Jess Ward’s wedding. A more amazing woman, shifter, and friend a man could never hope to have, and that’s why Lock was going to undertake the painful task of getting between two snarling females before they started tearing into each other. He was almost on them, was only a few feet from getting past the trees and between them, with luck before blood was spilled, because nothing attracted shifter attention quicker than the scent of fresh blood—and, of course, two drunk chicks fighting.
Yet before he could take those last steps, she was there, shoving the two females apart before they’d made contact. With her fangs out, a low and deadly growl rolling past her lips, she held her arms out from her body to keep them separated.
“A mixed breed,” some lioness had sneered about her earlier in the evening when this feline had passed. The more politically correct term was, of course, hybrid. A ridiculously gorgeous hybrid, too, whom Lock had first caught sight of at the ceremony. At the time, he’d felt someone staring at him, but that wasn’t unusual. People stared at him all the time. Yet when he’d finally glanced over his shoulder, out of mere bear-curiosity, to see who it was…well, he’d looked right at her. And, for the rest of the evening—through the synchronized wild dog dancing, the county-wolf line dancing, and the incessant conga lines led by some annoying male lion—Lock had watched her any time she’d come into his line of sight.
It was hard not to watch her when she was wearing that deliciously thin sleeveless black gown, equipped with only two little strings tied around her neck to hold the delicate material up, displaying the shoulders of an Olympic swimmer, while the thigh-high slit slightly off to the side revealed the legs of an Olympic gymnast. Or maybe he was fascinated by that striking face with those almond-shaped, bright gold eyes; the small nose that made him think of a house cat’s muzzle; those full lips that made him think of nothing but hot, sweaty sex; and those almost razor-sharp cheekbones that made him think she might be nothing but trouble.
Was it really any surprise he’d been unable to look away—or that he’d spent most of the evening thinking about asking her if she wanted a drink? Yeah, he’d thought about it. He was a bear and bears were notorious thinkers. They’d study, they’d think, then they’d move. Unfortunately he’d never found the chance to move. Not with her flitting all over that reception. Not that she was being social, though. She wasn’t. He watched her talk to a few people, but mostly she seemed to be on the hunt for something or someone, her gold eyes ever watchful, ever scoping out a target. He was surprised the Marines hadn’t recruited her. They’d snagged Lock right out of college and placed him with the Shifter-only Unit. He could easily see her as one of his teammates. Then again, probably not a good idea. He wouldn’t have gotten much done if he was busy staring at her all day.
“Cut this shit out right now,” she snarled at the two females. Her voice was low, a little rough. He liked it.
“Back off!” one lioness said. “This whore’s mine.”
“Whore?”
“That’s it!” The hybrid let out a breath, lowered her arms to her sides. “That is it. Whatever Roxy O’Neill told you, it’s a load of crap.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I do. And if you weren’t on your fifth martini and you on your seventh Long Island iced tea, you dumb bitches would know that, too.”
“Watch how you talk to me.”
“I would, if I thought you had a brain in that fat lion head of yours.” Does she really think this is helping? “But you don’t. So cut this shit out right now or—”
“Or what?” the other lioness demanded. “What are you going to do about it, rescue kitty?”
The first lioness laughed and suddenly the two enemies had bonded over a new target.
The hybrid knew it, too. He could tell by the way her body stayed relaxed, but her gold eyes sharpened. This wasn’t her first time in a fight and she wouldn’t feel bound by shifter-etiquette to fight with only her claws and fangs. He’d bet cold cash that she was armed. Not with a gun—too noisy—but with something sharp that could be quickly used and tossed away before the cops came.
The two She-lions were up against something they simply couldn’t handle. Something deadlier than a mere feline or hybrid. They were dealing with a Philly girl. Or, as Lock also liked to call them, a Pennsylvania Pain in the Ass.
As a Jersey boy who’d spent many a childhood summer at the Jersey Shore with his vacationing parents, and then as a bouncer during the summer months when he was big enough to pass as “legal,” Lock had dealt with more than enough visiting Philly girls to last him a lifetime. He’d never known anyone—regardless of breed—who liked to argue as much as the Philly females. They could—and would—argue over anything. And God help you if you took it past arguing, if you took it into something physical.
How did he know this particular hybrid was a Philly girl? Because she had it spelled out in easy-to-read script on the gold necklace hanging around her throat.
Knowing he had seconds to end this before he was forced to call the cops or dispose of bodies—both of which he’d really like to avoid, if possible—Lock moved around the three females until he was upwind of them. A small, summer-night breeze passed and both She-lions raised their heads, their noses sniffing the air as their bodies tensed, and they seemed to sober up immediately. He watched as they slowly faced him, their dark gold eyes wide as they gazed at him in mute horror. He could have done a lot of things at that moment, but Lock didn’t need to. He kept the hardcore bluffing for his own kind.
Instead, all he did was curl his lip the tiniest bit and give off the softest, faintest grunt. Almost a hiccup. It worked like a charm, too, the two cats tripping backward, slamming into each other before they skidded on the damp grass and took off running into the wedding.
That left him and the hybrid. She hadn’t moved at all while the cats were scrambling around her, trying to get away. But now that they were gone, she faced him. Her bright gold gaze traveled from his head to his feet and back again. He knew she might run, knew she might take a wild leap for the trees. Not hard when she had those legs.
She did neither. Instead a slow smile spread over those lips and she said, “Jersey bear to the rescue.” Her head dipped a bit and she looked up at him through pitch-black lashes. “Because we both know what I would have done if they’d made a move on me, don’t we, Jersey bear?”
Uh…yeah, yeah. Sure. Whatever. The bear in him could care less about all that…he only knew he wanted the pretty kitty. He wanted to pick her up and carry her back to the closest river he could find and offer her fresh salmon, honeycombs with desperate bees still clinging to them, and never-ending sex. Yeah. Sex. Lots and lots of sex.
Grizzly-Lock was so focused on the feline standing in front of him, looking sexier than anything he’d ever seen—or even dreamed of—before, that he wasn’t at all aware of anything else. At least not until that hand roughly landed on Lock’s shoulder and a male lion snarled behind him, “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing with my sister?”
Startled, Lock reacted the only way the bear in him knew how. With complete and utter violence.
Spinning around, Lock grabbed the cat by the neck, lifting him up. The male’s eyes grew wide, his hands turning into claws, but Lock chucked the imbecile fifty feet into the surrounding woods before he could do anything.
Jaw popping, the rage and fear ripping through him, Lock started to go after the big-haired bastard to neutralize the threat
