Page 3 of Brandon’s Mate

When their last-chance panther crew shattered three years ago, Nick had taken off and disappeared. Brandon had told himself Nick would make it, without the rest of them dragging him down.

And maybe he would have, if some nameless fuckers hadn’t killed him.

Damn it, Nick, he said silently. What the hell did you get yourself mixed up in this time?

But there was no answer—just the silence of an empty, broken-down mansion at the ass-end of nowhere, with blood on the floor and three ghostly panthers lounging on the mouse-infested furniture.

Brandon’s panther was clawing at his insides, his not-really-sane-at-the-best-of-times mutterings turning to a yowl. Crew. Dead. Kill them, kill them all, rip… tear… bleed…

A wave of red came over his vision, and Brandon could almost taste the blood in his mouth, hot and sweet, feel his claws tearing into flesh…

He closed his eyes, trying to close his mind to his cat. It had never been easy to control, but since he’d lost the crew it just wanted to kill everyone who pissed him off. When the last of his control finally went, he was probably gonna end up full-on balls to the wall killer rogue.

But not yet. Not before he’d avenged Nick.

Next thing. Just do the next thing.

That was all that got him through, some days. Just figure out the next thing and do it. Get out of bed. Make food. Drink whiskey. Find someone to fight or something to bleed.

Some days—too many days—that was about it.

But not today. Not tomorrow, or the next day. He had to keep his shit together—dig deep and find his old self—if that person still existed. Not just Brandon the fighter, but Brandon the operative. The thinker and planner.

He had to find whoever killed Nick and make them pay. Slowly and painfully. Maybe then the voices of his lost crew would finally shut up, and their ghosts would stop haunting him.

But first he had to take care of the here and now.

Do the next thing.

Brandon found the remnants of a blanket and wrapped it around Nick’s remains. His former Second had obviously shifted and fought like hell—there were claw gouges everywhere, and blood pools on the floor that said Nick had taken down at least three.

But in the end, it didn’t matter. The hit squad had damn near torn him apart. Probably half a dozen of them, to take down one lone panther, the fucking chicken-shit cowards.

The question was, why?

What had Nick done—or who was he a threat to—that would bring on this level of retribution?

Nick hadn’t told him squat. All Brandon had was a coded message from one of the old chat rooms they’d used as message drops back when they both worked undercover jobs for the Agency, asking him to come to these coordinates.

There was no way Brandon could say ‘no’ when the last of his ex-crew needed him. Hell, he’d jumped at the chance. He’d just gotten here too damn late.

It was about what he’d learned to expect of himself. He somehow kept his furry black hide intact while people around him died, and he managed to do fuck-all to save them.

He found a shovel in the tool shed out back, and carried it up the hillside behind the house. Deep in the trees, he dug a grave.

As he shoveled, a prickling feeling grew between his shoulder blades, as if someone were behind him, watching.

Spook panthers? Or someone else?

He stopped and leaned on the shovel, surreptitiously scanning the woods, scenting the wind. Nothing—alive or dead.

Returning to the house, he slung the blanket-wrapped body over his shoulders and trudged up the hill to the grave, surrounded by the smell of death.

He lowered Nick gently inside, then filled in the dirt, the scrape of his shovel sounding loud in the silent woods.

He hauled two large rocks to the head to mark the spot, then stood by the grave, still shirtless from digging, sweat drying on his skin.

He tried to think of something to say, but there were no words.