HUNT (A Shifters Short Story)

I found pity and awkward compassion everywhere I turned in the werecat world because all my fellow Shifters could think about when they looked at me was what had happened to me the summer I turned seventeen, and how broken I must be because of it. Which was why I preferred the human world, where I was presumed strong until proven damaged.

“Sorry.” I bowed my head and stared at my boots. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No, you’re right.” He cleared his throat and I stared at his boots. “We all let you down when you were just a kid, and I let you down last October. You could have been killed out there in the woods, and I can’t let that happen again. So I’m ordering you to go get your things and come with me to the ranch. For your own safety.”

That was without a doubt the most overused phrase in any Alpha’s repertoire, and it sounded strange, coming from Jace. As if he didn’t really believe what he was saying. But further argument would do me no good, so I sucked in a deep breath and made myself meet his gaze. “Fine. Give me ten minutes.” Then I turned and walked back to the dorm without another glance at him.

What had happened to me—and to Robyn—on fall break wasn’t Jace’s fault. If I’d told him I was leaving campus, as I was technically obliged to do, he would have sent at least one of his enforcers to watch out for me, hidden in the trees in feline form. I’d kept him out of the loop because I didn’t want to be watched, and Jace had probably caught hell from the other council members for letting one of the country’s few and precious tabbies put herself in mortal danger.

But he must have taken full responsibility for what I’d done—as any good Alpha would—because no one had yelled at me for my lapse in judgment. Not even my parents, during our bi-monthly video chat.

I owed Jace, even beyond the normal respect due an Alpha from one of his pride members, and paying him back with insolence was unacceptable.

In our dorm room, Robyn finally turned away from the window to watch me throw clothes—both clean and dirty—into my big duffle. “You’re leaving? Now?”

“My dad wants me to come home for Christmas.” I threw my toothbrush, its charger, and a nearly empty tube of toothpaste into my toiletries bag, on top of the small, square box that had been there since my previous trip home. Then I scooped my makeup into the bag with one swipe of the counter. “Will you be okay here on your own?” Since she was staying on campus over the holiday, we wouldn’t have to pack up all our stuff and vacate the dorm room, a convenience I hadn’t truly appreciated until that moment.

“Yeah. The nightmares are practically gone. I’m fine, Abby. Really.”

I met her gaze in the mirror, trying to decide whether or not that was true. She had few physical scars from what went down in the woods over fall break, and those bastards hadn’t gotten the chance to molest her. Still, she’d seen three of our friends slaughtered right in front of her, and most people weren’t used to seeing violence or death, up close and personal.

More than anything in the world, I wished I wasn’t either.

“Okay. Knowing my parents, I’ll probably be gone for most of the winter break, but I can come back sooner if you need me. Call if you want to talk. Okay?”

“I promise.” She smiled at me in the mirror. “Now go have Christmas with your family.”

Christmas with my family.

My mother would hover over me and analyze everything I said for evidence that I hadn’t recovered from that summer four years ago. My father would watch me out of the corner of his eye and not-so-subtly mention Brian, and how accomplished he’d become as an enforcer, looking for any sign that I was ready to settle down and turn my parents into grandparents.

My brothers would follow me into town so I couldn’t get snatched off the street during any last-minute Christmas shopping, and they’d mentally dismember any guy who had the balls to even look my way, in spite of my large fraternal guard detail.

Going home for Christmas sounded about as much fun as Thanksgiving spent in prison.

On the bright side, there’d probably be ham.





“So, what’s the big emergency?” I said as I threw my duffle onto the rear floorboard, then slid into the passenger’s seat of Jace’s SUV. His gaze landed on my thighs, where my short skirt had ridden up, and the sudden jump in his pulse was…gratifying.

He’d seen me naked—and I, him—a million times, but nudity means little to most shifters, because it’s required for the transformation to and from feline form. Shifters are aroused by what they don’t see. What they almost see. By the intent implied by flesh displayed behind or beneath strategically placed panels of lace or silk. Flesh that is put on display, in private, for a specific intended audience.

Lingerie is big with shifters, for obvious reasons.

But Jace had never looked at me like that before. As if he wondered what my underwear looked like.

I laughed, and he flushed—I’d never seen an Alpha flush in anything other than anger. Then he looked straight out the windshield and made an obvious, concerted effort to slow his pulse.