him guide her; one arm under her shoulder blades, one pressing at her hip, until she was completely stretched out on the black marble dining table. The room was lit by soft electric lights, and the pale gold walls etched in black created an intimate, opulent, feel.

“Knees up, Miss Burel,” he commanded, his voice a rough snarl of desire.

Every inch of Genevieve was shaking. From fear, from the delicious unknown, from unbearable anticipation, from overwhelming need. Jean-Baptiste’s hands found the edges of her skirt and not so slowly, or so gently, pushed the fabric up all the way to her waist. Liquid heat pooled into Genevieve’s sex and trickled down her thigh. She knew he could see it, but she didn’t care. She felt no shame. Only a desire to move, to demonstrate how badly she wanted this—wanted him.

His eyes flashing gold, Jean-Baptiste found the waistband of her underwear and curled his fingers around it. Genevieve bit her lip and groaned. Do it, she urged him, arching her back, canting her hips. Do it now before I lose my mind. Or my will. But instead of pulling down the damp, pale blue silk, he grabbed hold of it with his teeth, and ripped them right off of her.

“Now this is what I was hungry for, Miss Burel.”

He eased her thighs even farther apart, then shouldered his way between them.

“So pretty,” he whispered. “So wet. I can see your clit pulsing, Miss Burel. It calls to me, begs me to take it in my mouth and suckle.”

The muscles inside Genevieve’s pussy clenched, and her nipples tightened beneath the soft fabric of her bra.

Jean-Baptiste dropped his head and strung kisses across her hipbones; slow, hot kisses, the silver hoops gently scraping against her flesh. Genevieve stilled, her breath little pants interspersed with swallows of saliva. She’d never been kissed there before, but she’d fantasized about it too many times to count. A male’s head between her legs, his fingers gripping her inner thighs almost to the point of pain as he slid his hot tongue through her wet folds.

“So pink and swollen,” Jean-Baptiste whispered, his fingers easing her lips apart, one brushing over the sensitive bud of her clit. “As your sex cries, rains down, down, into a true river of pleasure.”

“Oh, god,” she uttered, wanting to drag herself up, see what he was doing—watch him. But she just felt too dizzy, too heavy.

His breath…it was close…so close and warm against her pussy as he circled her clit gently with his finger.

“Please,” she moaned, begged, her hips lifting, straining for more, for everything.

“Soon, Miss Burel,” he whispered, his mouth so close now she could feel the cool edges of his lip piercing against her opening. “I just want to see how tight you are before I eat you.”

And with that, he drove his tongue up, so deep inside her pussy Genevieve cried out. Her hands tensed and her nails scratched against the marble at her back. She couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t slow herself. She writhed and pumped, the feeling so shockingly perfect, she believed in that moment that she might go mad if she didn’t have this—him—twenty-four hours a day for the rest of her life.

He eased out, lifted his head and locked eyes with her. “You, Miss Burel, are the sweetest, most tempting thing I’ve ever had on my tongue.”

She stared at him, panting, her entire body on fire, her hips thrust up in a silent plea. “Please don’t stop,” she whimpered.

He chuckled wickedly, his eyes so gold they looked on fire. “Oh, Miss Burel. I’m just getting started. It’s a feast I plan to savor.”

His head dropped then, and his tongue made one long sweep from her pussy straight up to her clit. Crying out softly, Genevieve closed her eyes, and gave up everything from her past and everything in her future to accept this incredible, perfect, pleasure-filled moment.

Her thighs trembled uncontrollably as he licked her, as he made slow circles around her tight, hot bud. She made sounds from somewhere otherworldly, deep in her chest, her throat. And when his lips closed around her clit, when he started to suckle, his head lifting and lowering rhythmically, stunningly, she came apart.

“Jean-Baptiste!” she called out, her head thrashing from side to side against the cool, hard marble. “Yes! Please, yes!”

A fearsome growl escaped his throat, and he forced her legs even wider apart, burying himself even deeper as he started flicking her clit with his tongue. Over and over, back and forth, so fast, she felt tears behind her eyes. She bit down on her lip to halt them, her head pounding, her heart slamming so hard inside her ribs she was sure they were getting bruised.

Everything inside of her, every pain, every hope, every secret burst like an emotional and physical dam, and she was nothing but raw lust and unapologetic need. As his tongue worked her, and his growls and groans intensified, Genevieve came. She came so hard she couldn’t breathe, pressing her mound against his mouth and rough chin as she writhed and convulsed, circling her hips, squeezing her muscles as she took wave after wave of orgasm.

Before she was even replete, before the breath held inside her lungs had a chance to escape, Jean-Baptiste lifted her boneless frame into his arms and stood. “I’m taking you to bed, Miss Burel.”

“Wait,” she said breathlessly, clinging to him.

“What is it?” His tone was rough and impatient and fierce. “I don’t think I have it in me to discuss or flirt. If I don’t fuck you this very instant, my cat will destroy my insides and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“I’m not Miss Burel,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Not right now,” she said, her drowsy eyes opening to meet his blistering amber gaze. “Not tonight. Not when you’re inside of me. Do you understand?”

His nostrils flared and he nodded. “Genevieve,” he snarled hungrily as he headed for his bedroom. “Beautiful, provocative Genny.”

Jean-Baptiste stalked down the hall, removing as many pieces of clothing as he could. His. Hers. Fuck if he knew or cared. He just wanted them skin to skin as quickly as possible. He’d never felt this frantic, this desperate to connect, to feel, to know a female.

And it scared the shit out of him.

The lights were out in the bedroom, but the moon shone bride-white and brilliant through the open balcony windows. Enough for him to see her incredible face, her hungry eyes. And when his thighs hit the edge of the bed, when he gathered up the comforter, tossed it to the floor and laid her out on her back, her golden skin against stark white sheets, her exquisite body.

He growled as he settled her against the mattress. He’d done pretty damn well in stripping her. The bun was no more, and the shirt was gone, pearl buttons no doubt leading a pathway from the living room to the bedroom like opalescent breadcrumbs. All she had on now was her bra and that skirt he’d yanked to her hips on the marble table. The skirt that was nearly ripped from hem to waist.

Shit. He’d get her a new one.

He’d get her twenty new ones.

His eyes clung to her curves, her mouth, her wide, eager gaze as he yanked off his jeans and T-shirt. When he saw her hands disappear behind her back, working the clasp on her pale pink bra, he loomed over her, growling.

“That’s my job, Genevieve.”

Her hands stilled and her eyes flipped up to meet his. “I like that. The way you say my name.”

