Beastly Desires (5 page)

“Ask.”

Kaisal tore his gaze away from Callum, who was laughing and stomping all across some dancing game just a few feet away. When he’d said the deli he was taking them to loved little ones, he hadn’t been exaggerating. It was full of games and toys and lights. All the things that drew the attention of pups and cubs alike. Callum was no different.

He’d swallowed a burger made of fresh ground deer, sweet potato fries and a milkshake sweetened with honey before taking off toward his first game. He hadn’t been back to the table in thirty minutes, and the wait staff did nothing but stand aside and watch him go with smiles. This was what her son had been missing, the freedom to simply be a child without the pressures of being looked to as the Oriade pride prince, future dominant male and heir to the dynasty. From birth that had been his title, and that was all anyone had ever seen.

“His father?” Kaisal said simply.

She kept her eyes on Callum, never getting too comfortable. “Dead.”

He was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

Kamali smirked. “Don’t be. He was a manipulative son of a bitch who tried to use Cal as a bargaining chip to get a higher position in the pride.” She sat back. “His tongue was torn out right before his throat for his efforts.” Alfre had played a dangerous game and lost. Her heat cycle could be blamed for her lying with him, but the unexpected pregnancy that followed would never be regretted.

She could feel Kaisal watching her and then he queried, “I could assume it was your father who did it and I would be wrong, wouldn’t I?”

Kamali took her stare from Callum and made direct eye contact with the tiger as her beast’s gaze clouded hers. From where he was seated, she could see the reflection of her liquid gold irises in the depths of his own. “Yes. You would. What gets between me and my son—no matter how large, how strong—
dies.
There is no debate, no question, or hesitation.
”
She leaned forward, wanting to make herself clear. “It
dies
.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Kaisal questioned. “Because something got between you and Cal?”

“Something tried to. It failed.”

“And you left.”

“I left,” she confirmed.

His fingertips tapped against the tabletop. “Does this something have to do with the Oriade pride?”

She froze, unsure how to answer that. She could tell him everything. Tell him that her father had been a leader,
ruler
, whose name was still whispered in both admiration and terror on the plains of southern Benin. She could tell him her father had built an empire with ruthlessness and frigid, decisive moves that brought others to heel after he married a young girl from another tribe in his village. She could explain that this young girl died giving birth to a princess, and that he’d moved his pride to greener pastures, settling them in America to escape a heartache he would never admit existed.

She could explain that he never allowed that princess to sit at his feet as he read her stories of their origin, that he never gave her more than a pat on the head, that his disapproving gaze followed her everywhere because she looked too much like his wife—the source of his broken spirit. She could explain that her father’s love, his affection, had been put into his businesses, into making money and crushing those who opposed him, leaving that princess to attempt to find her own way in the world. She could explain that the princess was her, and that she’d watched her father lose his life before her very eyes to the claws of a man who happened to be twice as ruthless and twice as frigidly decisive as he was. Kamali could explain that now the same man was after her son, because if Callum ever got the opportunity to become a full-grown pride male, a king like his grandfather, he’d go back to reclaim what was so rightfully his; he’d go back to reclaim their pride.

Kamali could’ve done all this—she could’ve given him the account of events that had led to this point, led to her being seated across from him, formulating a new route of escape. But instead she simply said, “Yes,” and left it there, hanging, the same way she had when he’d finally asked her what her name was and she’d answered, “Kam.”

He didn’t push, he didn’t dig deeper. Kaisal simply gave a short, sharp nod. “All right.”

“
Iya
?”

Kamali took her eyes off the pale ones boring into her and looked to her right where Callum stood, small hands gripping the edge of the dining table, huge, champagne-colored eyes blinking up at her. “May I have some more coins for the game?”

Only five, and he’d been taught to speak as though he were holding a board meeting. “Of course you may,
if
¹
.” Kamali stood, attempting to slide out of the booth so she could go break a few ones, but one large palm opened before Callum. In it? Several quarters.

Kaisal leaned toward the cub and whispered, “If you lose the next round of
Dance, Dance, Dance,
I’ll take someone outside, pin them, and let you beat them with a salami loaf.” He looked just over Callum’s shoulder as the boy laughed. “I say we pick Conley,” Kaisal said, mentioning the deli owner and coyote that he was clearly friends with. “He cries when he’s hit in the nose.”

“Sweet Jesus…” Kamali rubbed just under her left eye. “Don’t make my child sporadically violent.”

Both males gave her eerily similar innocent looks. “This isn’t sporadic,” the older one stated. “This is a planned attack. I promised the young prince vigilance, and that is what he shall receive.”

The fact that he referred to Callum as a prince would have normally unsettled her, but he’d heard her say it earlier tonight so she tamped down on the urge to snatch up her son and sprint toward the door.

“Yeah,
Iya
.” Callum pointed at Kaisal. “Vigilance. He wants to do his job.”

Kamali reached over, pushing the wild curls of his hair away from his forehead and spoke to him softly in Yoruba. “Behave yourself, love.”

He sighed and looked to Kaisal. “When she uses other languages it basically means
no.”

Amused, she watched him traipse back toward the game, jumping back into the lights and sounds that drew him in before. Just a week ago he would’ve been learning how to read ancient texts on their tribe, listening to tales of past battles fought and won.

