she worked, waiting for this to be over, when the exam room door flew open.
“What are you doing to my brother?” a female version of himself demanded. “I could hear him whimpering outside!”
“Helping his big, dumb bear ass,” the doctor replied before she glanced back . . . and up. Her hands froze, and a small growl came from the back of her throat.
“This is my sister. Britta.” Berg explained, knowing his sister’s size alone was making the cheetah nervous. Female grizzlies were the most feared among the shifters. Not only were they psychotically protective of those they considered family—blood or otherwise—they were, like the males, easily startled. One wrong move could lose a shifter an arm. Or a whole head. “And my sister is going to be calm now. Calm, because I’m fine.”
The doctor seemed to accept that until a male mirror image of Berg also walked into the room and, after slamming the door, glared around without saying a word.
Berg sighed. “And that’s my brother. Dag. We’re triplets.”
“Your poor mother.” The doctor motioned to the far side of the room. “You two, over there.”
Britta angrily snapped, “You don’t order me aro—”
“Britta . . . please?” Berg nearly begged. “Instruments digging into my chest. Think about that a moment before you say anything else.”
With a nod, Britta immediately moved to the corner of the room, but Dag—oblivious as always—leaned in and watched the doctor trying to dig out that bullet.
Berg knew his brother was just curious. He’d always been fascinated by medical procedures. But that didn’t mean the cheetah would understand. In fact, she was starting to sweat a little. And the room was cool.
But before Berg could warn his brother off with a growl, Britta came back and grabbed Dag’s arm, yanking him over to the corner.
Could a cheetah take out three bears? With thumbs, access to lethal surgical supplies, medical training, and blinding speed . . . there was a definite chance. And why risk it when she was, in her own catlike way, trying to help?
“You know what’s happening right now, don’t you?” Britta asked from the corner. “Coop’s sister is getting a private jet to come over here.”
“Coop said that might happen.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll handle her,” Britta promised. She suddenly pointed at Berg. “When the cat is done—”
“I have name, big-bottom bear.”
“—you and Dag will need to get Coop to Rome, then back to the States.”
“Coop’s still doing that concert?”
“There are some people you don’t cancel on. The Pope is definitely one of them. But the remainder of the shows are going to have to be canceled.”
Berg cringed. And not just from pain. “That’s not good.”
“It’s not that bad. There are only two more after Vatican City,” Britta reminded him.
“Yeah,” Berg sighed. “But those two shows are in Russia. Those Kamchatka bears are gonna bitch if we cancel. They do love their Jean-Louis Parker.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Britta said, her head down as she was busy texting on her phone. “Coop says he’ll add St. Petersburg and some city in Siberia and that should quiet the bears and the tigers and the Cossacks.”
Berg blinked. “There are still Cossacks?”
“Of course there are still Cossacks,” Britta snapped.
“How am I supposed to know? I’m not Russian.”
“Are you almost done?” Britta asked the doctor, her tone typically commanding, despite her lack of power with an Italian medical doctor who was also a cat.
“I’m done when I am done, sow. Do not pressure me.”
“So who was the girl?” Britta abruptly asked, attempting to throw her brother off.
“What girl?” Berg asked, working to keep his face blank. A skill he’d picked up from their father.
“The girl.”
The doctor paused in the middle of her work. “You went tense, bear.”
Ignoring the doctor, Berg told his sister, “There was no girl. Just me and Coop in the room.”
“Uh-huh,” his sister replied before refocusing on her phone.
“The sow knows you lie,” the cheetah teased softly, but Berg already knew that.
* * *
Stevie MacKilligan leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her chin resting on her raised, clasped hands.
“And how does that make you feel?” she asked the patient across from her. “That your mother treats you like that?”
“Awful. I deserve better!”
“You do deserve better,” Stevie insisted. “Just because your mother is the dictator of a small country and kills those she considers enemies of the state, doesn’t mean that your opinion doesn’t matter.”
“You’re right, Stevie. You’re so right!”
Stevie turned to the man next to her. “And what about you, Jacques? How are you feeling? Are you still upset about losing that yacht race?”
“It is all my brother’s fault!”
A throat clearing had Stevie looking over her shoulder. Dr. Gaertner motioned to her with a wave of his hand and Stevie nodded and stood. She looked at the man sitting across from her. “Why don’t you take over, Dr. Schmidt?”
“Since I am the actual trained psychiatrist here,” he sort of snipped back.
Stevie smiled at him. “And you are doing a great job.” She gave him a thumb’s up before walking over to Gaertner and following him out of the group therapy room.
He led her down the long glass hallway toward the back exit. They often liked to talk while walking in the beautiful garden behind the clinic. One of Stevie’s favorite places.
“So what’s up?” she asked.
“I wanted to let you know before you heard from someone else . . . your sisters came by today to see you.”
Stevie stopped before they reached the doors and faced Gaertner. “My sisters, they’re . . . they’re here?”
“They were. I asked them to leave. I think we both know you’re not ready to see them right now. Not when you’re doing so well.”
Stevie blinked and took a step back. “But . . . they were here. Here at the clinic? Inside the clinic? Is that what