Something hot and liquid moved through him, and it had nothing to do with sexual desire. Jean-Baptiste dipped his head, slid a canine inside the front of her bra and tugged. There was a quick pop and Genevieve gasped. Both silky pink cups flew to opposite sides, revealing a pair of the most spectacular breasts he had ever seen.

His mouth started to water.

“And I like that, too,” she said breathlessly, her gaze raking over him; his face, neck, his chest. “And these,” she continued, putting her hands on his forearms, moving up, over his pumas, tracing the lines of the water and grass. “Did they hurt?”

He shook his head, jaw tight. He was poised above her, his muscles straining, his skin vibrating, his cock so hard it could drill granite. He’d never wanted anything more. To be inside this female, so deep he lost himself. So wet, he drowned. So enveloped, all thought and anxiety bled from him.

“Maybe I’ll get a tattoo,” she whispered.

Fuck. He spread her legs with one thigh and demanded, “Where?”

Her gaze slid from his neck to his eyes. “I don’t know. Any suggestions? My back? My hip? My ankle? My inner thigh?”

“Oh, Genny,” he breathed, dropping his head, nuzzling the underside of her breast. “You have such beautiful skin. So perfect.”

He lapped at one dusky pink nipple and she gasped, wriggled beneath him.

“I think the only mark you should have on your body is mine.”

Her eyes slammed up to his. “What?”

He grinned. “You heard me. And you know what I meant by it.”

He dipped his head again, but this time he took her nipple into his mouth and suckled it deep. A groan escaped her throat, raw and hungry, and her back arched off the bed. God, she tasted so sweet. He was never going to be able to forget it, forget her. His cat was right there with him, wanting the same thing. Snarling, threatening to emerge if it wasn’t satisfied.

For one brief second, Jean-Baptiste felt the feline at the surface of his skin, felt the beginnings of a shift, but then Genevieve reached for him—her hand sliding between her bodies, her fingers wrapping around the trunk of his cock—and the puma growled and retreated back into its cage.

While she stroked him languidly, possessively, Jean-Baptiste turned to her other plump breast and suckled that one, too. He drew the fiercely tight nipple deep into his mouth until she cried out, until she squeezed the head of his dick—until pre-come rushed from both their sexes.

He knew the words he’d uttered to her had been impulsive as hell. The offer, the claim to mark her. But it had also been real and true, and had come from deep within his guts. How the fuck had he managed to meet the one female in the world who was meant for him? It was a goddamn miracle—and one he wasn’t about to turn away from. Maybe he wasn’t the best male for her. Not now. Not yet. But he wanted to be. He’d find a way to be.

As he circled her nipple with his tongue, then flicked it sharply up and down, back and forth, she moaned and gasped and writhed beneath him. Her thumb played with the pre-come at the head of his cock as he trailed his hand down over her ribs, to her flat stomach, to her hipbones and into the smooth curve of her sex. When he felt the fire, the molten lava between her legs, he nearly came.

“Sweet, Genny,” he whispered against her breast. “You’re creaming, ma chérie. Your thighs, your hot pussy and my sheets are drenched.” He ran his teeth over her nipple. “Just the way I like it.”

“Jean-Baptiste, please,” she said breathlessly, wriggling against his wrist, wanting his hand, needing to be filled. And when he thrust two fingers up inside her slick, tight channel, she screamed his name again.

Tight, wet heat gripped his fingers, and he moaned and lifted his head. Her eyes were glassy and large and pinned to his face. Her lips were parted and she was panting.

Shit, he wouldn’t last at this rate. One drive into her pussy and his cock was going to explode.

He took her mouth in a series of hungry, possessive, painful kisses as he growled against her lips, and his fingers pumped inside her slowly and rhythmically.

“Please, Jean-Baptiste,” she murmured, nipping at his bottom lip as she wrapped her legs around his waist. “Please come inside me. I need to know. I need to know how you feel.”

I need you.

The realization, the absolute truth in that thought, thundered through him, and he eased his fingers out of her, grabbed his stiff cock and pressed it against the plump, pink folds that guarded her slick pussy. He glanced down, saw the way her flesh hugged the head of his dick, beckoned him inside, creamed around him in anticipation.

And then she jacked up her hips, taking him inside her just an inch or two.

Jean-Baptiste felt his mind retreating and his body taking over.

Mine.

You belong to me.

He slid his hands beneath her hips, cupped her ass and lifted her, letting her body take him, one inch at a time until he was buried inside of her. Her eyes dropping closed, her face tensing and her throat releasing groan after groan, Baptiste guided her back and forth, her pussy fucking his cock. It was the most perfect feeling in the world, and he knew in that moment that if anyone tried to come between them, if anyone even looked at this female with lust in their eyes, he would attack to kill.

He eased her hips to the mattress, released her, only to spread her legs wider. He placed his hands on her inner thighs and started thrusting.

She cried out. “Yes! God, yes!”

“Your pussy is milking me, Genny,” he said through gritted teeth. “It’s like blisteringly hot ocean waves all the way down my cock, ma chérie. I don’t know how long I can last.”

She was gone, her head thrashing from side to side on the mattress. Jean-Baptiste pulled out, just partway so he could see her, him, their connection. Her dusky pink lips were wrapped around his cock, coating him in her sweet juices. Christ, if he could lick her and fuck her at the same time, he would.

His head dipped and he closed his lips around one luscious tit. As he pumped inside of her, he drew on that nipple, flicking it with his tongue. Inside her pussy, the honey sweet walls were spasming, electric currents and waves of wet heat.

“Jean-Baptiste!” she cried out, stiffening beneath him.

He battered her womb, suckled her nipple deep, as she came. With every thrust, he growled. With every new wave of orgasm, he cursed. With every roll of his hips, he claimed what had belonged to him the moment she’d walked onto that porch and eyed him warily, that goddamn blouse buttoned up to her chin.

She wasn’t buttoned up now, he mused, fucking her so deep she cried out again. She was bare. Skin glistening with sweat, stomach muscles flexed, ripe breasts bouncing with every thrust, neck and jaw tense, lips parted as she breathed heavy and lustful.

She was his.

And when her slick channel convulsed for the third time that night, when she reached up, ran her fingers over his nipple, and tugged at the metal running through it, he exploded.

Pounding into her with utter and complete abandon, his body shaking and his balls tightening, he came, so hard and intense he felt something impossible overtake him. No. Not overtake him. Retreat inside him.

The cat.

