“But, Dad, if you’d seen that waitress, you’d totally understand….”

My father rolled his eyes. “Don’t embarrass yourself with excuses.”

He stopped and turned to face Ethan, his expression even more stern than usual. “And while we’re discussing your social life…are you properly prepared for your date this evening?”

I nearly choked trying to hold back laughter, and both Vic and Marc shook with their own efforts.

“Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for asking.” Ethan slapped my father’s shoulder, as if he were talking to one of the other guys, rather than the Alpha. “I’m glad we could have this little talk.”

“I’m serious, Ethan.” My father’s expression darkened. “The world isn’t ready for your offspring. And neither am I.”

“I know, I know. I’ve got it covered.” With that, Ethan headed down the hall toward his room. My father followed, shaking his head silently.

As soon as they were gone, Vic fell on the couch in laughter, holding his stomach as if it hurt. Marc and I collapsed onto the love seat, laughing until tears formed in our eyes.

Birth control was not a topic werecats discussed very often. Most tabbies wanted children, and until recently, we’d thought toms couldn’t impregnate human women.

We’d been wrong. Toms could, in fact, produce children with human women. Rarely. The proof was…well… strays. All strays.

According to Dr. John Eames, a geneticist from one of the northern Prides, every single stray he’d tested over the course of a ten-year study turned out to have a half-human, half-werecat genome. Or something like that. The layman’s version was that strays, according to the good doctor, already had werecat genes before they were infected. Genes they’d inherited from an unknown werecat ancestor somewhere in the branches of their various family trees.

His conclusion was that normal humans—without these recessive werecat genes—cannot be “infected.” But that those with the genes can have their werecat halves “activated” by a simple scratch or bite.

I didn’t pretend to understand all the details, and neither did most of the toms I knew. Especially Ethan. Al he cared about was that his social life had been disrupted by what he saw as a microscopic risk. The procreational equivalent of hitting a bull’s-eye with an arrow from a mile away. But my parents were taking no chances, and I found the irony as frustrating as Ethan did. From me, they wanted children. From my brothers, they wanted prevention.

Stil grinning, Marc leaned back against the arm of the love seat. “We still have three hours until dinner,” he said, running one hand slowly up my thigh.

I smiled. “Oh yeah? Whatcha cookin’?”

My mother served a sit-down dinner five nights a week, because that’s what her mother had always done. But on Saturdays, it was fend for yourself or starve. And tonight—Monday—was my parents’ date night every week that my father was home, as it had been since before I could remember. When he was out of town, Michael “Atlas” Sanders, my oldest brother, took her out to dinner, eager as always to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, for all to see. The big suck-up.

Marc put his hands around my waist and twisted to lift me into his lap. I straddled him, my knees pressed against his hips while my fingers played along the hard lines of his chest. Leaning forward, he pushed aside my hair with his nose, purring into my ear. “If you cook, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You’ll do dishes?” Grinning, I pushed him back gently, my fingertips trailing down to his stomach, to skim over each firm ripple through his shirt. With each bump, I felt his pulse spike, and mine responded in kind.

He licked his lips and his eyes roamed down from my face, lingering several inches south of my col arbones.

Promising chills raced across my skin as his hands slid slowly up from my waist. His fingers brushed the sides of my breasts through my workout bra, and my breath caught in my throat. Marc smiled at my reaction, but the look in his eyes was more heat than humor.

One hand cupping the base of my skull, he pulled me toward him and his lips grazed my cheek. “I had something else in mind, though my idea did involve something hot and wet.”

Behind me, someone snorted, and I jumped. My head whipped around fast enough to make my neck pop. Vic sat on the couch across from us, his arms crossed over a chest only slightly less well defined than the one beneath my hands. I’d forgotten he was there, and judging by the look on Marc’s face, so had he. Embarrassed, I twisted around to sit on the couch, my leg pressed against Marc’s.

“You know, no one likes a voyeur,” Marc said, the hint of a smile ruining any attempt to sound serious.

“Not true,” Vic insisted. “Some people get their kicks from being watched. I know this chick in Atlanta…”

I rolled my eyes, and he laughed, then changed tactics. “Anyway, I’d only be a voyeur if I’d invaded your privacy.” He spread his arms wide to indicate the office around us. “If you didn’t want an audience, you should have taken your show off the stage and into the bedroom.”

I let my forehead fal to rest on Marc’s shoulder, my ponytail tumbling forward to hide my flaming cheeks. “I think he’s got us there.”

“So.” Vic grinned. “Who’s cooking?”

I did a mental inventory of the other members of our household, searching for someone else to saddle with the chore. Parker was still on the road, and Ryan was locked up, and thus less than worthless regarding household labor. “Where’s Owen?” I asked, my mouth already watering at the thought of our resident cowboy’s chicken-fried steak.