Rage & Killian by Alexandra Ivy, Laura Wright

1
    Nostrils flared, green eyes narrowed, Rosalie sprinted across the clearing toward the border. Overhead, the quarter moon was barely visible behind a wash of gray clouds.
    A storm was coming.
    From above.
    And from below.
    Rosalie’s cat grinned with feral menace as she slowed just enough to weave in and out of a trio of massive cypress. Most of the Pantera either feared the truth of the latter—humans invading the Wildlands—or hoped the threat would just go away and the Pantera would be left in peace once again. Hidden once again. But not Rosalie and her cat. They were looking—hoping—for bloodshed.
    Human bloodshed.
    Thunder growled around her, fueling her desire. Every night now she’d taken to prowling these lands, the border. From dusk to sunrise. Alone. Granted, she never started off alone. That wasn’t the Hunter way. Normally, she was put in a group of three. But inevitably, conveniently, she lost them. Ditched them. Most of the other Hunters liked to patrol in their two-legged form; talking, discussing what they’d done that day as well as the strategy for the night’s watch. Rosalie wasn’t interested in chitchat, planning, or donning her female form. She preferred a solo hunt these days and the protective layer of her puma. Her cat preferred it too. Its heart was heavy and needy.
    Pain.
    Loss.
    Mercier .
    The puma’s belly contracted with the thought of the massive gold cat, and the broad, sable-eyed male who’d been her lover and friend and…savior. Were they looking down at her, watching her? Cat and male. Two separate entities in the beyond. Did they miss her as she missed them?
    Night consumed the sky above now, its inky blackness interrupted only by a fissure of diamond-colored lightning every now and again. Rosalie’s ears pricked up, catching the cries of Bayon and Jazz about a quarter mile off. Near the east border. They were looking for her. Probably worried about her. All the Hunters seemed to be, even though she’d assured them she was fine. That she’d forgiven Hiss, the Hunter male who’d indirectly brought on Mercier’s death. That she’d moved on. They didn’t believe her lies. Oh, that ever-present expression of concern on their faces. It was irritating as hell. Parish had even gone so far as to insist she take time off. Said that dealing with both her mate’s death and the trauma of the abduction that had nearly claimed her life too, was vital to her sanity and productivity.
    But Rosalie didn’t do time off.
    She was in.
    Always in.
    Even more so as the war between the humans and the Pantera gained ground. And intensity.
    The scent of her kind rushed her nostrils as she neared the bayou. She opened her mouth and inhaled deeply. Not Bayon and Jazz. Nor any Hunter she knew. A whisper of unease moved through her as the sound of splashing lured her closer. Who would be swimming at this hour? Two Pantera…lovers, perhaps? Her lip curled. That’s all she needed tonight. Foolish, unthinking cats. Playing in the water while the enemy lurks right outside our borders.
    And sometimes inside them as well.
    She’d give them a stern talking-to. Or her claws would.
    She stalked through the thick foliage, ready to pounce, to scare the shit out of some Geeks or Suits or Healers. But she only found one female Healer. And something else entirely.
    In that moment, Rosalie ceased to exist, and her cat took full control, an event that was happening a lot lately.
    “Fuck, woman,” a deep male voice barked from the sleepy waters of the bayou. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
    Eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, ears pricked, Rosalie’s cat remained behind a moss-coated cypress. She wanted to spring. Attack. Without even knowing what was happening. She didn’t care. No. The cat didn’t care.
    It scented human.
    “You can’t come here,” a female cried out.
    No. Not a female, Rosalie puma’s confirmed. Not a woman, either. One of the rescued lab rats who had come to stay in the Wildlands.