He thrust up inside her one last time, and stayed there, buried against her womb, her warmth. Then he rolled them both to the side, and, breathing heavily, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. His heart was slamming against his ribs; his mind going nuts. He found her gaze. Her eyes were the bluest he’d ever seen them. And soft and satisfied and…dare he say, happy?

But inside himself, a miracle was taking place. The out-of-control, barely caged cat that he’d been trying to keep hidden for so long was purring. Fuck. The feline was nearly asleep. His tats and his piercings, and the malachite had never even come close to making him feel like this. Like her.

Genevieve.

His beautiful, sweet, and debilitatingly sexy Genny.

She controlled his cat.

Genevieve ran her hand up his arm, over the bulging muscle, over the growling pumas to his shoulder and neck. He was too beautiful.

Oh, god. What had she done?

What blissful, amazing, mind-bending act had she given into? Begged for? Wanted again, even now.

Jean-Baptiste was right. Seduction was a lie, an excuse—something you used to protect yourself from the vulnerability of asking for what you wanted.

She released a breath, her eyes connecting to his under the haze of moonlight streaming in through the window. Here she was, curled around this spectacular male, his arms protecting her, his gaze fiercely possessive, his cock still stiff and pulsing inside of her. And she never wanted to move again. Her throat felt suddenly tight. How was she ever going to walk away and forget this, forget him? How was she going to continue her quest and her mission when the sun rose the next day? Make sure Isi remained where she was, and then return to the Wildlands and a life that could never include him? Them? This…

His brows moved together in a frown of concern. “Genny?”

She pulled eye contact and buried herself deeper against his chest. “Don’t go,” she whispered into his skin. “I want to stay like this a little while longer.”

Jean-Baptiste chuckled softly, his hands running down her back to cup her ass. “A little while? Oh, ma chérie. We have all night.”

No, Jean-Baptiste, she thought sadly, letting her eyes drift closed and her breathing soften. We only have one night.

Chapter 6

Leaving the warm bed and sweet, soft body of his female had been the hardest thing Jean-Baptiste had ever had to do. But it would pay off. In a grand surprise he hoped would please her, and show her that her first impression of him—bad news—was inaccurate.

Even at two a.m. the French Quarter was packed, in full party mode everywhere he looked—brimming with revelers. Everywhere but Isi’s shop. Jean-Baptiste slid the Jag into a vacant spot in front of the house and killed the engine. Black and quiet. This wasn’t like her. Midnight to five a.m. were her prime working hours. Either she was avoiding certain customers, or straight-up avoiding him.

She’d have known he’d return, that he wasn’t going to accept one quick shut down about coming to the Wildlands. She’d have known he’d try again. And she’d be prepared.

Jean-Baptiste evaded the front door, and circled around to the back. He wanted the window that led straight into the body art room, the one they’d spoken in earlier. The room he knew best.

He swung himself up into a nearby tree, then silently crept to the edge of a thick branch and reached for the latch on the window. But before his hand even made contact with the chipped white paint, the scent of something pungent shot into his nostrils. Whatever it was stung like hell, and made his brain go slow and fuzzy.

“Was this head trip meant for me?” he muttered with irritation. “Or someone else?”

For anyone who wishes me harm.

The words blasted into his head, a near explosion of sound, and Jean-Baptiste whirled around, hissing as he reached for the red powder he carried in his pocket. She was somewhere above him, high in the tree, and though he couldn’t see her, he could scent her. Granted, if this had happened a few days ago—shit, a few hours ago even, before Genevieve had eased and stroked his feral cat—Isi’s magic would’ve pulverized him, made his cat so insane he’d have been debilitated. He’d have fallen out of the tree, clutching his head and begging for the pain to stop.

But times had changed.

“You know I don’t want to hurt you,” he said into the darkness, gripping the powder in one hand, swinging up onto another thick tree branch with the other. “But our kind is in serious trouble. Our borders are compromised, our magic is dying far faster than we realized, there’s been an attack inside our lands, and the first Pantera cub conceived in over fifty years might not survive.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Isi said, her voice strangely far away, though her scent remained immobile. “You seem…different. More powerful.”

“The cat’s caged, Isi.”

He heard her gasp. “What?” Then curse. “I want to help you, okay?” she said, her voice fearful and all over the place now. “But I just can’t.”

Jean-Baptiste took a deep breath and calmed his insides. “I’m afraid you must.”

His instincts were sharper than they’d been in years, and his nose had always been first rate. In under three seconds, he leapt to the top branch. He caught her gaze, her shocked expression just before he opened his hand and blew the red powder straight into her face.

“Damn you, Baptiste,” she uttered, her eyes rolling back in her head, her body swaying. “I can’t…I’m not meant to be there…”

She passed out. But before she fell, Jean-Baptiste pulled her into his arms and held her close, then dropped easily from branch to branch until they hit the ground. As he headed around the side of the house and toward his car, he growled softly. He didn’t relish in the fact that he was taking this female into the Wildlands against her will, but these were desperate times.

Not just for the Pantera.

But for him.

Genevieve awoke to rich, yellow beams of sunlight, the earthy scent of coffee, the delicious feel of Jean-Baptiste’s warm, thickly muscled body against her back, and the breath-stealing intrusion of his steel-hard cock slowly pushing inside her.

She instantly arched her back, groaning as she gave him better access. Jean-Baptiste brought an arm around her waist and up to grip her shoulder. As he filled her, inch by wondrous inch, he pressed down on her shoulder, sending him as deep as possible.

Grinning, her entire body flaring with heat and hunger, Genevieve let her eyes drift downward. Jean-Baptiste’s other hand had slipped between her legs and was working its way to her sex. The muscles inside her pussy clenched in anticipation, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to keep her back arched or swing her hips forward. But before she could even pull another thought from her already-fuzzy brain, she felt his teeth on her shoulder. Growling, he scraped gently over her skin as his fingers slipped into her wet pussy lips.

After that, it was impossible to do anything but give in and let her body react and respond.

Thrusting inside of her, nipping at her shoulder, circling her plump clit, Jean-Baptiste hit all the right spots, and Genevieve moaned and fisted the sheets and moved with him. God, being filled by him, taken by him, felt so right. Like the perfect breeze off the bayou, the perfect day when everything goes just as you planned it—the perfect kiss from the one male on earth who sees past your buttons and starch and into your splayed heart.

“Genny,” he uttered roughly. “Just the thought of being inside you, so deep inside your tight pussy, is enough to make me come.” He cursed and bit her shoulder again. “But the reality…Christ, it’s like a drug. A drug I never want to come off of. A drug I will never let anyone else near—”

He pinched her clit. Lightly. But it was Genevieve’s undoing.

