Page 9 of Remington’s Mate

That’s why he’d originally started going to the spirit world—which was apparently where shifter animals lived when they weren’t manifested in the real world. To talk sense into his animals.

That part wasn’t really working out, but Brandon didn’t have to know all those details.

“Sure,” Remy said. “I’m fine. Why do people keep asking me that?”

Brandon gave him a long look, but finally nodded. “I know you won’t let me down.”

Of course he wouldn’t. Like he’d told the man, everything was just fucking fine.

Remy bailed on kitchen cleanup and headed upstairs, even though it was his turn and he knew Kitty would give him shit about it. Maybe if he was lucky, they’d get in a brawl over it. His leopard might shut up if he burned off some energy in a fight.

Remy didn’t know what else to do with him.

I would rather visit the spirits, his leopard said. Or get laid.

Nobody asked you, his owl said. Don’t you have a hairball to cough up or something?

The leopard growled.

Remy fingered the gold talisman in his pocket—his key to the spirit world. We’re not going to visit the ghosts, he told his leopard—and himself. We quit that as of yesterday, remember?

His owl said, How many times have we quit now? Five?

Six times, actually. He told the owl, I don’t need you giving me shit on top of everything else.

Just to prove to all his multiple personalities that he meant it, when he got to the third floor he turned left towards Colt and Callie’s suite, instead of right towards his own.

He’d promised Colt he’d feed their damn turtles while they were away. Of course, he’d promised Callie he’d play with them and tell them she missed them, too, but that was bullshit and he wasn’t going to.

Who gave their mate fucking turtles, and called it romantic?

He reached for the door handle, but stopped before he opened the door. Like he always did.

When the crew bought the mansion, he and Colt had planned an epic suite for the two of them to share, with a huge flatscreen TV and a beer fridge and a bunch of other cool shit. Now their epic bro suite was a mated-couple suite for Colt and Callie.

He hated coming in here. Admitting that he hated it pissed him off enough to make him turn the knob and go inside.

It was homey. Comfortable. Neater than if Colt and Remy had shared it, but not so neat it was suffocating.

Just being there rubbed him raw, like sandpaper on his skin.

He ignored the photo on the end table of Colt and Callie gazing at each other with their hearts in their eyes. Also the stone sculpture of a lynx and leopard that sat next to it. At the top of the sculpture was an owl, wings outspread as if it sheltered them.

Remy hoped that wasn’t supposed to be him. Because his owl would probably crap on them.

The glass turtlearium was over by the kitchenette. Tiger Slut, the female turtle, was splashing around in the little water feature.

Horney, her mate, huddled in a corner, his feet pulled into his shell and his head only halfway out.

Huh. Usually they were screwing like bunnies, only with shells.

Remy gazed down at them, hands on his hips. “Did you two have a fight?” he asked. Of course there was no answer, because fucking turtles.

He filled their bowl with turtle food, added fresh water to the drinking bottle and the bathing puddle, and got the lettuce out of the fridge. He looked down at Horney, still huddled in his corner.

“You’re in the doghouse, aren’t you?” Or was that turtle house? Anyway. “I’d give you a beer, but Callie would stab me. Here.” He put a couple of lettuce leaves in the turtlearium, one right in front of Horney. Horney loved lettuce.

Horney poked his head out a bit further, gave the lettuce a half-hearted nibble, gazed at his mate, and pulled his head back in. Tiger Slut continued bathing, ignoring them both.