“Damn right, I do.”
It was the inciting factor that sparked her change, and forced Magic’s panther to feel something other than bitterness. And it was alllll Cupid.
“I did that,” Mason said, with satisfaction. “Layna wasn’t at the front desk when she arrived to check in, and I’d seen you look at her like a man who was hungry. I gave her the keys to the adjoining room. Easy shit, right there. Snapped into place like fucking Legos.”
Magic stared, blinking over and over. The bun on the top of his head didn’t even flop, he was so still.
“I should be furious with you. I know I should, but instead I want to give you a goddamn hug or something.”
Uh, nope.
“Settle down, Magic.” Mason held his hands up in case his leader was serious about the hugging thing.
“If it weren’t for you and that bobcat, we might still be living under the old ways, miserable and needing something we could never have without compromising our values.” Magic shook his head, still looking awestruck. “Without you, I wouldn’t have Josie.”
“Don’t be getting all crazy now.” Mason glanced around to see if anyone was nearby. “I have a reputation to uphold, ya know.”
“Yeah. About that…”
Mason knew he was the man-slut of the bunch. Calm and patient masseuse by day, raging fuck machine by night. And he liked it that way.
“If your goal is to get everyone mated, when will it be your turn?”
Mason stiffened before letting his hands fall back to his sides. “Never.”
“Never? You’re kidding right?”
Slowly, he shook his head. Mating wasn’t for him. It wouldn’t make him stronger. Only weaker, and he couldn’t afford to be weak now. None of them could.
“Who’s next then?” Magic mused, squinting at the sky and rubbing a rough hand over his stubbly jaw. “Which of my cats gets to be happy next?”
Mason turned to see the parking lights of a pickup truck bouncing across the lot and coming to a stop in front of the lodge. Owyn stepped out, slamming the door so hard it bounced back, missing the latch. He glared at it before shutting it again, a little easier.
Mason had noticed a few things about the panther shifter. Most notably, the way he looked at their fine, fine Doctor Christina Davis.
Yes, Destiny chirped in his head, and he resisted the urge to tell her to scram. She was usually pretty good about only invading his thoughts when she needed to. He got the feeling she didn’t want to be there anymore than he did. Oh fine. I’ll go. I just wanted you to know, Owyn’s ready. Go get ‘em Cupid.
Chapter One
Now…
Doc Davis stared at the nervous tiger shifter on the exam table as she put her stethoscope back around her neck. Part of her job at the lodge involved relaying bad news, but most of the time is was bandaging cuts, doling out aspirin, and taking care of the members of her clan. The problem was she never knew when the bad parts of her job would rear their ugly heads and demand a kiss on the lips.
Luckily today was not that day.
“Is there anything we can do?” Bailey asked, a hint of embarrassment in her voice.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Bai.”
The clan’s assistant chef’s wide-eyed look implied Doc was missing something huge.
“But… there is. Can’t you see that?” She held her arms wide to give Doc the best look at her body. As if that would clear up the confusion.
“Your blood pressure is perfect. Your cholesterol levels are normal. Your heart rate is great and you have no trouble breathing. Your blood work shows nothing out of the ordinary. Hormone levels are fine…” Doc trailed off as Bailey’s shoulders sank with each sentence. She should be happy with this news. Not the other way around.
“But… the weight. My body. It’s… it’s…” Bailey shook her head.
It was true, by human standards, Bailey was overweight. Her body bulged a little extra in places that made some people uncomfortable.
And there was a remedy for those awkward stares and whispers. It was called Middle Finger. Lift daily, as needed.
But Bailey wasn’t a human. She was a werecat and her body was exactly what it needed to be in order to function optimally with her animal.
Besides, some males would worship a figure like Bailey’s. Doc would gladly take some of her curves if they could be bartered and traded like tangible goods. Lush thighs instead of pencil legs? Hell yeah, she’d take ‘em.
But wasn’t it always this way with people? The-grass-is-always-greener syndrome. It was the great sickness of their time. The Black Plague of the twenty-first century.