Did Aspen really look that stupid? She hoped not. “That wouldn’t stop this fight. All it would do is piss off Camden. You know that. You’re thinking that if he fights in anger, it’ll give Grant an edge. Which it wouldn’t, but whatever. Now go away, Aimee. I am way too sober to deal with you right now.”
She balled up her hands. “This isn’t—”
“Dude, I get it. You don’t think I’m good enough for Grant. Fortunately for you, I am not his mate. Instead of spending time giving me shit, why not devote time into trying to make him face that he’s been lying to himself? And then maybe be there for him when he finally makes his peace with it.”
“Don’t act like you care about his feelings,” said Aimee, all snark and cattiness with her hand on her hip, wiggling her neck with almost every word. “Not while you’re standing there wearing another man’s marks.”
She moved toward Aspen, but a hand clamped on her shoulder, staying her. A hand that belonged to Tate’s aunt, Valentina. A badass, no-nonsense wolverine who Aspen couldn’t help but adore. The woman’s mate, James, was close behind her.
Valentina tutted at Aimee. “That would be big mistake,” she said in her thick, Russian accent. “You see bearcat, you think ‘weak.’ That is also mistake.”
Aimee’s mouth tightened. “You know what will happen tonight, Valentina. Grant will defeat the tiger without breaking a sweat. Then Aspen will be all upset. And Havana doesn’t like it when Aspen’s upset. Before we know it, Grant will be asked to leave the pride.”
Valentina patted the pallas cat’s cheek. “Such wild imagination you have, child. You got it from your father. He swears shifters are from hell. Says we are Satan’s babies.”
Looking at his mate, James scratched his temple. “Whenever I’m around your mother, I begin to think he might be right,” he muttered quietly.
Valentina’s spine snapped straight. “James Devereaux, you will cease—”
“What?” He raised his hands, all innocence. “I didn’t call her ‘Skeletor’ this time.”
“You were thinking it.” Valentina looked back at Aimee. “Go. There will be other occasions for you to embarrass yourself.”
But apparently the temptation to annoy Aspen was simply too strong to ignore, because the female pallas cat turned to her again.
“Aimee,” Tate drawled. The one-word warning was dark enough to make the bitch freeze. Then, with a dramatic hair flip, she stalked off.
Valentina rolled her eyes. “So whiny and petty. She is too weak to be pallas cat. I despise weakness.” She shuddered, as if she truly couldn’t stand even the mere thought of it. She then settled her gaze on Aspen, and her eyes sharpened. “I see you are worried. Do not be. Grant is strong, very fast. But Camden moves like man who can handle himself. I am sure he will not be too badly hurt.”
“Oh, I’m not worried for Camden,” said Aspen. “I’m worried that, after this, people will want him gone.”
James cocked his head. “Why would they want that?”
“You’re about to find out,” said Havana, tipping her chin toward the two men. “Grant has finished his call.”
Yes, he had. He’d also taken a single step closer to Camden.
The tiger didn’t mirror his move. He was all about letting his prey come to him. He merely continued to stare at Grant with what could only be described as blatant unconcern.
She frowned at Bailey. “You’re humming again.”
The mamba’s brow creased. “Out loud? Really?”
“How else would I have heard you?”
“Oh yeah, never thought of that.”
Aspen shook her head. “Just stop talking.”
Bailey made a show of zipping her mouth shut.
“Christ, stop humming.”
“I can’t help it.”
His jaw set, Grant pushed his shoulders back and took yet another slow, predatory step forward. Given how pissed the pallas cat was at the center earlier, Camden had half-expected Grant to charge at him the second he arrived in the yard. But no. The male was taking his sweet time, dragging it out, making Camden wait, attempting to take control of the situation—and no doubt hoping that, in doing so, he’d both frustrate and provoke Camden.
Feeling no need to play any such games, Camden stood very still, keeping his eyes locked on his prey. Adrenaline coursed through him, heightening his senses, sharpening his focus, readying him to move.
The air was thick with tension and anticipation—most of which came from the bystanders. They’d fallen quiet and were waiting for someone to strike. One or more of them must also be eating popcorn, because the smell of it laced the cool evening air, along with the scents of tree bark, wildflowers, and stagnant pond water.
Grant cricked his neck and shook his arms. Confidence poured off him. He believed he had this in the bag. And going by the smug glint in his eye, he loved that everyone would see him win. More, he loved that Camden—a person who’d both fucked and marked the woman Grant believed was meant for him—would be publicly beaten, defeated, and shamed.