She moaned, arched her back even farther, circled her hips over and over, feeling the volcanic rush of impending orgasm spread through her. And when he did it again—pinched her sensitive bud, a little harder this time—she screamed and came apart in his hands.

It was too much for Jean-Baptiste. He roared into the beams of sunshine cascading down upon them, gripped her, nipped her, and as she bucked wildly in his arms, he gave her three hard, deep thrusts before he came inside her, before he filled her with hot, milky seed, before he gathered her up and held her impossibly close.

It seemed like hours, days, maybe even weeks before either of them moved again. Before they even stirred. They lay still and sweaty as the sunbeams were temporarily overtaken by clouds, then returned, brighter and warmer than ever.

Then Genevieve purred and rolled in Jean-Baptiste’s arms until she faced him. She draped her leg across his powerful thigh and stared. Sweat agreed with him. So did sex. His eyes were glowing. His dark hair fell around his neck, the tats, his jaw. And his mouth was a dusky, well-worked-over, crimson color. She wanted him again.

“Yes, Miss Burel?” he said, his eyes flashing with heat.

She grinned. “I smell something amazing.”

“Well, thank you.”

She laughed. “No, not you.”

“Not me?” He plastered on a frown, which frankly only made him look sexier. “Then it must be the beignets and coffee.”

“You’re kidding?” Her heart pinged and she came up on her elbow. “You did that for me?”

He reached down and gave her backside a playful slap. “Just trying to impress you, Miss Burel.”

She loved being called Genny, especially when he was inside her. It was soft and gentle and intimate. But she had to admit there was something that made every inch of her skin tingle when he called her Miss Burel. “I can’t believe you went out just to get me coffee and beignets. Where are they? I need them now.”

He laughed. “Easy, ma chérie. I’ll get it. I’ll be serving you. Feeding you. Though, with how late it is, the coffee might be a little on the cool side.”

“Late?” She looked around for a clock, but didn’t see one. How late was it?

“Nothing to worry about.” Jean-Baptiste growled, kissed her thoroughly, then flipped the sheets back and sat up. “And the beignets are only part of the surprise.”

“Really?” The time was momentarily forgotten as she caught sight of his smooth, broad back and the spear tattoo running up the length of his spine. God, he was truly mouthwatering. “Are you spoiling me, Mr. Baptiste?” she purred.

He glanced over his shoulder, gave her a heavy-lidded, highly sexual grin. “All day, every day, Miss Burel.”

Heat rushed through her. “Tell me.”

“I took care of our little problem.”

Confusion intermingled with the heat inside her and she came up on her knees. “What do you mean?”

He stood, lifted an eyebrow. “Isi is in the Wildlands.”

Genevieve’s lips parted, but nothing came out. No breath, no gasp, no words. Even though the sun was shining outside the glass doors, the room suddenly took on a gray cast, and inside Genevieve’s brain, electric shocks of fear and warning detonated.

No. He couldn’t have…she couldn’t have…

“I took her there myself,” he continued, standing gloriously naked before her. “It’s done, ma chérie. Our mission is complete, and we can stay here all—”

“No!” The word came out harsh and fearful, and Genevieve wasted no time in scrambling off the bed. “Oh my god. Oh my god.” What time is it? How long did we sleep?

“Genevieve? What the hell’s wrong?”

Everything. God, how could she be so stupid? So careless? How could she have allowed herself to forget the point of this trip in a one-night-of-meaningless-fun sinkhole? Shit, the one road to her future…

What the hell time was it?

“Genevieve,” Jean-Baptiste said again, this time with a growl attached.

“It’s over,” she said, grabbing clothes out of her bag and throwing them on.

“What’s over?” His voice was low, wary.

“My career. My shot.” Finding a way to fix the broken magic in my family. Where was the damned clock?

“What are you talking about? Raphael’s thrilled.”

She hastily toed on her shoes and zipped up her bag. “I have to go. Right now. I have to go.” I have to see if I can repair this damage. Beg the elders for a second chance.

“I thought this would please you. I thought…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll call for the car.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take a cab. I can get back on my own.” She wouldn’t make this mistake again. She’d swear it to them.

“Okay, this is bullshit.” Jean-Baptiste was at her side in a second, naked and tense, grabbing her by the arms. “Look at me.”

She stilled. She didn’t want to. God, she didn’t want to. When she looked at him, bad things happened. Bad things that masqueraded as amazing, wonderful, perfect, future-killing, things. But her eyes slid up anyway. And as she met his gaze, saw the confusion and the heat and his desperate need to understand her, her heart squeezed. And her mind whispered traitorously. Love?

“Is this about bringing Isi in yourself?” he asked. “Wanting to impress Raphael? First assignment kind of thing?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

She shook her head, bit her lip.

“You need to talk to me.”

“I have to go.”

“Not yet.”

“You don’t get to hold me here,” she said, her throat tight. “I want to go.”

“You want me,” he said, his face a mask of hunger and heat.

Oh, god.

“You want me, Miss Burel. Say it.”

“Of course I want you!”

“Then stop this. This ranting. This fear.” He released her shoulders and took her face in his hands. “I’m here with you, Genny. Don’t you understand that? You know how I feel, what I want—what I’m offering. My life is yours now. It’s insane and too fast, but it’s right. We both feel it. All I want to do is be with you, care for you, protect you.” His eyes searched her. “Whatever the problem is, I can fix it. Just tell me. Talk to me.”

She shook her head, her throat raw and tight.

“Yes,” he assured her. “It’s what males do for their females.”

Never in her life had someone looked at her this way. Wanted her this way. Utterly and unabashedly. And yet, she couldn’t embrace him. She’d chosen her path, made her commitment to the elders. And you didn’t go back on that. Not unless you wished to incur their wrath. Her family needed her now. And as she'd found out with her parents, running off, giving in to selfish choices, wasn't going to solve the problem of the busted magic attacking her family.

His voice deepened to a possessive growl. “I’ve claimed you, Genny. I nearly marked you with my teeth a moment ago, for fuck’s sake. And if we’d been inside the Wildlands, if I’d had access to my puma’s claws, I would have.”

She gasped then, her eyes going wide. All that he’d said when she was in his arms, beneath him, in front of him, crying out his name, came back in a rush. Yes, he’d offered for her and she’d allowed her mind to dismiss it. Pretend it never happened so she could enjoy the little bit of heaven she’d wanted so desperately. But now, looking up into his fierce, darkly handsome face, she could no longer dismiss it. The beautiful, perfect offer, and the ugly truth.

