Page 2 of Bad Blood Panther

Chapter 1

Watching her two-year-old son sleep always filled Jenny Castile’s heart with joy, underlaid by an old and familiar sadness. Now, as he lay in the tiny spare room in her grandmother’s cottage, his crib tucked under the slanting ceiling, her heart ached at the thought of leaving him.

“He’ll be fine,” Anthea said. “I’ll keep him safe.”

Jenny turned to face her. “I know,” she said. Anthea would die before she’d let anything happen to Brandon. “But now that Alton’s Seer has prophesied that Brandon will be the one to carry on his family’s line, and be alpha after him—he’s not going to want to let him go. He’s not going to let either of us go without a fight.”

That terrified her. She’d never been a fighter—she’d never been brave. Hell, she practically hyperventilated when she had to speak in a clan meeting. How could she stand up to an alpha like Alton?

“I know, love,” Anthea said. “That’s why you need to find him a safe place, with a clan that can protect you both. Until then, I’ll shield him from Alton’s Seer with what magic I have. He’ll be safer here with me than out on the road with you.”

Jenny nodded, turning to face the woman who’d raised her. Like most aging shifters, Anthea Castile could have been taken for a woman of thirty-five or forty, instead of the sixty she really was. Her long black hair had not even a hint of gray.

It was poker-straight, the opposite of Jenny’s wild curls. But their eyes were the same, a dark midnight blue. Their stubborn chins and high cheekbones were the same, too—except for the deep scar that marred Jenny’s left cheek.

Anthea had kept Jenny safe after her parents died—raising her alone, away from other shifters. But when Jenny got older, she’d wanted to be in a large clan, around other panthers. She hadn’t listened when Anthea warned her against the Broken Hill Clan.

Or against the other choices she’d made. But Anthea had been right and Jenny had been wrong, and now Jenny had to fix things for her son. There was no way she would let that warped bully Alton turn her son into a monster like him.

She wouldn’t let the Seer’s prophecy bind Brandon—the prediction that Alton’s line would restore Broken Hill to glory. But breaking away meant admitting she’d been living a lie for almost three years—and that Brandon wasn’t the destined alpha.

Because he wasn’t Alton’s son at all.

She leaned over and kissed Brandon’s chubby cheek, brushing back his silky dark hair. He stirred in his sleep, then clutched his favorite stuffed duck closer to him, giving an adorable little growl.

“I’ll see you soon,” she whispered.

They closed the door to his bedroom and returned to Anthea’s open main room, which served as living room, kitchen, dining room, and study. Crowded bookshelves covered the walls, with pots of herbs and medicinal flowers tucked into spaces between the books. Large crystals and bowls of smooth polished stones decorated the tabletops, and brightly-colored pillows and throws were scattered around, a rich mix of fabrics and textures from nubby wool to sleek satin.

“Better put some of this stuff out of reach,” Jenny said, glancing at the crystals. “You know Brandon will go through here like a horde of Viking marauders, destroying everything in his path.”

Anthea just smiled. “He’s a good boy,” she said.

Jenny felt tears sting her eyes. He was a good boy, at his core. Emotional and passionate and prone to temper, though, like his father. But he also had his father’s humor and sweetness, and his easily wounded heart.

And she loved him with a fierceness that could still take her by surprise.

“I hope I’m doing the right thing for him,” she said. “Taking him from his clan.”

“Broken Hill is rotting from the inside,” Anthea said. “You know that as well as I do.”

Jenny nodded. Ever since Alton took over as alpha, he’d led the panther clan into one war after another—for territory, for pride, to feed his own insanity. “He’s going to destroy them,” she said. “So many dead, already…” Strong warriors, good men, their lives wasted in pointless, archaic fights.

She knew some shifter clans had managed to adapt to the twenty-first century. She’d thought Broken Hill was one of them. It was a wealthy clan, and had once been happy. But they’d returned so fast to their primitive roots. Peace and prosperity weren’t enough; they wanted the thrill of the hunt, and glory in battle.

And death.

She took Anthea’s hands. “I wish you could See our future. Brandon’s and mine.”

Her grandmother shook her head. “Your path has always been dark to me, lovey. I’m afraid you have to find it alone.” She leaned forward and kissed Jenny’s cheek. “I wish I could help you more.”

Jenny smiled through her tears, and hugged Anthea hard. “You’re helping me in the best way possible, by keeping my son safe.”

Anthea held her for a moment, then let her go. “Safe journey,” she said.

Jenny gave her one last hug, and walked out into the night.

She drove down the dark highway, determination fueling her for the first hour. Until she stopped for a break and a cold drink, and then found herself sitting in the car in the rest stop parking lot, shaking.

This was crazy. She’d always been shy, self-conscious about her scar, and hated being around people she didn’t know. Now she was hunting down a man she hadn’t seen in three years, who she’d thought she would never see again. A dangerous man—maybe as dangerous as the one she was trying to escape.

A man who’d never loved her, who’d never even realized how much she cared about him.

Who was, by all accounts, the craziest of a batshit-crazy crew.

But he was her last hope, her only chance to get away from Broken Hill. The least she could do for her son was go and see him, and find out if there was anything left of the man he used to be.

Without warning, it all came back to her like a sledgehammer to her heart. Alex. His dark eyes with the mischievous glint and the hint of vulnerability. His cocky grin. The way he made her feel like her whole body was lighting up, and she could do anything.

The night he’d dared her to ride shotgun with him in an illegal road race, driving his souped-up Camaro down the back roads in the dark, taking the curves too fast, winning by inches against that wicked fast Trans Am. He’d taken her in his arms afterwards, swinging her around, whooping and hollering and saying, “Feel that? Now you’re fucking alive.”

The touch of his hands, his lips on her skin, the one and only time they’d made love. The taste of him, his passion and his fire and his pain. Oh, Alex. It could have been so different.

Not Alex anymore, she reminded herself. He’d left everything behind, even his name. She pulled the wrinkled printout from her purse, and looked at it again. Alexander Fierro, it read. Panther, Bad Blood Crew. And underneath that, goes by Xander.