“He seems advanced for his age,” Kaisal noted.

Of course Callum was. When you were born and bred to be a warrior, a bridge between cultures, businesses and lifestyles those under you had become accustomed to, you had to be advanced. You had to be everything to everyone. You had to be a target. Kamali’s son was a target.

“He reads,” she finally replied, touching the still-warm plate in front of her. “A
lot
.” More than any child should, really. But her father had been adamant that he start his training as early as she had started her own.

“He is a king,”
Enilo Oriade had said.
“Not by sociological standards but most certainly by psychological standards. The humans won’t recognize him the way we do in our world, but those who are a part of our community will know it and respect him. He will be strong, capable, and intelligent. He will walk through life understanding he is better than all; that just the heel of his foot touching the ground blesses wherever he steps. He is more and he shall know it.”

Kamali swallowed, remembering the words he’d spoken after Callum’s naming on the ninth day after his birth. He hadn’t been pleased with what she’d chosen for his grandson, believing the moniker, which meant “Dove,” was far too weak for the power behind the Oriade surname meaning “Head of crown,” but she wasn’t willing to relinquish her right to name her child whatever she pleased. She’d already followed Yorubian tradition and gone along with the naming ceremony. Kamali had stood and watched her father present Callum to the pride with a number of symbolic core items— water, salt, honey, palm oil, kola nut, bitter kola, pepper, and dried fish—all of which she’d had to place to her lips on Callum’s behalf because he was just a babe.

She’d listened as the members of her pride roared before shouting, “So shall it be” and vowing to protect another cub, another son. Names had been listed from the eldest of the tribe and her father but in the end, she’d chosen what her son would be called, giving him something of his own for once, something that didn’t mark him as a prince but an individual. And as music played and he was passed from arm to arm before landing in her own, she’d danced with her baby boy and vowed silently that he would know a life outside of structured traditions and cold obligations.

Kamali had tried to keep that promise up until a few days ago when everything they’d known had come shattering down around them because Enilo had let the wrong ones in. He’d allowed beasts to dine with them, to acquaint themselves with their home.

She’d never truly appreciated everything her father’s work had given them because she’d been jealous. She’d been jealous that he could love his opulence more than her. Leaving home and attending art school in New York had been a way of rebellion—which gave way to a successful career that he’d openly dismissed.

She’d returned home out of the need to be with her family, even if their pride had begun to run on the instinct to prove their power. Now she wished she had that support, that structure, because without it she was vulnerable. She’d protected Callum this long but what happened when Nico finally caught up, what happened when he and his rogues used their own power to find her, to rip her son away from her? What would she do then?

“Kam.”

The soft voice and familiar tone drew her away from darkening thoughts.

“You’re safe here.” A large, warm palm covered her hand, bringing her to the realization that her claws were out. “You and Cal are
safe
.”

She sucked in a deep breath and closed her eyes, attempting to calm the enraged lioness who wanted out, wanted blood.

“Kaisal!” Callum called out. “Will you come race with me?”

Kamali opened her eyes to find Kaisal’s focused solely on her. He looked torn between telling Callum yes and staying where he was. She shook her head slowly then nodded toward the cub. “Go.”

“But—”

“You promised him vigilance,” she mocked, trying to lighten the worry on his face. “Don’t disappoint.”

He ran his fingertips just over her palm. “As you command, Princess.”

That sent a jolt through her chest. She watched his slow gait as he walked away, the nickname ringing in her head. If he only knew…

***

Whatever had put that hollow look in her eyes was going to choke on every disc in its own spinal cord. Kaisal would personally make sure of this. She’d given him basic, cut-and-dried answers, clearly wary of revealing too much—clearly wary of
him.
She didn’t need to be, but whoever was after her and Cal should be gravely concerned. There were things he’d been taught never to tolerate, and the victimization of innocents was at the top of that particular list. Kam was innocent. He knew it like he knew the striped pattern on his pelt.

Whatever she’d done, wherever she’d come from, she and Cal were innocent
.
And the thought of someone forcing her into this detached position, making her feel as though she couldn’t simply eat a meal while her son laughed, was like raking a stick against the bars of his beast’s cage. The primal instincts he’d been fighting—the ones that made him seek out his enemies and end them without any notice, warning, remorse—were rising within him, and it was a struggle to tamp down on the bloodlust, a struggle to tell his tiger
no.

Kaisal thought that when he’d retired from the Navy the prompting would stop, the need to crush vertebrae, would stop. It obviously hadn’t, and it only increased every second that he’d watched Kam stare avidly after her cub, never allowing herself to become too comfortable. What had pushed her here? What had shoved her into becoming a vessel for the steady hum of rage he felt vibrating in her when he’d brushed his hand across hers?
It doesn’t matter
, his tiger decided. It would die. No logic. No reason. No compromise. It. Would. Die. Kaisal would revel in it. He’d relish the moment he was able to stop their heart, stop their next inhale, end their too-long existence. It mattered not that he’d only known her for six hours or that he only had half of their names or that he was confused about the emotions she provoked with her scent alone—they were now under
his
protection. They were now
his
responsibility. And may whatever deity her enemy worshipped have mercy on their soul, because when they crossed that tenuous line, Kaisal would skin them alive and offer up the remains as a sacrifice to his own god.