“No one can claim me, Jean-Baptiste,” she said with such deep regret it was palpable. “I’m not a Suit. Not anymore. I work for the elders. I can never be this way with you again. And I can never be your mate.”

Chapter 7

Dusk was settling over the bayou, soft and quiet and milky. The massive sable puma watched the one he wanted above all others scamper off into the trees, her nearly white gold pelt acting as a beacon, a spotlight. He wanted to run after her, block her path, growl at her, hiss at her. At least until she listened to reason, maybe dropped to her belly and let him curl up beside her again, lick her fur. But Genevieve Burel was determined to get to the elders, plead with them to forgive her and allow her back into their fold. And Jean-Baptiste had decided to let her.

He turned in a circle, snarling softly. She’d lied to him. And yet, how could he be angry with her? He’d lied to her, too.

He opened his mouth to scent her one last time, pull the sweet, delicate fragrance of her and her cat into his nostrils, then took off in the opposite direction. He’d give her twenty-four hours to come to her senses, listen to herself, her body, and her cat. Twenty-four hours to realize they belonged together. Twenty-four hours to come to terms with the fact that the elders were her past, and Jean-Baptiste was her future. Then he was going in.

Clock starts now, Miss Burel.

He yowled at a few black puma Hunters on patrol near the edge of the yellow cow lily-strewn bayou. They returned his call, and he continued on, weaving in and out of a stand of oak, catching the scents of Hunters and Suits among the pitcher plants and wild bee balm as he headed for town. Though his heart hurt like a motherfucker, he wanted to check on Ashe, Raphael, and on Isi. See what progress was being made. See if the voodoun was awake and plotting his demise.

The village was buzzing like the cave-top hive he’d stumbled upon as a cub when he broke through a patch of anise shrub. Must be close to evening meal, Jean-Baptiste thought, heading down one of the side streets. The Pantera pumas were all shifting into their human forms, waving goodbye to friends, rushing out of shops, making their way toward their residences. Baptiste spotted the clinic ahead and picked up speed. A few pumas, still in their cat forms, jumped out of his way, hissing, but Baptiste didn’t slow. Already up the steps and inside, he headed for his office, a place he’d hardly been in the last few months. He’d claimed to be either ill or working from home. He hadn’t wanted to risk a problem with his cat. But he didn’t have that problem anymore, did he? he mused, bursting into the lab. Not since Genevieve.

His lip curled and his cat purred. Damn, he missed her already. Maybe he should’ve insisted on going with her to see the elders, letting the three ancient females know just to whom their new recruit belonged. But he was trying not to be a possessive bastard. Trying to let her come to the realization that they belonged together on her own.

Of course, he wouldn’t wait long.

Twenty-four hours.

Tick. Tock.

“Come to check on your voodoun?”

His cat’s fur prickled and he turned around, eyed the party behind him. Raphael and two of the Pantera’s best physicians entered the lab, the latter wearing pale blue coats and looking very concerned.

Baptiste shifted instantly, loving the new and precious feeling of control he now had over his animal.

Raphael’s tired, green eyes narrowed with the new, quick and easy act. “Well, this a new development.”

Not confirming or denying the Suit’s assessment, Jean-Baptiste walked toward them. “The voodoun. She awake?”

“She is,” Angel said dryly, his night-black eyes and white short hair a startling contrast. “Awake and pissed.”

Grabbing the stack of charts from Angel’s hands, CJ headed for her desk. “I think the last time I checked in on her, she was planning your death.”

Just as he’d expected. “Weapon of choice?”

The red-haired female glanced up from her charts. “A little of everything. She was talking blades when we examined her. Then a very dull saw when we took blood.”

They’d done a full work-up? Christ, she was going to be spitting fire. “Did you give her anything?”

“Just some anti-nausea meds. She was pretty green when she woke up. But the meds seemed to have given her some relief.”

“Has she seen Ashe?” Jean-Baptiste asked.

Raphael growled before anyone could answer. “She’s refused.”

Damned, stubborn woman. “I’ll talk to her.”

“You need to do more than talk, Baptiste,” Raphael said, closing the gap between them, his nostrils flaring. “You need to convince her to come and see Ashe, help her, cure her—”

“Raphael—” he began.

But the leader of the Suits was too far gone now. Rage and fear and misery coated his skin, was the air he breathed, directed every move, every thought.

He cocked his head to one side and flashed Baptiste his fully-descended canines. “Because if she doesn’t help my female and cub, I won’t be able to stop myself from killing her.”

“The voodoun is here?” came the soft hiss. “In the Wildlands?”

“Yes.” Genevieve sat before the elders, her chin lifted, but her insides twisting and turning with dread and grief and desire for the male she’d left back in the bayou. The three ancient, female Pantera, who existed in their puma state, were coated in mist, and sat in the three points of a triangle on the wide, cypress bridge that extended across the calm, moonlit bayou.

“You failed to stop her,” said Wilu. The brown cat’s words were not a question.

Genevieve nodded. “I know.”

“What is your excuse?” Gaya asked, the blue-gray cat’s matching eyes thoughtful.

I was asleep. I was in bed with a male.

I fell in love.

Her shoulders falling, Genevieve shook her head. “I can only claim inexperience.”

The third elder, Tyee, rose to all four paws and started toward Genevieve, her white fur, thick and lush. “Do you wish to rectify your failure, Genevieve?”

“I wish to apologize for it,” she said quickly.

The cat shook her head, her pale blue eyes narrowed. “It’s not enough if your goal is to be one of our students. An elder yourself someday.”

Warring emotions swam in Genevieve’s blood. This was it. Her choice, her decision, and she had nothing but excuses. They wanted her commitment to a cause she believed in wholeheartedly—a cause that could stop the decline of magic both inside her home and out—and she was hesitating. But could she truly give up seeing Jean-Baptiste again? Never being touched by him? Kissed by him? Even the idea, the thought, damaged her heart.

She was weak.

“It’s no loss, Genevieve,” Gaya said pleasantly. “Just as your mother before you, it seems that you may not be suited for such an honor.”

The words had not been meant to bruise. The elders only spoke in facts, truths, hard as they might be to face. But Genevieve winced all the same.

“I don’t believe that,” she said, her chin lifting.

“Your passion is elsewhere,” Wilu said, her bright yellow eyes clinging to Genevieve. “As is your focus. Perhaps you wish to find a mate.”

“No,” Genevieve said, shaking her head, even as her brain screamed, I already have!

Tyee stopped before her, leaned in and touched her black nose to Genevieve’s hand. “Perhaps the magic inside your home wanes because your belief in the elders wanes.”

