Introduction
‘Til death do us part. That’s what Dean, her accidental husband is insisting on, and if he doesn’t change his mind, Natasha might grant his wish.
A mob princess is used to getting what she wants, and she wants out of their marriage, so why is she so mad that someone keeps trying to kill Dean?
Dean always knew his not-so-innocent wife would return one day, and it’s been nothing but explosions since. But this tigon won’t merely bounce off. He made a vow, and he’s not about to break it—not when he knows she’s his mate.
When a tigon weds, it’s for life.
Previous books in A Lion’s Pride, a USA Today Bestselling series:
Be sure to visit www.EveLanglais for more books with furry heroes, or sign up for the Eve Langlais newsletter for notification about new stories or specials.
Chapter One
Twas’ a clear and lovely night. Unlike Dean’s mood, which churned with memory.
On a night much like this one, he’d gotten his lovely, striped tail with its fantastic tuft, royally yanked. Not literally. He’d have shredded anyone who even dared to pull his most excellent tigon tail. Yank…figuratively. He’d been fooled by someone he thought he could trust. Blame a lack of blood to his brain. He was always hard around her. Perpetually stupid.
In his defense, Natasha had a way of moving. A certain smile. A tilt of her head. The way she cocked her hip... All of it designed to enflame. To render him witless.
But he was wise to her games now. Knew her strengths and weaknesses. He couldn’t wait until the rematch.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey—the expensive kind that he could sip all night long, given how smooth it tasted. He paced himself. It wouldn’t do to get drunk or to pass out too soon. Tonight was the night.
Natasha was coming. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones. He just needed to be patient. Wait for her to make a move. Given what he knew about her, surely it wouldn’t be long now.
He’d been following her movements ever since she’d played him for a fool. It proved easier than expected, given she was quite active on social media. Although, that didn’t mean much given staged photos could be scheduled to release ahead of time to give the appearance of an active life.
Dean knew how easy it was to fake. For example, according to one very popular site that just allowed pictures with hashtags, Dean was currently in a bar, having a few drinks.
Would she fall for it? Would she think him away from home?
Doubtful. Just like he didn’t believe the last image he’d seen of her on a beach soaking up the sun’s rays. She didn’t vacation in some tropical place. She was nearby. Getting closer.
Or was that just wishful thinking?
Dean grabbed his phone and pulled up her profile, still displaying that same beach pic. She wore a sleek one-piece bathing suit with a single shoulder strap. Over it, she’d loosely tied a sarong. She’d barely changed since he’d last seen her. Her hair was the same style, her skin just as fresh. She looked so youthful, and yet, she was only five years younger than he.
Despite what he knew of her, she remained beautiful. While he liked to think her betrayal would render him immune to her charms, one look, and he immediately became stupid.
Case in point, look at him, having a few drinks, expecting Natasha to stop by. He knew she’d come to find him eventually. But waiting took patience. Good thing he’d practiced for hours at a time. Hours he’d spent hunkered in the tall grass, a hiding tigon ready to pounce. He’d learned to never scare his aunts like that, given the one time he’d made Aunt Marni pee herself, and she chased him down and shaved his mane. One did not irritate the aunts. Or the cousins either for that matter. They would plot the most heinous revenge.
Another glass of whiskey, and still no Natasha.
More than three days had passed since he’d seen the announcement online. Proud to announce the upcoming nuptials of… In black and white text with a colored image of the smiling couple as proof.
Natasha was getting married.
Maybe.
Dean had a thing or two to say about it, which was why, after pounding back a large bottle of whiskey, he’d sent her a note. A reminder of their unfinished business.
The next day, he’d received a registered letter, addressed to him from a lawyer, demanding his signature. An impersonal way of concluding matters.
Nope. Dean burned the letter and didn’t bother sending a reply. The tigon waited some more. He had his home cleaned top to bottom. Got a haircut. A new suit.
Two more demands arrived from the lawyers. He set those documents on fire too, in the yard with a can of lighter fluid and a match. He used more fuel than necessary, on purpose. As it flared bright, he lit his cigar from the dancing flames, and when it puffed nicely, he used it to salute the hovering drone that had been watching his property all day. He winked before pulling out a gun and shooting it out of the sky.
If Natasha wanted to see him, she could come in person. He waited some more. Painted his bedroom. Pumped some weights. Stripped the wallpaper with his claws and then replastered the whole thing.
At nine thirty-two, his watch buzzed. A glance was all it took for him to grin. “Showtime.”
The empty glass needed a top-up. Once he’d filled the tumbler halfway, Dean chose to sit in the gray club chair in the center of his living room, which implied a livelier place than reality. White walls to his left and right with a lofty, white ceiling. To his back, the kitchen, with its massive island and wood cupboards. In front, an enormous sliding glass window that opened to a patio.
The interlocked stone was faintly visible due to the illuminated infinity pool. Built on a cliff, he enjoyed floating on the surface, feeling as if he were part of the sky—he could only hope the rock face would never shear away, although the danger did add to the enjoyment of his backyard oasis.
He’d chosen to wait inside in comfort, reclining in his chair, placing his glass on the metal column beside it, shaped to appear as a log, that acted as a table. If he pressed a button on the armrest to his left, a screen would drop from the ceiling, allowing him to watch television. He left the tele off, though he did momentarily debate throwing on some tunes. But what would he play? Something soft and sensual, or hard and action-packed?
He took another sip of whiskey, enjoying the heat of it as it went down, and waited.
Smash.
The sliding glass door shattered as something hit it hard. Glass sprayed over the hardwood and rolled across the buffalo hide carpet—a real one he should add. Dean had taken it off a sadistic hunter—right after Dean made him repent every animal he’d tortured.
Despite the hole in his window, Dean took another gulp of whiskey. Liquid courage that hopefully might slow down the flow of blood from his brain elsewhere.
Stay smart. He feigned nonchalance he didn’t feel. Hummed with adrenaline.
It was time.
A figure swung into the room, concealed head to toe in dark garments including a face mask and a swaddling hood. The rope snapped loose as they landed on their feet. Interesting tactic, using his roof. A good thing he’d installed sensors there last year.
The slight figure didn’t hold any weapon, and their features were masked but he didn’t need to see to know. He tingled. His beast shivered and almost uttered a rumbling noise.