Son-of-a-bitch Lion genes. The bastard inside him was pissed and wouldn’t just let it go any more than Rule was willing to let his mate go. Unfortunately, the beast inside him was snapping at the man Rule was, enraged with him for giving their mate the time she needed.
He almost rolled his eyes at the thought. As though they were f**king separate entities or something.
The irritation building in the animal sent an overwhelming urge inside Rule to pace, to satisfy the clawing restlessness.
To find Gypsy.
To fill their kiss with the taste of peppermint and chocolate that the mating hormone seemed infused with—no wonder he hadn’t recognized the minute amount that had slipped from the glands as he chased her.
His lip lifted, a snarl almost sounding in his throat again.
Damn you, settle the f**k down.
Directing the fierce order to the animal crouched and ready to spring, he was on the verge of snarling himself.
Don’t even think about it.
That involuntary, muted growl rumbled in his chest as his instincts snapped at him again, like sharp teeth raking his mind.
He could feel each instinct as though it were an alternate personality, sharing with him the irritation and restlessness burning inside it.
He’d never bothered to ask other Breeds if they could sense their animal in such a way. Hell, he wasn’t sure he’d get the answer he wanted to hear, and in this case, he wasn’t sure he wanted to accept any other answer.
Intelligent. Cunning. Sometimes enraged. Always restless.
Where Gypsy was concerned, just damned pissed and eager to get back to her.
The animal was ready to pace at this point, or fight. A fight would feel damned good. Fists bunched and slamming into flesh, enraged roars echoing around him.
Hell. The fight would just alleviate the burning aggravation of being locked out of his mate’s senses. How the f**k had she managed to do that anyway?
Rubbing his tongue against his teeth to ease the irritation in the small, swollen glands, Rule grimaced as he realized he was only torturing himself. After all, each time the glands were stroked, more of the mating hormone spilled.
Hormonal Mating Glands.
He wanted to snort at the title as he slouched back in his seat once again and lifted the beer in front of him to his lips. Tilting the bottle, he relished the chill bite of bitterness as it raced over his taste buds, wishing its effects would sedate the animal that suddenly wanted to snarl in displeasure.
What the hell do you think you want? he thought with a snap of anger, wondering at his own sanity as he attempted to push back the irritated presence.
A growl rumbled in his chest, bringing an immediate scowl to his face as he glared into the dimly lit bar he’d entered about four beers ago.
Go back to sleep, why don’tcha? he ordered the creature. That’s what you f**king get for playing “Jonas” games with me for nine f**king years.
Manipulating, calculating sons of bitches. It bit his ass to imagine a creature smart enough to f**king hide what it was doing in his subconscious from him. As though the animal genetics were separate. What the f**k was up with that?
He looked at the beer. How many had he had again?
One too many, he was starting to believe.
Another rumble burred just beneath his breath.
A sound of irritation and impatience.
Shut the f**k up before I go hunt those pills Merc took so he wouldn’t have to deal with this shit!
For years, Mercury Warrant, one of their most primal Lion Breeds, had been forced to take daily medication to hold back the last phase of Breed insanity known as feral fever.
Those drugs had kept his animal instincts in check in such a way that it was like putting the animal inside him into a deep, cold sleep.