“Ellison and Dylan are on it. You haven’t met Dylan, Liam’s dad. No one will get past those two.”

“Well, thanks for chasing the other guy away. I didn’t even see him following me.”

“He was good.” Spike went to the window in her living room and cracked the blinds to peer out. The street remained empty, but that didn’t mean Gavan didn’t have Shifters sneaking around the back. “I’m staying here.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s either that or you come back to Shiftertown with me.”

“I can’t. I have that meeting tomorrow . . .”

“That’s why I’m staying here. There’s more room, and you’ll be comfortable in your own bed.”

“Spike . . .”

“Eron.”

She fluttered her hands in exasperation. “If you’re name’s Eron, why does everyone call you Spike?”

“Long story.”

“We have all night.”

They did. The darkness held silence and stillness. Nothing moved in the front or the back, and Spike scented no other Shifters.

Didn’t mean they wouldn’t return, possibly in the small hours of the morning, when Myka would be asleep and at her most vulnerable.

“My grandmother almost died when we were first moved into a Shiftertown,” Spike said, looking out the window to the front yard. “She was already sick, she’d never lived anywhere but the middle of nowhere before, and living in a city with other Shifters was making her sicker. To distract her, I got a VCR and some tapes, and we started watching television shows. Over and over again. The only thing that kept her going was looking forward to getting up and sitting on the couch in front of the television with me every day. We watched the tapes and whatever was on the few channels we got until she started to recover. A couple different shows had a character called Spike, and that character was always some bad-ass dude—or thought he was a bad-ass dude. I said one day that if I were on a TV show, they’d probably call me Spike. Grandma thought that was funny and started calling me that, then everyone in Shiftertown picked it up.” He shrugged. “It was a joke at first, but it stuck. I’m a fighter. It fits.”

He delivered the story swiftly, without inflection, trying to hide the pain and fear he’d tasted every waking day and in every dream, that his grandmother would go to the Summerland and leave him alone. Spike had lost everyone in his life—mother and father, grandfather, as horrible as he’d been, cubs his mother had brought in who’d died as infants. Everyone but his grandmother, and the roundup and move to Shiftertown had started taking her away too.

He’d have done anything to save her, and watching videotapes of inane television shows and a new nickname had been a small price to pay.

Myka was watching him. In the dark, her eyes shone, and he saw a second later that they were filled with tears.

“What is it?” he asked softly, turning to her.

“I don’t think anyone in the world realizes how wonderful you are.”

Chapter Eleven

The words were a whisper, and every one struck Spike’s heart. He stepped closer to her, right into her warmth.

“You don’t have to call me Eron if you don’t want to,” Spike said, resting his hands on her waist. “I’m used to Spike.”

“I like Eron. It’s cool.”

“Don’t tell me . . . you train a horse called Eron.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you. Or about the one called Spike.”

“You’re a little shit.” Spike’s mouth pulled into a smile, the widest one he’d felt in a long, long time.

“A lot of people say that.”

“And you smell good.” Spike bent to her. “And taste good.” He swept his tongue across her lips.

Outside the house, the wind started to rise. Good. Maybe a rainstorm would come up to soak any ass**les spying on Myka. Or send them back home.

Spike slid his hands under the hem of her tank top. He found her flesh nice and warm, the smooth curve of her waist.

Myka’s hands went to his shoulders, fingers digging in again, as though she wanted to hang onto him. Fine by Spike. He kissed her parted lips, sliding his palms up her waist to her br**sts, the clingy fabric of the tank top bunching tightly over Spike’s hands. He pulled the top all the way up and off, finding a tiny bra beneath it, thin like the cotton of the tank.

Shifter women didn’t wear bras, and Spike had little experience undoing them. The hooks in back were tiny under his blunt fingers, evading him. He fumbled. Myka twisted one hand behind her and opened the catches for him.

The gesture of acceptance, of trust, thrust his need high. He wanted their clothes off, her skin against his, sweat on sweat.

Spike shoved the bra off and out of the way as he sought the weight of Myka’s br**sts. He lifted them in cupped hands, his lips finding hers. He was drowning in heat. He licked across her lips, then down her throat, wanting again the feel of her nipple in his mouth, but bare this time.

Myka lifted herself to Spike’s hands, loving the friction of his callused palms. She caught his lips with hers, sweeping her tongue into his open mouth.

What am I doing? a part of her brain cried. He’s Shifter. He was Jillian’s Shifter. The rest of her told that part to shut up.

Myka held on to Spike’s shoulders just to stay on her feet. His body came the length of hers, his firm c**k behind his jeans hard against her abdomen. He was huge, and he wanted her, and Myka knew she wouldn’t push him away tonight.

He caressed the br**sts he held, thumbs circling her ni**les.

“Myka,” he whispered. “Damn.”

“Something wrong?”

“You’re f**king beautiful.”

Her heart hammered. Spike kissed her lips then bent to her throat. His Collar gleamed on his neck as he sank to his knees, touching kisses to her skin all the way down.

“I want to kiss every inch of you,” he said, breath hot on her belly. He leaned forward and licked her navel.

Myka jumped. “Yikes! I’m ticklish.”

“Yeah?” Spike blew on her abdomen.

“Always have been.”

Spike licked her again. “You shouldn’t have told me that.”

He sent her a wicked smile before he fluttered his fingers against her sides. Myka stifled a shriek, pushing at him. “No, seriously.”