Page 8 of The Mobster's Mate

Maybe he was coming down with the flu or something.

As soon as he was upstairs, he headed straight for the master bedroom, quickly stripped, and walked into his obnoxiously large shower. The hot water hit him, and he took a deep breath, trying to relax the tension out of his shoulders and neck.

What a shit end to his day. The call from Gabriel Morde on behalf of Rick Kincaid to threaten him into complying with their new proposed rules had been bad enough, but the fact that someone thought they could come at him by using some poor parahuman who had nothing to do with him or his business was bullshit.

No one told him what to do, and no one made moves in his city without his fucking permission.

For years, he’d built up both of his businesses in his city, carving out the whole thing as his territory, and no one had bothered him. Any packs that tried to move in were unceremoniously pushed back, and any stray parahumans who didn’t follow his rules were sent packing. Those who did were allowed to stay and were protected under his umbrella of control.

But now, the parahuman world was changing.

As corrupt as the shifter Council had been, they’d been stable. They’d kept a hand on the scale, sure, but that made them predictable. He could account for it and build his plans accordingly. He had learned to work with and around the Council, greasing palms and delivering extremely rare herbs to their coven free of charge as needed. He’d done whatever was necessary to make sure they stayed out of his business and territory.

And now they were gone.

Sure, he understood why Gabriel’s alpha had done what he had. The Council had been targeting the Kincaid Pack, and they weren’t going to stop. It was obvious to anyone who was paying attention.

But it sure was throwing a wrench into things for Quinten.

As he stepped out of the shower, he heard a noise. He quickly threw on a pair of sleep pants, grabbed another, and then followed the sound.

He found Darius pulling the covers up over the jaguar—in the guest room farthest away from Quinten’s own bedroom.

There was a lamp on the floor just inside the door that used to sit on the dresser.

He gave Darius an incredulous look.

The wolf shrugged unapologetically. “Heavier than he looks.”

Quinten shook his head and left the mess for the morning. “You can go home and get some rest.”

Darius stared at him.

Quinten stared back.

Finally, he sighed. “You’re such a mother hen. Fine. Take another guest room.”

Nodding, Darius walked over and brushed their shoulders together, then headed out, probably for the room right next door.

Quinten bit back a smile. Darius scented him more than any of the other shifters he employed, and he knew part of it was because of how much time they spent together. He and Darius were as close as family, and wolves were exceptionally social.

Growing up, his brother, Liam, would sprawl against him on the couch or sneak into his bedroom to cuddle at night. When Quinten was a teenager, it had started to annoy him in the way only teenagers could be annoyed by easy affection. He’d finally asked Liam why he did it so often, and his brother had just stared at him like it was obvious and said, “So you smell like me.”

He wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but Liam—who’d maybe been eight at the time—had just shrugged and said, “You’re pack. You’re supposed to smell like me and you.”

To his baby brother, that was all that was important. That was the way it was supposed to be, so it didn’t matter that Quinten was human and didn’t need the comfort of shared scents. They were pack. Period.

He knew that was part of why Darius did it as well. To him, they were a pack, but Quinten knew that wasn’t true. He was just… human. A disgustingly rich human who did things others viewed as questionable to get richer and more powerful.

Didn’t exactly sound like alpha material to him.

Sighing, he moved over to the bed and carefully peeled the covers back. Without letting himself think too much about why he was doing it, he grabbed the waistband of the sweats somebody had put the jaguar in and tugged them down. He tossed them toward the corner of the room once he freed the cat’s long legs from them and then gently eased them into the pair of sweats that Quinten had brought from his own bedroom.

It was harder getting them back up than the others had been to get down without the man helping by lifting his hips, and it was hard for Quintin not to look at his soft cock lying there, jostling every time he moved him.

He wasn’t as morally corrupt as people thought though, so he kept his hands on task, eyes averted as much as possible, until he finally got the waistband tugged up to his hips. While that covered some of the man’s body, his top half was still bared to Quinten’s gaze.

He might not be completely amoral, but he was no saint either. For a few minutes, he studied the cat’s torso and face. He was… distractingly beautiful. All lean muscles and white skin with just a hint of a golden hue. He wondered if the jaguar lay out in the sun naked or if it was his natural coloring.

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