Page 97 of Brandon’s Mate

His sweet, unbreakable, badass mate. He waited until he had her on the brink once more, and then he bent his head to hers and whispered, “Claim me. Make me yours.”

With a growl, she sank her teeth into his shoulder. Deeper and deeper, making him her partner, her king, her protector, her devoted slave.

Everything.

Blue light exploded around them, coursing through him, healing all his wounds, body and soul. The crew was his, she was his. And he was theirs. The way it was supposed to be.

Chapter 44

Brandon woke to the sun in his face. Kitty was still asleep, curled around him, warm and soft and trusting.

Her claiming mark had already healed to a scar. He ran his fingers over it, letting the feelings he’d denied so long wash over him.

He loved her. And against all odds, she loved him—his wild, unpredictable wolf woman. His beautiful monster.

Brandon lay there for a while, soaking in the feeling, and then disentangled himself gently, careful not to wake her.

He didn’t have any paper to leave a note, so he put the two halves of their heart necklace in the middle of his pillow, edges together so the heart was complete.

He shimmied into a pair of jeans and looked down at the night table. Flynn’s envelope was still there, still unread. After a moment’s hesitation, he stuck it in his back pocket. Then he climbed out the window and headed up the hill to Nick’s grave.

When he got there, he was shocked to see that the rocks he’d put at the head of the grave were gone, and a small polished headstone sat there instead. The engraving read:

Nick Cadoulec

Not gone

Not forgotten

He gave a snort of laughter. Yeah. Not gone. Maybe now he’d be able to leave, though.

He ran his fingers over the carving, then scanned the woods further up the hill. He could feel Sasquatch out there, just out of sight. He didn’t know how something so big could stay so invisible.

He was a stone carver—he must have been the one to do this. Brandon wasn’t sure how he felt about having someone around who could carve headstones—it seemed like that was just asking for bad shit to happen.

But he appreciated this one, all the same.

He raised a hand in the direction of the hidden presence. “Thanks,” he called out.

No Sasquatch appeared. Not even a ghost. But the sense of Squatch’s presence remained.

Brandon sat down on the ground and opened Flynn’s envelope. A creased travel brochure for Tahiti fell out, with the note and an index card.

Brandon opened the note. In Flynn’s scrawled handwriting, it read:

Listen, kid. I know you’re pissed off right now because life ain’t fair, and neither is being a born alpha. But one Sunday morning you’re gonna wake up with your damn kitchen full of pain-in-the-ass fucked-up shifters who won’t leave. When that happens, you should escape to fucking Tahiti while there’s still time. But since you probably won’t, you might need this.

Brandon turned over the index card. Written on it was Flynn’s secret pancake recipe.

He sat looking at it for a long time. Then he murmured, “I guess you are always right, you stubborn bastard.”

He looked up, and saw four panther ghosts watching him. “Sorry I didn’t do better for you,” he said, looking at each one of them in turn. “I really wanted to. Thanks for what you did last night.”

Once by one, Ranger, Jeb and Fargo got up and walked right up to where he was sitting. They each rubbed the side of their face against his, the way cats showed affection. They felt like puffs of cold mist, but it still warmed his heart.

Then they trotted off into the woods, fading slowly until they disappeared.

Only one was left.