“You’ve had enough,” Lawe finally told him, realizing Rule seemed determined to drink himself into a fighting drunk.
Not a good thing.
What the hell was going on here?
“Not yet, I haven’t,” Rule sighed. “I’m still conscious.”
...
It wasn’t the bleak darkness that filled him that had him drinking. It wasn’t anger or resentment; he even understood why Gypsy needed this time with her family first.
Sort of, anyway.
It was that damned Lion driving him insane. He could feel his instincts—fuck instincts—he could feel the Lion snapping at him furiously, demanding that he go to Gypsy now. That he force this whole “do you love me?” issue.
It was sickening. He’d be damned if he would do it. He wasn’t going to beg her for shit.
He frowned thoughtfully. Hell, maybe he was just going crazy.
More than one Lion Breed had gone feral after escaping the Genetics Council’s labs. It wasn’t unheard of for any Breed to slip into the feral rages and never return. Was that what was happening to him now?
Except mated Breeds didn’t go feral.
There wasn’t a single instance of mated Breeds slipping into feral fever. As though the mating itself stabilized the creature’s rage.
“Return to your mate, brother,” Rule sighed wearily as the bartender set the whiskey and beer in front of him.
“It’s not safe here,” Lawe sighed. “If you’re going to drink yourself to a stupor, then I’ll stay with you until you’re ready to return to the hotel.”
Rule shook his head. “Not returning yet. If I don’t get a little bit drunker, then I might embarrass myself.”
He’d be damned if he was going to beg her to love him. He had some pride. He had some self-control.
He lifted the shot, tossed it back, and thought with a measure of comfort that the bite of the alcohol wasn’t nearly as fierce this time.
Staring back at his brother, Rule was amused to see the concern in Lawe’s eyes. No doubt, at the first opportunity—he snickered at the two Breeds that entered the bar. Ah well, perhaps he’d been smart enough to call in reinforcements before entering.
He turned his gaze back to his brother broodingly.
“Babysitters?” he asked.
Lawe shrugged, the gesture dismissive. “I assume they’re here for a drink.”
Were they now?
Loki—that lying f**king Coyote and his master Dog—or was Jonas the master of both? Some days he wondered which Breed knew his own path and which Breed was merely content to allow Jonas to guide him.
He grinned at the two Coyotes. “How you two have managed to escape Jonas’s matchmaking is what I want to know.”
Dog’s brow arched with a measure of polite indulgence before glancing at Lawe. “Drunk already, is he?”
“He’s getting there,” Rule assured the three of them.
Lawe grunted at that, spearing a look in Dog’s direction as they seemed to share some unspoken message.
Placing the glass to his side, Rule lifted the beer to his lips, and once again, when he lowered it, barely half of the brew remained.
“I believe the reason your brother came looking for you”—Loki was the one to speak, the graveled tone of his voice always making Rule wonder what torture the Council scientists had devised to destroy his voice in such a way—“was to drag you back to our esteemed director for debriefing.”