Pool, on the other hand, let him think, plan, test his skill. There was something about figuring out how to make a tricky bank shot at misaligned balls, something about the spark of triumph when hearing the correct ball thunk into the correct pocket.

This game didn’t depend on strength; it depended on planning and finesse, which the jaguar wildcat inside Spike found satisfying.

He’d love to play pool with Myka, came the unexpected thought. She had the look of challenge that said she’d be interesting to play against. And if she didn’t know the game well, Spike could always teach her.

He’d lean over her to show her how to hold the cue, his lips brushing her ear while he explained what to do . . .

The memory of her scent filled his brain, as did the feeling of her fingers in his pocket when she’d pushed in the scrap of paper with her number on it.

Spike mis-stroked, catching the cue ball wrong, and the cue ball zipped right past the ball he was trying to hit.

“Distraction,” Gavan said, grunting a laugh. “Is a bitch.”

Spike straightened, upending his cue in silence. Gavan took his shot, sending a solid red ball caroming off two banks and into a pocket.

“Distraction is killing us all,” Gavan said as he lined up his next shot. “It’s taking away our instincts, depleting us.” He let fly his next shot, the balls banging together with a sound like a gunshot, a solid ball fleeing to the safety of a pocket.

Too much strength. Pool was a game of subtlety.

“I thought we were having more cubs in Shiftertowns,” Spike said. He thought about Jordan, and his heart soared.

“Oh, yeah, I’m not denying that, health-wise, Shifters are doing a lot better. In the wild, I lost a mate when she brought in my cub, who died too, and I never want to live through that again. But wearing the Collars, giving in to human rules—it’s not what Shifters do. Humans can’t kill our instincts, no matter how much they try. But they don’t need to. We’re killing those instincts ourselves.”

Spike nodded as though he thought hard about what Gavan said. “What are we supposed to do then? Make our dominance battles to the death? We wouldn’t last long if we did.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. Dominance battles are only to the death if they need to be. Mostly the other Shifter backs down, knowing he’s defeated and conceding dominance. But that’s hard for you, isn’t it?” Gavan upended his cue and stepped closer to Spike. “You’re a dominant, reduced to working for another dominant. That can’t sit well with you.”

“I’m a tracker. It’s different.”

“I know. We pledge ourselves to the leader of the clan, to be their eyes and ears, their best fighters. We do it even if the leader is an ass**le.”

Spike wondered if Gavan referred to Fergus, for whom they’d both worked, or the new leader of San Antonio, for whom Gavan now worked.

“But this isn’t the wild,” Gavan said. “Liam Morrissey isn’t even in your clan. Neither was Fergus.”

But Liam and Fergus’s clan had adopted Spike and his grandmother when they’d been brought in from the wild. Gavan knew that—he was just trying to stir Spike’s anger. “Being tracker to the Shiftertown leader is a high position,” Spike said, pretending not to understand what Gavan was getting at.

“Sure it is, but you’re the dominant tracker, and you know it.” He glanced at Ellison, another of Liam’s trackers, who went on shooting pool, ignoring them. “Nate’s got nothing on you, and neither does Ronan, no matter how big he is. Liam’s using you, Spike. It’s not disloyal to say that—it’s blinking obvious. You’re a fighter, my old friend. A killer at heart. I say, use it.”

“To do what?”

Gavan gave him a patient look. “Let me show you something. I’m going to bet a hundred dollars that you can’t make this shot.” He grabbed the cue ball and positioned it at the top left corner of the table. “The orange stripe into the center left pocket.”

The orange-striped ball rested near the far right pocket. Spike eyed it skeptically but nodded. “I’ll take that bet.”

Spike lined up his cue, aiming the cue ball at another ball that would smack itself into orange stripe, to give orange stripe enough spin to glide the other way up the table.

He shot. The second ball popped into orange stripe just right, but without enough spin. Orange stripe rolled most of the way but bumped the table just shy of the center pocket.

Spike stood up without chagrin and fished into his pocket for a wad of twenties. “Doesn’t always work.”

“Hang onto your cash. Let’s try it again.”

Gavan repositioned the balls in the same places. Spike bent over his cue again.

Gavan’s body heat covered his side, the Feline’s voice harsh in his ear. “How about if, this time, I tell you that if you don’t make that shot, I kill your cub?”

Chapter Seven

Rage burned Spike’s blood all the way to his brain. His eyes flicked to Shifter, and he shot, coming up again with his hand around Gavan’s throat.

Balls slammed together, and orange stripe zipped across the table to thud into the center pocket.

Gavan grinned, even while Spike’s fingers bit down. “You see?” His voice rasped. “The instinct is there. Kill. Protect. Dominate.”

Ellison had straightened up, his Lupine growls filling the room. A spark leapt from Spike’s Collar to his neck, a tiny bite of pain.

Spike fixed on Gavan. “This is bullshit.”

“It is,” Gavan said. “But look at you. Ready to kill me.”

Spike made himself open his hand. He snarled as Gavan backed away and rubbed his neck.

“Tell you what,” Gavan said, his breath still labored. He lowered his voice, glancing at Ellison. “You come and talk to me again, but leave your sidekick at home. You have a lot of potential, and you don’t deserve to be wasted on Morrissey.”

“I’m not wasting myself on your f**ked-up shit either.”

“I’m not telling you to. This is you for yourself. Your family. You have it, Spike. Use it. Don’t let those instincts go.” Gavan started to clasp Spike’s shoulder, looked at his face, and lowered his hand. “Come see me. Soon.”

Spike said not a word. He banged the cue to the table and left the room.