“Because you’re not an Alpha?” I pushed the sleeve of my T-shirt up over my elbow.

Carver wrapped the rubber tourniquet a little tighter than it needed to be around my upper arm. “Go ahead. Rub it in.” But he was still smiling.

In human society, many male doctors would be considered Alpha males, based on ego alone. The stereotypical “God complex” had its basis in truth, at least according to my personal dating history. Yet despite the fact that Dan Carver was the only medical doctor among the US shifter territories—though he was actually a medical examiner by trade—he lacked the toxic mix of aggression and ego necessary to claim a leadership position. Or a wife.

Which was fine by me. My opinion of Alphas differed very little from my opinion of tomcats in general.

“Don’t they usually hold these meetings on the council chair’s home turf?” I asked as Carver opened one of the vials.

The council chairman, Rick Wade, was the father of my best friend and former college roommate. I hadn’t been allowed to talk to Abby Wade since my incarceration began, even though she’d saved my life when I was infected and kept me alive during the subsequent confusing, chaotic weeks.

I couldn’t tell whether they were punishing Abby or me. Or both of us. Either way, since she’d renounced her loyalty to the council and defected to the free zone with her boyfriend—a disgraced former Alpha named Jace—everyone seemed worried that if I spoke to her, I might catch whatever rebellious inner demon had made her reject proper shifter society.

As if I needed Abby’s influence for that.

“Yes, usually Rick Wade hosts council meetings.” Carver took my right arm and examined the crook of my elbow for a good vein. “They’re holding this one here because of you.”

“The meeting’s about me?” My pulse spiked at the thought. The last time all ten Alphas had gotten together, their purpose, in part, had been to decide my fate. If they were reconvening for the same reason, this time I would damn well be involved in the process. “Wait, I thought this was about Titus Alexander. I heard him talking through the door.” Where I might have lingered, because the voice of the notorious “stray Alpha” was the only unfamiliar—and deeply sexy—one coming from Bert Di Carlo’s office.

“Yes, the Alphas are officially convening to hear Alexander’s petition. But they’re convening here for the excuse to observe your progress.” Carver slid the needle into my vein with practiced ease. I hardly felt it. “Speaking of which, how’s the training going?”

“Well, I was always good at fighting.” And I found the exertion to be therapeutic. “That was part of the problem, remember?”

The doctor’s small grin eased a little of my tension. My sense of humor functions as a defense mechanism, but no one other than the doctor seemed willing to make light of my crimes, even though every man I’d killed would have been executed by the council if they’d gotten the chance. I’d killed murderers. Very bad men. My actions were only considered crimes in shifter society because I committed them without permission from the council.

A technicality, as far as I was concerned.

“And the exercises? How’s your control?”

“Flawless. I’m a fast learner.” Both of which were only true under ideal circumstances. My impulse was still to shift into feline form when I felt angry or threatened, and resisting that very real physical pull was still the most difficult part of my daily routine. But I really was making progress…

“And the nightmares?”

“A thing of the past.” Mostly because I rarely slept long enough to dream. “So feel free to tell them how very cured I am of the murderous rage. Seriously, I’m an asset to the community. Totally safe around both pets and small children.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along.” Dr. Carver screwed one of the vials into the plastic sleeve at the end of the syringe, and I watched as my blood began to fill it. The contents of the vial looked so normal. One could never tell just from looking that somewhere in that DNA soup lay the answer to the huge question of my survival—and potentially of the entire shifter community.

Dr. Carver and his brother, a geneticist, were hoping to unlock the secrets of my successful infection. Making strays, including tabbies, is illegal, even though they—we—are in severely short supply. But if they could figure out how I’d survived, they could hopefully save any other women who were infected, whether through accident or intentional criminal act.

I totally supported the cause, which was the only reason I was participating so sweetly in the millionth withdrawal from the Robyn Sheffield Blood Bank.

“So what does the stray Alpha want?” I asked, as my blood continued to bubble into the vial. Titus Alexander was Jace and Abby’s friend, and their host in the free zone, last I’d heard.

“He’s come to request official recognition of his wildcat Pride by the council,” Dr. Carver said as he unscrewed the full vial from the syringe.

“Why are there no stray Prides?”

“Because making strays is illegal, and the council is afraid that giving them official status will encourage the infection of more strays.”

The thought made me feel sick to my stomach.

“So, how close are you to figuring me out?” I asked, as my blood filled the second vial. “I mean, you may as well stick a tap straight into my vein so you can draw more on demand. Like at a bar.”

Carver chuckled again. “We’re not drinking your blood. We’re studying it.”

“Maybe you should be studying how to prevent infection, rather than how to succeed at it, if making more like me is illegal.” But I felt bad for saying that before the words had even faded into silence between us. I knew damn well that Carver wasn’t trying to make more strays.

He disconnected the second vial and set it aside. “The only way to prevent infection is to prevent violent contact between humans and shifters. But that’s a job for psychologists and enforcers, not doctors.”

I thought about that while he removed the needle from my arm, covered the hole in my flesh with a bandage, and untied the tourniquet. Dr. Carver, I decided, was one of the good guys.

While he packed up his supplies and refilled his coffee mug, I wandered out of the kitchen and through the dining room, studying the framed photographs covering one long wall of the Di Carlos’ most formal—and ceramic-angel-free—space. They rarely used the dining room, even though at least four of the territory’s six live-in enforcers were present at every dinner.