“Iona.” Eric’s voice was weak, and Iona’s fear returned. She knelt next to him again, touching him, her pulse speeding.

“Iona, mate of my heart,” Eric rasped. “Please, get me the f**k out of here.”

Graham went home to the house in Shiftertown he’d commandeered on arrival, and showered off the blood and grime of the fight. He hurt like a son of a bitch, his chest gouged by Eric’s wide claws, a piece of his shoulder ripped by the wildcat’s teeth.

In the mirror, he studied the bruising on his neck caused by his Collar that had continuously shocked him during the fight. Shifters down here went to that fight place for fun? They had to be seriously crazy.

Admittedly, it had been good to get his adrenaline going, to work off his frustration on his biggest obstacle—Warden. Fighting him had given Graham a new appreciation for Eric’s strength. The man wasn’t leader by chance. Eric would be tough to beat.

Strange that Eric’s Collar hadn’t gone off at all, even though the man had gone down, writhing in pain, and not because of anything Graham had done. Eric’s cub had claimed that a Collar malfunction had taken Eric down, but Graham doubted that. Something was going on, and Graham would find out what.

He’d lathered off with the new soaps his nephews had been buying at the nearby grocery store. They smelled girly, but they got him cleaner than he’d been in a long time. The supplies up in his old Shiftertown had been meager.

Graham’s energy was still high when he emerged from the steamy bathroom, despite his wounds and Collar fatigue. He could either walk around Shiftertown and listen to people crowing that Graham had lost the fight—which was bullshit—or get out of here for a while.

Dougal and Chisholm had talked about a bar called Coolers, which admitted Shifters, so Graham went there to see what the place was like.

Full of Shifter groupies, Graham saw when he walked in. He wrinkled his nose at their rank scent.

Shifter groupies admired and copied all things Shifter—many wore fake Collars, and some made up their faces to resemble wildcats or wolves, complete with whiskers and fake ears. The groupies, both male and female, for some reason loved to hang out around Shifters, talking to them, having sex with them, or just being near them.

A few groupies had hung around Graham’s Shiftertown in northern Nevada, but not many. A person had to be dedicated to drive out to the middle of nowhere in hopes of seeing a Shifter.

Not many Shifters were here tonight, Graham noticed as the bartender shoved a foaming mug of beer at him. They were either still at the fight club, which was having more fights that evening, or back in Shiftertown supporting Eric.

That Iona woman was a feisty bitch. Graham had barely contained his amazement when she’d got in his face and told him, basically, to f**k off.

He had to chuckle, even through his anger. She’d been feeling the female’s need to protect her mate, the instinct that overrode every ounce of common sense and turned females into furious balls of sparking crazy. Eric was going to have his hands full with her.

It was too bad Eric would have to slap a Collar on her. They were obviously pretending Iona was human for now, but word would get out to the humans that an un-Collared Shifter was hanging out in Shiftertown, and the humans—especially those like that dickwad, Kellerman—would be all over her. Eric had better have some kind of plan in place for that.

“You a Shifter?” The question jolted Graham out of his thoughts.

A human woman was sitting on the barstool next to him. Her question wasn’t eager—she sounded almost bored.

Graham looked her over. The young woman had dark brown hair pulled back into a sleek braid, a sexily plump little body, shown off by a silky, sleeveless dress, and assessing brown eyes. She studied Graham without fear but without much interest either.

“Yeah, I’m a Shifter,” Graham said, after looking her over a moment. “You a Shifter groupie?”

The woman gave a delicate snort. “Not me. My friends are. They dragged me here tonight. Said it would be fun.”

“You’re not enjoying yourself?” Graham asked.

“Neither are you. You’re as bored as I am. Picking up Shifter groupies not your thing?”

“Don’t know. Never tried to pick one up before.”

Her gaze roved him again. “You okay? You look…beaten up.”

“Fight.”

“You lost, right?”

Graham started to bristle, but it was hard to work up anger at this little morsel of a female.

He wasn’t a good judge of human age, but he put hers about thirty, older than the college kids who flocked here, and old enough to have acquired a cynical outlook on life. She’d already learned that the world wasn’t always a happy place.

Graham took a sip of his beer. “Fight was a draw. We were working off steam.”

Again the assessment. “Must have been a lot of steam.”

Graham let out a laugh. “Yeah, it was.”

“I thought Shifters couldn’t fight. They have Collars.”

“That’s true.” Graham wasn’t about to tell a stranger that he’d learned to fight through the pain—most Shifters had. How Eric had learned to suppress his Collar like that, Graham wasn’t sure, but he’d find out.

“So how’d you fight tonight?” she asked.

“Carefully.”

She laughed, the sound somehow soothing. “I’ll bet. I’m Misty, by the way.”

“Misty?” Graham stared down at her. “What kind of f**ked-up human name is that?”

She didn’t look offended. “It’s what my mother calls me. My real name is Melissa, but I couldn’t pronounce it when I was little. They tried to call me Missy, but I kept saying Misty. So my mother decided that would be my nickname.”

“My name’s Graham. Everyone calls me Graham.”

She grinned. “So, what kind of f**ked-up Shifter name is that?”

Graham held back a laugh. “It’s Scottish. My family comes from Scotland.”

“A Scottish Shifter? What do you turn into, the Loch Ness monster? Or maybe a sheep?”

Snarky little human female. Graham could take her out with one blow. Then again, her brown eyes were sparkling, her scent was nice, and she was more interesting than anyone else in this place.

“Wolf,” Graham said. He bared his teeth. “Big, bad wolf, sweetheart.”