Her heart lurched. “Never!”

The white puma dropped her head. “You have disappointed us, Genevieve Burel.”

“Wait—”

“You are released.”

Before Genevieve could say another word, all three elders vanished from the bridge, leaving only a thick mist curling above the bayou.

“You can forget my shop exists. No more ink. No more metal. I don’t care if your cat chews your dick off, understand?”

Standing in the middle of the lab, a six foot, black-haired linebacker of a Hunter guarding her back, Isi glared at Jean-Baptiste. Arms crossed over her chest, blue-streaked hair wild around her face, the woman looked ready to murder him, and he didn’t blame her one bit.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

She flipped him off. “Don’t pretend you give a shit.”

He shook his head. “Not pretending. I do care. I just care more about the survival of my species. And this woman who carries the first Pantera cub in fifty years is being threatened by something. From the inside out, Isi. I swear to god, I wouldn’t have gone to these lengths, been a complete asshole, if it weren’t dire.”

“You had no right to do what you did, Baptiste,” she said. “I don’t owe you or them anything.”

He nodded. “That’s true.”

Her teeth ground together. “But…”

“But, shit, Isi. It’s a baby.”

She stared at him for several long seconds, then slowly started to shake her head. “I don’t know what you think I can do for her.”

“Just take a look, see what you think.” He walked toward her.

“Do I even have a choice here?”

“Course you do.”

“Don’t try to play nice now, Baptiste,” she warned as he approached. “I’m not forgiving you.”

Jean-Baptiste grinned. He’d always enjoyed their almost sibling-like banter. “No forgiveness,” he said, reaching out and pushing down a patch of her wild hair that was sticking straight up. “But maybe if I need the ink or metal again…”

She slapped his hand away. “I told you. Hell. No.”

“Come on, Isi. You know you find it fascinating—”

He stopped speaking, his nose catching the most wondrous, most delectable scent in the world. Instantly, his body went hot and hard, a hungry growl vibrating in his throat.

His nose didn’t make mistakes.

Not when it came to his female.

Miss Burel was near.

Chapter 8

Violence had never called to Genevieve until now. Until she stood in the doorway of the clinic’s lab and watched Jean-Baptiste touch the voodoun’s hair. Her lip peeled back and her canines started to drop. She wanted to spring, release her puma, race across the floor and leap onto the woman, claws out. But hurting Isi, or even displaying her nearly debilitating jealously, wasn’t why she was here. Trying to prove her worth to the elders and her commitment to the Pantera by removing the woman from the Wildlands without incident was.

Jean-Baptiste stepped away from Isi, and turned around to face Genevieve. If it was possible, he looked even more fiercely handsome than he had a few hours ago when she’d left him in the forest. His amber eyes were glowing with warmth and the metal in his lip winked at her.

She swallowed the saliva that had pooled in her mouth.

“It’s good to see you, Miss Burel,” he said. “And much sooner than I had anticipated. Have you come to tell me your dealings with the elders are done?”

His voice enveloped her, made her insides melt, made her cat purr. She growled and shook her head. “I’ve come for her.”

Isi raised one eyebrow.

“And what do you plan to do with her?” Jean-Baptiste asked evenly, coming to stand in front of the voodoun.

“Take her back. She doesn’t belong here. She doesn’t want to be here.” She looked at Isi then, tried to push back the desire to rip the diamond studs from the female’s nose with her teeth. “Isn’t that right?”

“By here do you mean the Wildlands?” Jean-Baptiste asked. “Or beside me?”

She turned to him and growled. “Of course I mean the Wildlands.” But inside her guts, and her heart, the latter seemed a far bigger concern at the moment.

Foolish female.

“I think I have some of that anti-love elixir with me,” Isi uttered dryly. “It’s yours if you want it, Baptiste.”

Genevieve whirled on the female and hissed, “Shut up.”

Once again, Isi’s eyebrows rose.

Jean-Baptiste started toward Genevieve. “The elders want her out of the Wildlands.”

She lifted her chin. “That’s right.”

“And you’ve come to do their bidding.” Those liquid amber eyes pinned her where she stood. “Do you even know why?”

“Of course I do. They believe her to be detrimental to our land, to Ashe and the child. They know what’s best for our kind, Jean-Baptiste. They always have. They’ve always protected the Pantera.” It’s why I’ve admired them so much. Why I’ve given up my life to be in their service.

Jean-Baptiste didn’t agree or disagree, just kept coming toward her. “Do you think it’s wise to take on a job without knowing the reasons behind such a belief? What if they’re wrong? Or misinformed?”

“They’re the elders,” she said as if that was the only explanation necessary. “They know all.”

“I don’t believe that. If they knew all, why is it we still can’t breed? Why do we still have pools of dying magic on our borders?”

Genevieve just stared at him. She’d had the same thoughts, the same questions, and had pushed them from her mind. Wasn’t it traitorous to question the elders?

“Isi could be the one person to help Ashe,” Jean-Baptiste was saying. “Help the cub.”

“And what if she’s not?” Genevieve said softly, her head growing fuzzy as his scent pushed into her nostrils. “What if she does more harm than good? That could be behind the elders’ motives. They could know something about her we don’t.”

Jean-Baptiste’s gaze was fierce. “Something they refuse to name?”

“They are the Pantera!”

“No. We are the Pantera. All of us.”

“Baptiste.” It was Isi. She’d grown suddenly pale, and she moaned softly. “Can we do this? Now. I’m not feeling so great again.”

“You don’t have to stay here,” Genevieve called to her. “You can’t be held against your will.”

“Dammit, Genevieve!” Jean-Baptiste roared.

But Genevieve wasn’t listening. “I can take you back myself.”

“No,” Isi uttered, coming forward, reaching out for Jean-Baptiste. “I’ll see her.”

As soon as Isi’s hands made contact with his arm, Genevieve lost it. The elders didn’t exist anymore, neither did her weakness and pride. And claws appeared where her hands used to be. Instinct possessed her and she stalked forward, her eyes narrowed on the voodoun, her cat pushing through her skin.

“Stop, Miss Burel,” Jean-Baptiste warned.

“Take. Your. Hands. Off. Him.” Genevieve barely recognized the guttural, feral voice coming out of her mouth.

Isi groaned, and Jean-Baptiste turned to the guard. “Hiss, bring Isi to Raphael. Now. I’ll be there in a minute.”

His eyes watchful of Genevieve, the male went to the voodoun and took her arm, led her from the room. When the door to the lab closed and they were alone, Jean-Baptiste rounded on Genevieve.

