Different.
I thought about a conversation Saint had told me he’d had with our father not long after the news had broken about his real identity.
“Humans live in a fragile state. We can’t allow them to know their next-door neighbors and buddies they work out with are wolves or bears. God forbid the PTA moms find out their bestie they drink Manhattans with every Friday is a leopard. And heaven help us if anyone knew the real identity of the mayor of our lovely city.”
The mayor of Chicago was a damn lion shifter. Even today, most humans had yet to understand just how fragile their hold on the concept of who belonged on Earth truly was. There were shifters of every kind living amongst us.
Even we weren’t able to tell from afar, although the stench of a lion or a bear was pungent as hell when we were within a couple hundred yards. Still, they were able to hide their true identities as well as the wolves could do.
We would have stayed in the shadows had it not been for one of our own wanting to cash in on his position in the shifter world. He’d dropped one huge bomb that we hadn’t been able to control. So here we were, thousands of shifters still hiding in the closet for fear of being hunted like animals. I was the poster boy of blending in.
Just like my brother.
“Were you drunk last night because in seeing you today, it would appear you certainly were awake all night long.” She put up a picture of the guy from the night before. His hand was in a cast and he was looking all pitiful. Just like an asshole to play the shifter card when it suited him.
I didn’t like Ansley’s attitude. “I wasn’t drunk. I barely drink any longer.” Why bother telling her that shifters rarely succumbed to the effects of alcohol?
“Then what caused you to almost kill this man?” she asked in a way indicating annoyance, not fear.
“I didn’t almost kill him. I just… I stopped him from groping a young woman. Nothing more. He’s lying if he said it was anything else.”
Why was it that every time shifters were put in a position to defend themselves, the people asking the question always had a particular expression? As if chastising a child or a real criminal.
“Who was this woman?”
The question was pointed and Ansley expected me to answer. Her body language screamed that no matter what I said, it wouldn’t matter. She’d already made up her mind about me. I was a dirty, filthy animal. “None of your business.”
“Oh, I see. Just another puck bunny. Great. I told you this was a bad idea.” Now she was talking to Bobby.
“She wasn’t any puck bunny!” I snapped, which silenced the room. I was many things, but not prone to outbursts. “She’s a nice girl. Okay? She was in the arena doing a little skating and could tell I was having a hard time. Okay? It’s not like I have any friends and I doubt seriously that I’ll manage to snag a few.”
Another moment of silence and this time, I could feel Ansley smirking. I fisted my hand, wondering why I was bothering. Jerking up, I headed to the window, looking outside and instantly remembering Saint talking about the first time he’d peered out a similar window and the number of reporters and protestors hanging around for an off chance at a photographic moment with the hockey star and savage werewolf.
The headlines had been brutal for weeks.
What did I see when I peered out the window? Two people holding signs. Maybe they’d followed me. Maybe they hadn’t. Two lone people in festive Hawaiian shirts. There was no doubt in my mind they were tourists checking off an item on their bucket list.
Item five hundred and fifty-seven: Get a photo with a flesh-eating monster.
And the signs they held? Well, other than a pretty damn good representation of everyone’s nightmare of a werewolf complete with blood dripping down his jowls were words that would forever stick in my mind.
Shifters aren’t human. They have no rights.
There it was.
The crux of the entire situation. Whether they believed what they had written or not didn’t matter. There were few humans on our sides and millions who believed we were out to hunt and feed on our prey. Seeing the couple did infuriate me, but the real reason why was far more human than I cared to admit to anyone.
I was fucking jealous my brother had experienced the lavish attention of millions of eager fans. He had puck bunnies lining up, various agents eager and willing to maim, mutilate, or kill each other to garner his signature on a lifetime contract and enough endorsements he and his lovely mate lived in a lavish style Robin Leach would be jealous of.
And here I was sleeping on a twin bed in a shitty house and I was about to be tossed out on the street while fighting with some chick who hated me about my social media pages. All of it was a distraction from the only thing I’d ever wanted in my life.
To play hockey.
The only monster in the room was a green-eyed one.
“Are you feeling sorry for yourself, Steven?” Bobby asked, his voice so quiet I was surprised.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
