He couldn’t even fault the others for going along with it, or even not picking up on what she did. They asked, she answered affirmatively, they went about their business. And maybe it was easier on her. Decision making was an energy suck. Ask any alpha around how much they enjoyed being the one looked to for ideas all the time.
The only outlier to that was she never shifted, and she never wore low cut shirts. The first, she always claimed she’d join in a run later. Later never arrived. The only tracks she left behind were her shoes or her bare feet, never any paws.
The second only became apparent as the weather warmed. Now here they were at the end of June, and she stayed clothed and out of the water. He’d glimpsed the upper edge of puckered skin enough to know she had a scar. Tracing it and yanking her hands away was all he needed to know it bothered her. How she’d gotten it and why it haunted her were mysteries he couldn’t leave alone.
He dragged a line over one shoulder of his carving.
“You’re getting really good at those!” Kyla exclaimed when she wandered back to their table, hair wet from her defeated dunking in the lake.
Rhys grunted to ward off the big, bubbly smile on her face. He dragged his knife along the thick leg in an attempt to even it out with the other three.
Still, she wouldn’t be deterred. “You could probably even sell them online.”
Rhys flicked her a look that would probably make Lindley yell at him if he saw, then went right back to his carving.
“Ooh-kay,” she breathed, grabbing a bag of chips and turning away.
Fuck. Disappointment tinged her scent and made his lion snarl. Being a dick to the other Crowley males was different than being an asshole to the mates. One group he’d happily brawl with all damn day. The other he’d gnaw off his arm before truly hurting.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
She spun back around and brought a hand to her ear. “Excuse me? What was that?”
“You heard me the first time,” he said gruffly. “Do me a favor and don’t tell Lindley.”
“Don’t tell Lindley you apologized? Oh, hell no. Everyone is hearing about that. They probably won’t believe me, but I’m sticking to my story. I might even make the news.” She waved a hand through the air like she was showing off her imaginary headline. “Crotchety local man apologizes, story at seven.”
Rhys snorted at her chuckle, then called after her when she turned away again. “Kyla.” He turned over the words carefully, not wanting to seem like he pried too hard on shit that, ultimately, wasn’t his concern. “Sage’s scar. She got it from Jasper, didn’t she?”
Her face fell and her scent turned sad. “He didn’t claim her, if that’s what you’re asking. Not properly.”
Not properly, but enough to feel the weight of his possession. The long line across her collarbone, plus the dip down the middle… Familiar fury bubbled in his veins. “It’s his initial, isn’t it?”
Eyes wide, she nodded.
Rhys dipped his chin, and she turned to go.
Motherfucker. A low growl rattled in his chest as his lion scrabbled for control.
Rhys tightened his grip on the carving. Red tinged his vision. A litany of curses rolled through his head as sendings flashed from his inner beast. Blood. Lots and lots of blood. Spraying, painting the walls, seeping into the cracks in the floor.
Jasper was a dead man if he ever walked out of Shiftermax. Hell, he was a dead man if Rhys ever found his way into the shifter prison. Roland, too. Sage’s father was far from innocent in the whole fucking mess. An innocent woman was dead—
No. He shook his head. Not dead. Sage still breathed. Sage wasn’t Hannah.
Laughs from the water buzzed through his head and he shot a glare to the pride enjoying their day. He needed to leave. Now. Before he ruined their fun over shit he couldn’t change.
That damn volleyball sailed right for him again.
Rhys snagged the ball before it bounced away from him, bared his teeth at the other group, then drove his knife straight into the white leather.
“What the hell?” one of the players shouted.
Rhys was already on his feet. He dragged his knife out of the ball, then threw the deflating remains back at the other group. “Watch where you’re fucking throwing things, assholes!”
Eyes watched him. Brown. Blue. Grey. Green.
Green eyes.
Sage’s look cut through the snarling in his head, but it wasn’t enough to calm his lion. The beast wanted out.
With a roar, his lion ripped out of him and he bolted for the trees.
* * *
“It’s happening more often,” Trent said from his porch steps.
Rhys lifted his head as he padded closer to his den. He’d stayed out until the moon was high in the sky, not wanting to hear a damn word from anyone about how he needed to keep his temper in check and control his beast.
Too fucking bad, it seemed.
His bones cracked and popped as fur receded and his form shimmered back to two feet. He caught the jeans Trent threw at him and stuffed himself inside, then took a seat next to his alpha.
Anger still rode him hard. He rolled his eyes to the other man and growled, “Let’s get it over with.”
Trent pressed his lips together in a thin line, but didn’t say a word. Rhys wanted to bite the silent asshole. He resisted only because he knew it’d make the conversation last longer.
Besides, the man would get to his point when he wanted. There was no rushing him. His father had been the same way. Maybe it was a trait all the poor bastards in charge developed over the years.
“I know this time of the year is rough on you—”
“I’m fine,” Rhys
