Miranda's Mate Read Free Page A

since shifting was out of the question.
    Lycans and other shifters were as close to persona non grata as criminals. If regular law enforcement got wind of them, they hunted them down and killed them. Garen exhaled sharply. The best part about The Company was he had a trusted inner circle of operatives: fully vetted agents he trusted with his life. All lycans except for three bear shifters and four mountain lions, they’d worked together for over a hundred years.
    In keeping with the total lack of trust shifters had in everyone, many—but certainly not all of them—showed up at a yearly gathering in their shifted form, never letting on who they were as humans. Sadness for his kind made his heart ache, but he shoved it aside. Emotions were an indulgence. He had more important places to focus his energy.
    By the time he walked back through the fancy lobby of his hotel with its crystal chandeliers and plush furniture, he was wet enough other patrons gave him a wide berth. He sidled to the banks of elevators at the far side of the lobby. A lissome redhead followed him into one of the cars. Garen turned away. He knew what would come next.
    “Hey there, handsome. A bit on the wet side, aren’t we?”
    “Drop it. I’m not interested.”
    She laughed, but it had a practiced edge. “You wouldn’t need to worry about a thing, darling. Maybe just a nice massage and a hot bath—”
    He glanced at the rapidly mounting numbers above the elevator door and pressed twenty-one since they weren’t there yet. The door slid open. He grabbed the hooker’s arm and pushed her into a carpeted hallway. “I said I’m not interested. Go ply your wares elsewhere.”
    He stabbed the Close Door button before she could leap back to his side with yet one more argument. Garen knew her kind. She was still attractive enough to be pushy and arrogant. He got out on the thirty-fifth floor, went to his room, and inserted his key card. His mouth twisted wryly. He wished a hooker could wipe Miranda out of his mind, but no one could. Everyone he’d fucked ever since he met her reminded him of her.
    “Yeah,” he mumbled. Garen stripped and dropped his wet clothes over a chair. “I want the one I can’t have.”
    He started the water in the sunken tub running and left the bathroom to check his phone. Nothing. He dialed The Company’s headquarters. It didn’t take long to determine Miranda hadn’t called in. His next try was Lars’ firm in Berlin. All they could tell him—and they did it by inference—was one of their other operatives was dead, murdered at JFK and his body stuffed into a parking lot Dumpster.
    Alarm fried Garen’s nerve endings. His wolf was damn near uncontrollable. Claws shot from his toes. Before they could take over his hands, he turned the door’s deadbolt and dropped the night-latch chain into its hasp. His body lengthened, fur sprouted, and he dropped to all fours. He loped around the generous suite until his tongue lolled. Garen loved the clean, unfettered animal energy. His wolf always knew what it wanted. Right now, it urged him to go after Miranda, but that wasn’t practical since he had no idea where she was. Hopefully she and Lars had gone to ground somewhere. As lethal an operative as himself, Lars was more than capable of taking care of business—assuming nothing had happened to him.
    The sound of the tub filling changed. It took a moment before he understood water was pouring over the sides. In a flash, he reached for his human form and sprinted for the bathroom. He turned off the taps, pulled the plug, and sopped up the mess with a couple of thick towels. Once the water level had gone down a few inches, Garen levered himself into the tub and sat in the steaming water. It soothed his tight muscles but didn’t relieve his worry.
    He clenched a fist and banged it down on the side of the tub. Damn it! He needed a clear head, but all he could think about was Miranda—his Miranda—crouched behind a concrete wall