“DNA,” Sheldon said. “We leave it everywhere we go.”

Crosby said nothing, though he clearly didn’t know what the hell Sheldon was talking about.

But if Sheldon could get some of the tiger’s DNA, his scientists could do something with it, like analyze its chain or make clones of this tiger person. Again, Sheldon didn’t know how those things worked; he only knew that if you wanted something done, you gathered people smart enough to do it and told them what you expected. If a person didn’t fulfill your expectations, you fired them and found another, until you’d pulled together a crack team.

“I need the tiger’s DNA. I want you to search Carly Randal’s house, top to bottom, for anything of the tiger’s—a strand of hair, his clothes, a hat. If you find nothing there, search the house in which he used to live, in Shiftertown.”

Crosby’s eyes widened, the statue flickering the slightest bit. “In Shiftertown, sir?”

“The woman’s house is the least dangerous, which is why I’m sending you there first. But you can handle Shifters, Crosby. You’re trained for it.”

“Yes, sir,” Crosby said.

“Fine. That’s your assignment. Dismissed. Oh, and Crosby—don’t mention a word of this to Captain Danielson. On your honor.”

“I won’t, sir.” Crosby saluted, turned on his heels, and marched out of the room.

Of course he wouldn’t, Sheldon thought as Crosby banged the outer door shut. Crosby never disobeyed. If Sheldon told Crosby to shoot himself in his own head, Crosby would probably do it, no questions asked.

* * *

The evening after Carly had had her talk with Yvette, she went home, cooked a large meal, ate it, then went upstairs to take a bath.

She thought over Yvette’s story, how the woman had willingly turned her back on a potentially brilliant career to help the outcast man she loved. A sweet, romantic tale. Yvette had made her choice, and thirty years later, she still was content with her decision.

Tears filled Carly’s eyes as she lay back in the warm bath. Outside, a torrential rain poured down from clouds that had been threatening the city all day. The rain pattered on the roof and beat on the windows, rain rolling down the panes in streaks like tears.

She remembered Tiger saying good-bye, how he’d looked straight into her eyes.

Mate of my heart. You always will be. No matter what.

Carly’s stubborn resolve fled as though blown away by the gusts outside. She put her hand over her face and cried.

* * *

The watcher waited until the lights went out in Carly’s house, then he eased back into the shadows and took up his vigil.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Carly needed more food. She’d had dinner, a snack after her bath, and then something at bedtime to tide her over. She woke after midnight, stomach growling.

“Geez, you eat a lot, kid,” she said, touching her abdomen. “I bet you’ll be just like your dad.”

That thought brought fresh tears, which Carly had believed she was done with, and also a fear. Tiger was such an unusual Shifter. What if Carly’s human body wasn’t strong enough to carry his child?

She needed to talk to Liam, to tell him, ask his advice. At the same time, Carly feared to. What would the Shifters do when they learned she was pregnant? Ask her to get rid of the baby? Or to go ahead and have the baby but leave it with them to raise?

Carly refused to contemplate either choice. This cub belonged to Tiger and to her, no one else. She wouldn’t give it up to be confined, watched, tested, chained, tranquilized, drugged—all the things they’d done to Tiger.

As soon as she made it to the dark kitchen, she knew there was someone else in the house. A breath of air, a scent, a sound . . . She wasn’t sure what she sensed, but something had alerted her.

Carly reached for the light switch. At the same time, a male body barreled at her, a punch landed across her face, and Carly tumbled, insensible, to the floor.

She dreamed. She saw Tiger, his hard face and golden eyes, jaw covered with half-grown beard. He fought with a faceless assailant, then he was standing over Carly, touching her, lifting her.

Carly was safe in his arms, her mate holding her and keeping her warm. The dream dissolved, and Carly woke in her bed, the sun rising.

Carly’s silk pajamas, top and bottoms, hugged her with warmth, possibly why she’d dreamed of Tiger. But no, she’d gone down to the kitchen, hadn’t she? Her stomach felt hollow. Had she eaten or not?

Morning sickness was rearing its ugly head. Didn’t matter if Carly had eaten or not—it was coming back.

She made it to the bathroom and lost her load, then she went to the sink to wash her hands and rinse her mouth, as Carly did every morning these days. She raised her head and looked into the mirror . . . and saw the bandages stuck to the side of her face.

“What the hell?” Carly peeled back the tape and found a cut surrounded by a nice bruise right below her left eye.

Flashes of memory returned—Carly going downstairs for yet another snack, sensing someone, trying to turn on the light. The punch, the fall, and then Tiger over her.

Tiger.

No, couldn’t be. But who, then, had bandaged her face and put her to bed? She couldn’t have done this good a bandaging job in her sleep.

Carly ran from the room and out into her kitchen. She looked wildly around, but she saw nothing out of place. No one here, and no evidence of anyone being there in the night.

Wait, yes there was. Her back door was unlocked. The lock wasn’t broken, but someone had unlocked it, either using a key or by picking it, then had closed it nicely without relocking it. Carly clearly remembered checking the doors before she went to bed, as she did every night, and the door had been locked.

In the living room, she found that a sofa pillow was missing from her couch.

Carly stared at the sofa, hands on her hips. What kind of thief picked his way into a house, knocked out a helpless woman, stole her sofa cushion, bandaged her up, and left again, politely closing the door?

Bizarre. She drew a breath, wincing as her bruised cheekbone moved. She let out the breath, locked the kitchen door, and went back to her room to get ready for work.

* * *

Connor sat up in bed and yelled. The intruder in the predawn hour was stealthy, almost Shifter stealthy, but he’d made a sound that penetrated Connor’s sleep.

Connor was in Tiger’s bed, in Tiger’s loft room, which used to be Connor’s. He hadn’t needed to move back in here now that Tiger was gone, but for some reason, Connor felt safer here, as though Tiger’s presence had gifted the room with some kind of protective mojo.