Page 2 of Into the Lion's Den (Secrets of the Northland Shifters)

“Find her,” I said. “I still need to shower, and the bus will be here in thirty minutes.”

Sam gave me a little salute, then scratched again. As he took off down the hall, I heard him muttering, “It’s gonna be one fuck of a long spring.”

I resisted the urge to respond, then left my office and headed for my new room—our father’s old room—on the lodge’s main floor. The space was decorated in alpha male, with dark navy walls, a king-size bed, a stone fireplace, and a dark brown leather couch.

I stripped off my T-shirt and Levi’s, then entered the private bath and turned on the taps. Standing under a steady stream of hot water, my dark hair hung over my eyes. I was supposed to have gotten it cut last week, but I’d canceled because of a delayed kitchen delivery.

Not the end of the world. I’d see about rescheduling next week. Then I lathered up my hands, cupped myself, and...

Ah, fuck me.

There was that pesky problem Sam was getting at. Springtime didn’t just bring with it the urge to shift and run. It churned the hormones in every animal, both shifter and true. All it took was for a stiff breeze to blow through the trees and bam!—Erection City. It couldn’t be avoided, but at least the season would wane quickly.

I ran my soapy hand along my length and let out a groan, bracing myself against the shower wall. I imagined some faceless woman...some dirty talk...letting the tension build, until...

I grunted as I found my pleasure, then waited for my heart rate to settle before turning off the water and flinging open the curtain.

When I wiped the steam from the mirror, my body jolted. For a second, I swore I saw my father in my own reflection—dark hair and trim beard, same green eyes. The old cat arched a disapproving eyebrow.

I clenched my teeth in acknowledgment. Right. I was thirty-five fucking years old. Sure, it was spring, but I wasn’t some prepubescent tomcat. I was my father’s heir. And now his legacy rested squarely on my shoulders.

I grabbed my watch from the bathroom counter. The bus would arrive any minute. Primal urges needed to be put on the back burner, turned off, and tightly lidded.

With one minute to spare, I strode out onto the lodge’s front porch, adjusting the T-shirt that lately felt a little too snug. It clung to my damp chest.

My brothers Toby and Angel joined me next. Toby wore his dark hair short. Angel had shoulder-length dark blond hair. They shared my green eyes, as did all of us Fitzpatricks.

Sam came out next. He’d cleaned up since our conversation.

Melanie raced out of the lodge last, making her apologies. “Lost track of time.” She swiped her long blond hair into a high ponytail, then shielded her eyes from the sun as the airport shuttle bus pulled up the circular drive.

The lodge was the only building humans could see when arriving at the resort. It was large and commanding and hid the bunkhouse and other outbuildings that were tucked behind its two stories and steeply pitched roof. It gave the impression of a large but cozy cabin nestled in the woods and that homey effect was solidified by the fire Toby had started in the lobby fireplace several minutes ago. The scent of burning pine wafted from the chimney.

“I hate doing this without Dad,” Melanie murmured.

We all do, I thought, but there was no point stating the obvious, nor time to comfort my siblings with the bus pulling up in front of the lodge.

The driver set the brake, the doors folded open, and one by one, the summer employees—mostly repeats from last year—disembarked. They were in their early to mid-twenties, all of them happy to serve as waitstaff, or work on the kitchen, housekeeping, or maintenance crews in exchange for time off to camp, canoe, and hike Minnesota’s Northland.

I shifted my clipboard into my left hand and descended the five steps to greet them. My siblings fell in behind.

“Hey, boss,” said Robbie Johnson, one of the guys who’d been on last year’s maintenance crew. Then he balked, clearly reacting to my new physical appearance. “S-sorry to hear about your dad.”

I clasped his arm in acknowledgment. The returning staff had all been told that our father, Tony Fitzpatrick, had died when his own gun had accidentally discharged. “Thanks, Robbie.”

“Same room as last year?” he asked, maneuvering his suitcase by its broken handle.

I gave him a nod, even though he was obviously avoiding eye contact with me.

Toby and Mel handed out the room assignments and keys. Sam led the new arrivals toward the bunkhouse.

Then someone slightly older than the rest of the passengers stepped off the bus.

A woman. Late twenties, possibly early thirties; long, thick light brown hair that hung in soft waves—the kind I’d like to wrap around my hand and pull.

Her eyebrows were dark and perfectly arched over a pair of widely set gray eyes. She was wearing makeup, but not so much that she looked out of place in the north country. And—fuck it all—curves to spare.

The fingers of my right hand curled, turning into a fist. After that shower, I wouldn’t have expected to react to a female. But here I was, lowering my clipboard to shield the bulge in my pants, while the mountain lion that lived inside my skin slowly let out a disturbingly possessive growl. Fortunately, no one could hear it but me.

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