Dee wiped blood out of her eyes and looked down into a familiar face. “Evening, Desiree.” Wearing a bulletproof vest over a light T-shirt, her gun drawn—she always had more than one on her at any given time—her bright grey-green gaze quickly taking in the room, Desiree MacDermot-Llewellyn seemed much more at home with shifters than with her own. It wasn’t just her choice of mate either, the lion male Mace Llewellyn whom Dee had known for years through her cousin Bobby Ray. No, it was too easy to dismiss Desiree as a full-human who didn’t find her own way until she’d met her mate. Because the truth was, Desiree MacDermot-Llewellyn was as much a predator as anyone Dee had known.

Desiree shook her head, blew out a breath, and put her weapon back in the holster at her side.

“What the hell are you doing, Dee?”

“Don’t know what you mean.”

Rolling her eyes, Desiree looked over at Malone. “And you?” Malone snarled, baring her fangs. A move that didn’t bother Desiree one bit based on that snort she gave in return.

“Check the place,” Desiree ordered. She was NYPD and had not come alone tonight. Besides the bear holding Dee and Malone like two rag dolls, there was a S.W.A.T. unit from the Brooklyn precinct that was made up mostly of shifter cops who’d worked for other precincts throughout the five boroughs until they got this gig. Unlike the Group or KZS, their job was to keep the peace between the species throughout the city, not protect or wipe out. And although Desiree was full-human, she had three things going for her that made her perfect for this particular job: She was mated to a powerful lion male, she’d bred a lion male of her own, meaning she’d do what she could to protect him, and the woman was a damn good cop.

“Dez,” one of her team called out. “You better see this.”

Desiree walked off and Malone said to the one holding them, “Think you could put us down now, sport?”

The roughly seven-ten polar’s gaze went back and forth between them before answering, “No.” After several minutes, Desiree returned, her expression direct and not too happy.

With a swirl of her finger, Desiree ordered her team to, “Bring ’em all in.”

“What the hell for?” Malone snapped.

“There are about twenty bodies back there,” she informed them. “Some in their human form, some not so much. Maybe you two would have noticed if you weren’t busy having a caged death match.” Disgusted, she shook her head. “Until we straighten this out, everybody goes.” Desiree turned to her team, barking out orders.

Feeling downright shamed, Dee glanced over at Malone, who raised her head at the same time.

And, for a moment, Dee guessed they both felt the same bone-deep disappointment in themselves for not keeping their eyes on the bigger issue. But thenit seemed they both got tired of that and began snarling and snapping, trying to claw at each other from a distance, ignoring the bear ordering them to settle down.

Dee had to admit, it felt better doing that than feeling sorry for herself.

Ric pulled three plates from the overhead grill. He slammed the door shut with his elbow and slid the plates of sizzling sea lion blubber onto the saucier’s station for the final touch.

“Let’s go, people!” he yelled out, seeing the number of tickets piling up. “Let’s pick up the speed. We’ve got a full house out there!”

“Yes, chef!” was the answer he got back, followed by several muttered “Asshole.” But Ric didn’t mind. He kind of deserved it.

“Ric!” he heard his younger cousin Arden yell out as she stormed into the kitchen. If a Van Holtz didn’t want to work in the kitchen, then they worked front of house. At least until they got through college.

Arden held a large platter in her hand. A full salmon, head and all, that Ric had sent out ten minutes earlier.

“What is it?”

“The grizzly on six says there’s not enough honey in your honey sauce salmon.” Knowing that his honey sauce glaze was, is, and always would be perfection, Ric understood what the disgruntled bear really wanted. Reaching down to one of the cabinets, he grabbed one of the fifty bear-shaped bottles of average, everyday honey he kept there. He wouldn’t waste the good—and expensive—European stuff on Philistines.

Pushing past his sous-chef, Ric unscrewed the top and dumped half the bottle of honey right onto the salmon, stole a knife from one of the nearby stations and smeared the honey over the fish.

Taking the platter from his cousin, he tossed it into one of the industrial microwaves and re-heated the fish for a few seconds. Again, someone with an actual palate might deserve better treatment, but this idiot bear was lucky Ric didn’t drag the damn fish across the bathroom floor.

When he knew enough time had passed, he opened the microwave and pulled out the fish.

“Here. With compliments from the chef,” he practically snarled.

Grinning, his cousin walked out.

“They’re all Philistines!” he announced to his kitchen.

“Yes, chef!”

Ric went back to work, his unwavering focus on getting the food done and getting it done well.

He was happily in a zone when his phone vibrated from the pocket of his black sweatpants.

“This is Ric.”

“Hi, Cousin.”

Ric smiled. “Uncle Van! How’s it going?”

“Great. Great. I know you’re busy so I’ll make this quick. I’m having something messengered over to your apartment in the next day or two.”