“I’m not going to pretend I don’t love you snarling and scratching to show not only me, but yourself, just how mated we truly are. But I’m not going to allow you to take Isi, Miss Burel—”

“It’s Genevieve,” she snarled.

“Not yet, it’s not,” he returned.

She froze, and behind her narrowed eyes she felt tears form. She missed him. How was that possible? In such a short time? His touch, the softness in his voice when he said her name, her nickname…

“Talk to me,” he said, moving closer. “Do the elders have a hold over you? Are they blackmailing you or threatening you?”

She shook her head.

He gathered her in his arms. “Then what the hell is going on? You don’t feel a desire for this work, for them. Your desire belongs to me now.”

Goddammit, she hated his words. Hated them because they both echoed the elders’, and because they were true. She nearly crumpled right there.

“Why, Miss Burel?” he pressed.

Her head dropped back and she locked eyes with him. “I love the Pantera. I only want to do right by them. The elders…” she began miserably. “I’ve always believed they were the answer to our longevity, our happiness and our peace. They are the ultimate problem solvers. And I’d hoped, once I was in their service, that they’d help me find the answer to my problem.”

“What problem is that?”

Telling him the truth was far more difficult than she’d imagined. It made her feel oddly vulnerable. “The magic isn’t just waning at our borders anymore, Jean-Baptiste.” She swallowed hard. “It’s broken free. It’s fading inside my house. Inside my Grands. Maybe even inside me. Has been for several months now. My parents ran away instead of facing it, trying to find out how to stop it. I couldn’t do that.”

Jean-Baptiste was silent as he digested what she’d just told him. His gaze moved over her face, his brows pinned together, his mouth set in a grim line. He looked confused, possibly even angry.

Was he mad because she’d lied to him? Or was he disgusted at what was happening inside her house? To her family? Did he see her as weak now?

“This is unbelievable,” he uttered, shaking his head.

Her heart lurched and she felt sick to her stomach. She couldn’t stand to have him look at her with disgust and censure. Or listen as he told her he’d made a mistake—they weren’t mates, and he didn’t want to claim her.

She wriggled out of his grasp. “I have to go.” She shouldn’t have told him. Shouldn’t have opened her heart.

“Wait. Your family’s magic is gone?”

“I won’t bother you again,” she said, turning, hurrying toward the door, “Or your voodoun..”

“Genevieve!”

Before Jean-Baptiste could say another word, Genevieve ran out. Down the hall, she thought she heard him calling to her, but the sound was drowned out by her quick shift into her puma.

Jean-Baptiste tore out of the room after her. Christ, what a screw up. Both of them. So destined, so in love with each other, so desperate to find a way out of their strange predicaments so they could be together. Yet all the while keeping secrets. Pointless, harmful secrets. This was it. No more. They were both coming clean, leaving the past behind and turning to each other for help, for a future, for the truth.

But when he passed Ashe’s room, her open door, and heard Raphael’s pained voice leach out into the hallway, he slowed.

“What the hell does that mean?” the Suit demanded. “Is she okay? The cub? Fuck, I hate that I can’t do a goddamn thing for her.”

“What’s wrong?” Jean-Baptiste came to stand in the doorway, his gaze hitting on every person in the room. Doctors, Isi, Raphael, and Ashe, asleep and pale on the bed. The small space was packed.

“The cub…” Raphael stuttered, glancing over his shoulder. The male sat on a chair beside the bed, Ashe’s hand in his own, looking like death warmed over.

“The cub is healthy,” said Dr. Julia, Parish’s new mate. She reached down and took the pulse at Ashe’s throat.

His eyes completely sunken, Raphael said, “But it’s growing faster than a normal fetus.”

“Our pregnancies are always faster, aren’t they?” Baptiste said, his eyes lifting to Angel.

The male doc nodded, but quickly amended, “This seems to be more in line with a feline gestational period. I’ve never seen it before.”

Shit. “When is she due?”

“Three months.”

Momentarily dumbfounded, Baptiste turned back to Raphael. The male looked ready to explode, lose his mind, maybe collapse. Baptiste prayed to god Isi could do something, because if she couldn’t, if Ashe didn’t make it, he feared not only what the loss would do to the leader of the Suits, but to the Pantera as a whole.

“I see no signs of distress with the cub,” Dr. Julia said, switching out a bag of fluids. “And though the child is developing quickly, it looks healthy. Ashe’s vitals are strong. She should be fine—if we can stop whatever’s holding her mentally.”

Every pair of eyes in the room turned to Isi. And the woman shrank slightly under the weight of their hope and fears. Pale as the reeds beneath the water of the bayou, she nodded at them. “I’ll try. I need time though. Time to study her, see the way she moves, smells, makes noises in her sleep—”

“Maybe you can do more than that,” came a female voice behind Baptiste.

Walking into the room, Dr. CJ held up a file, her face a mask of tension.

“What are you talking about?” Raphael demanded.

CJ looked intently at Isi. “Your blood tests came back.”

The woman flinched. “So? Did you figure out why I feel like puking every time I’m near or inside of the Wildlands?”

“No.” CJ glanced at Julia, then at Angel, then back at Isi. “But I did find out that you and Ashe share DNA.”

Isi’s pale skin turned gray. “What?”

“You’re related.”

A soft groan echoed throughout the room. Everyone looked back at Isi. But the sound hadn’t come from her. Jean-Baptiste’s gaze slid to the bed, and to Ashe, covered in wires and tubes.

“No,” Isi was mumbling, drawing back, fearful now. “That’s impossible. I have no family.”

“Blood doesn’t lie, Voodoun,” Dr. CJ said crisply.

“Oh, my god,” Julia called, rushing to the bed, her stethoscope already in her ears. “Raphael. Look.”

Isi looked over at Jean-Baptiste. “There’s a mistake. I don’t have family. They screwed something up—”

“You,” came a breathy, pained sound.

Jean-Baptiste tore his gaze from Isi, and turned to Ashe. Her face was as pale as skim milk, her lips were dry and a dull pink, her body was still prostrate and hooked up to a ton of meds via a ton of tubes, but her eyes…holy shit, her eyes were open and pinned on Isi.

“Ma chérie,” Raphael said, his voice shaking as he took her hand and kissed the palm. “My love. Oh, thank god.”

But Ashe didn’t seem to recognize Raphael or his voice. She stared transfixed at Isi, her lips parting once again. “You,” she uttered hoarsely. “I know you.”

Chapter 9

“Something’s wrong with our Bé.”

“Definitely.”

Sitting cross-legged on her Grands’ bed, Genevieve glanced up from her cards—a nearly full house—and caught them both staring at her, their own cards all but forgotten.

“Come on, tell us,” Maw-Maw cooed.

“Yes,” Paw-Paw said. “What happened on that trip, sweetheart?”

She’d been home for less than an hour, and in that time her Grands had done nothing but study her and grill her about her trip. Who was on it with her, why was she home so late, was that expression on her face an indicator of success or hardship?

“Nothing,” she told them again. “Everything’s fine.”

Paw-Paw snorted. “We may be ancient, Bé love, but we know you better than anyone. Something went either very wrong on that trip.” He turned to his wife and grinned. “Or very right.”

Heat surged into Genevieve’s cheeks, and she tried like hell to keep the image of Jean-Baptiste’s face, body and mouth from entering her mind. But she failed. Seemed she was doing a lot of that lately.

“Oh, my blessed knees,” Maw-Maw began, leaning forward so Genevieve could see the female’s entire hand. Straight flush. “You met yourself a male, didn’t you?”

“No,” Genevieve said quickly, the word sounding phony even to herself. “I went to work. Nothing happened.” God, what a bald-faced lie. “There was no one—”

“Is he handsome?” Maw-Maw asked.

“Who cares about that,” Paw-Paw put in. “Can he be a good partner? Is he strong and fearless?”

A knock on the door not only stalled the conversation, but startled Genevieve.

“Genny!” called a male voice outside.

Genevieve’s heart dropped into her stomach. Hell, maybe it had even burrowed itself into the mattress. What was he doing? Why would he come here after everything she’d told him? After how he’d reacted?

“Genny!” he called again. “Come out here or I’m coming in!”

Her gaze jerked back to her Grands. They were both reclining against the headboard of their bed, white down comforter to their chests, wide eyes and even wider grins plastered to their faces.

“Sounds handsome,” Maw-Maw said.

“Sounds strong,” Paw-Paw put in.

Oh, my god. This was humiliating. “I’ll be right back,” Genevieve said, scrambling off the bed.

“Take your time, Bé ,” Paw-Paw called after her.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Maw-Maw added with a tinkling of laughter.

Her heart slamming against its cage of ribs, Genevieve hurried to the front door and burst outside. Jean-Baptiste was leaning against the porch railing. Just like he had when they’d first met. Except tonight, he didn’t have on the leather jacket. Just jeans and a T-shirt, which showed off his sexy ink and hills of muscle to mouthwatering perfection.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her mouth so dry the words nearly came out a squeak.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. It was the one with the metal through it, and she fairly sighed with desire.

“If we’re to be officially mated I won’t have you running from me every time there’s an issue,” he said, pushing away from the railing.

She backed up to the door. He followed.

“Who says we’re going to be mated?” she asked breathlessly.

“I do.” He touched her face, smiled. “And you do.”

“You don’t want to get involved with this, Jean-Baptiste.”

“With what? The dying magic inside your home?”

She flinched.

“Genny, you’re right about the troubles having crossed our borders. But it hasn’t just attacked your family.”

For a moment, Genevieve wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. What was happening inside her home, to her Grands…was he saying they weren’t alone?

“How do you know this?” she asked, looking at him intently, making sure she heard every word of his reply.

His thumb brushed across her cheek. “Because the magic is dying inside of me.”

“What?” she said on a gasp.

“Or it was. Until you came along.” His eyes pinned her where she stood.

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“My cat has been out of control for a while now. It refused to remain caged. Even outside the Wildlands.”

“Oh, my god.”

“That’s why the tats and the metal. I had malachite put into each to ground my puma. It was barely keeping me sane.” He leaned in then and kissed her. Softly, sweetly, lovingly. “But you, my wonderful, beautiful Genny, have tamed us both.”

Another wave of confusion, of shock, barreled through her. “That’s not possible.”

“I wouldn’t think so either, unless I’d felt it.” He kissed her again. “But love and chemistry, desire and respect can work miracles it seems.” And again. “We’re made for each other, Genny.”

The knocking inside her heart, the heavy beats, the fear and worry and sadness, began to ease. He loved her. He wanted her. Despite everything.

Or maybe because of it.

“The elders told me it was just my house,” she said, a strange and powerful rush of strength running through her. “They lied.”

“Maybe not. Maybe they don’t know about me, or if there are others who are suffering in silence and shame.” His eyes grew serious. “But it’s time we as a species talked about this. What’s happening to our land, to our cats, to our people. So we can work together to find an answer.”

Genevieve’s chest swelled with pride. It’s what she’d wanted from the elders. Being part of something bigger then herself, something that would help the Pantera, herself and her Grands included. Jean-Baptiste was right. The only way to find the reason for the dying magic, both on their borders and now inside their lands, was to work together as a species.

As the Pantera.

“Come, Mate,” he said on a growl.

“You haven’t even kissed me yet,” she teased, the blood in her body surging with a now-familiar heat. “A little premature, don’t you think?”

He grinned, and the look nearly made her legs turn liquid.

“Inside, Genny,” he said. “We may be mated in our hearts and our bodies, but I’m going to ask permission from your Grands.” He grimaced. “Hope they don’t find me too scary.”

She grabbed the back of his head and pulled him down for a kiss. “They’ll love you. Just like I do.”

He kissed her hard and hungry for several seconds, then eased back. He pulled open the screen door and was about to follow her in when his phone rang. He took a quick glance at the screen and cursed.

“Sorry, ma chérie,” he said. “It’s Raphael. And after what just happened in the clinic, I need to get this.” He stabbed the button. “What’s up, Raph?”

Genevieve watched him, silent as he listened to the Suit on the other end—the Suit Genevieve hoped would take her back into the fold. When Jean-Baptiste hung up, the happy, sexy, charming male who’d just kissed her dizzy and stupid was gone. In its place, stood a wide-eyed, teeth-bared male on the verge of shifting. Growling, cursing, he shook himself. Within seconds, he returned to his human form.

“Jean-Baptiste.” She touched his arm, worried and a little fearful. Not of him, never of him, but of what he’d just been told. “What’s happened?”

His eyes lifted to meet hers, and black ire glistened among the amber. “Not only is Ashe awake, but the ones who are responsible for her attack are in custody.” His voice dropped to a dangerous pitch. “It seems there are traitors among us.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

USA Today best selling author of the Mark of the Vampire series, Laura Wright is passionate about romantic fiction. Born and raised in Minnesota, she was an actor, singer, and competitive ballroom dancer prior to becoming a writer. Laura now lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young children, and three lovable dogs. Visit her website at laurawright.com