PrimalFlavor (2 page)

The tiger crouched, patient and attentive as he watched the
feral hog root in the grass, his snorts of contentment belying the danger of
the beast. Zachary Trahan, the rational mind inside the tiger, cautioned his
animal half to go slowly. This was their first hunt in months, the first time
they’d been able to get away from work long enough to take time for themselves.
There were no demanding brides or mothers calling him at all hours to make sure
their cakes and menus were just right. There were no junior chefs following him
home, begging for the chance to work in his kitchen. And there were definitely
no women trying to entice him into doing something completely stupid, like mate
with them.

The fur on his scruff stood at attention, his tiger offended
by the very thought of being tied down with any single female. Zach soothed his
animal and directed its attention back to the hog that had wandered closer. His
mouth watered for a taste. When he was human, he preferred his food cooked a
little more, the chef in him mindful of the parasites he chanced by eating on
the hoof. But the tiger wasn’t bothered by things like blood and the
possibility of developing trichinosis. It wanted the thrill of the hunt.

Even though the hunt had taken him farther into the swamps
than he normally ventured, Zach had allowed his animal to guide him, following
his instincts. The well-worn path leading from Maison Rouge had been used by
thousands of shifters over the last three hundred years as they let their
animals run wild. But the tiger hadn’t wanted to follow the usual path that
would lead him to the areas heavily populated by game. It’d wanted to explore a
bit, to test its boundaries and seek out a little solitude. And it had been
wonderful.

Zach appreciated the nonstop business brought to his bakery
door by the sudden popularity of Pointe-Aux-Chat Parish. Tourists bought his
desserts by the pound as they hung around the small town in hopes of catching a
glimpse of the members of the all-shifter band Saber. Some of the models, debutantes
and dignitaries who flocked to Maison Rouge to be fitted for custom gowns by
fashion designer Kitty Chambers loved to indulge in the chocolate he made. The
weddings and mating ceremonies that kept popping up as his neighbors took that
ridiculous step meant his catering business had increased as well.

Things were finally looking up for him. And he hated it. His
eyes narrowed on the hog as though it represented every annoying customer
brought to his door. When he’d started out with the plan to take over his
grandmother’s bakery and also run a side business, he’d never imagined it would
eat into so much of his time. But there were many days he didn’t sleep because
he wasn’t sure he could trust his assistants to recreate his recipes to his
exact specifications. Yes, he’d handpicked each one and personally trained
them. Yes, they were the cream of the crop and well-qualified, yet he couldn’t
let go of the fear they would fuck everything up.

The hog snorted, lifting its head to smell the wind,
dragging Zach away from his musings. His ear flicked as he caught a sound so
faint, he wasn’t certain if it was a figment of his imagination or not. He
ignored it, remaining perfectly still. This hog was going down. If it turned
into a fight, so much the better. A fight was better than waking up after a
night of fucking to see a female flipping through bridal magazines. He
shuddered at the memory. Ugh, goddamn women.

Every muscle in his body tightened as he prepared to spring
from the undergrowth, his ears flattening, his legs bunching slightly. His leap
would cover two-thirds of the distance between him and the hog. His heart
pumped faster with anticipation and the sudden surge of adrenaline coursing
through his body. His claws dug into the soft soil beneath him as he used the
ground as a springboard.

He leapt out of the leaves in an explosive burst of speed that
had the hog’s head swinging in his direction. The little beady eyes widened
momentarily, the wild boar rearing back on its hind legs in preparation to run
and even took a few steps toward him as though his was the path of greater
safety. The tiger snarled, wanting it to run, needing it to lead him on a chase
that would drain the stress from his body. Except the hog no sooner reared back
when it fell to the ground with a heavy thud, causing Zach to sail over his
prey, missing it completely.

Sliding across the dirt, claws scrambling for purchase, Zach
didn’t come to a stop until he hit a tree on the other side of the clearing. He
barely registered the pain of slamming into the trunk, bouncing to his feet in
one smooth motion. Someone had shot his fucking hog. He growled low in his
throat, his lip curling away from his fangs. Someone had robbed him of his one
moment to enjoy a good, long hunt and a tasty meal he hadn’t cooked. Someone
was going to get their ass handed to them. He didn’t care if they were human or
not. And he knew it was most likely some pathetic excuse of a human hunter. No
self-respecting shifter would use a gun to hunt. No one, but no one stole his
kills and lived to brag about it.

Zach crouched next to his former prey, no longer interested
in sating his anger and hunger on it. It wasn’t any fun now that it was dead.
No, he would save his aggression for the moron who went hunting in shifter
territory. Everyone in the fucking country knew certain areas in each county
and parish were reserved for shifters, yet this fucktard had brought a
high-powered rifle, complete with sound repressor, into that territory. And
shot his fucking kill. He should have been outraged that a human had fired a
weapon in an area where young shifters could be practicing their hunting
skills, but all he could think of was his thwarted fight.

He bit back a roar, not wanting to give away his position.
Sure, he’d probably get a visit from Sheriff Picou for scaring one of the
parish’s fragile humans, but that was a small price to pay for losing his kill.
It wasn’t as if he’d kill the motherfucker as much as he’d like to. God knew
neither he nor his tiger wanted anything to do with non-shifters. Their males
were too weak to fight, their females were too weak and small to fuck, and it
was illegal to eat them even in his animal form, so what the fuck good were
they? He didn’t hate them. He simply had no use for them. And for one of them
to steal his hog— He almost shook his head at their stupidity and arrogance.

A twig snapped nearby and he turned his head slowly to watch
the shadows. It wasn’t nighttime yet, but the dwindling sunlight was a plus for
him, not the human. His vision made a mockery out of the goggles humans had to
wear and he was able to see everything. He waited, but still nothing
approached. He also didn’t feel the ground vibrating from a clumsy human’s
footsteps.

If he could have frowned in his tiger form, he would have.
Where were they? Usually when humans went hunting feral hog, they had four-wheelers
and a crew of three or four to help pull the hog out. Yet he hadn’t heard a
single thing since that twig snapped, nor did he scent anything that didn’t fit
the surroundings. It was a puzzle, something he absolutely hated.

“You can come on out. I know you’re there.”

The voice caused him to jump. Not only because it came from
the opposite direction he’d expected to see the hunter, but also because it was
accompanied by the deadly sound of a gun being pumped. No more than five feet
away from him. Even better, the voice, while low and husky, was undeniably
female.

He searched the shadows, impressed despite his contempt of
humans. Whoever she was had somehow moved around him, remaining downwind the
entire time and slipped into cover so thick he couldn’t make her out. Then he
caught the gleam of a rifle barrel. Slowly, details about the figure behind the
gun emerged, but only because she stepped out of the protection of a bush.

She wasn’t wearing fancy camouflage the way he’d seen some
hunters employ in the hopes their prey wouldn’t see them coming. Her plain,
faded jeans were frayed at the hems and had rips that came from long, hard use,
not a designer’s mind. From his position on the ground, her legs looked to be a
mile long, the jeans lovingly following her thighs to round hips, yet she
couldn’t have been more than five foot two. The plain green t-shirt tucked into
the waistband displayed a neat waist and smaller breasts than he usually liked
on his women. Her shoulders were narrow, but there was no denying the strength
in her upper body, the feminine muscles evident through the thin cotton.

His tiger was intrigued despite its frustration over losing
a kill. He appreciated a predator and hadn’t really considered human females as
the kind to hunt. The ones he’d seen and rolled his eyes at had been all fluffy
and frivolous and about as dangerous as a gnat with one wing. This one was
different though. Eager now, the tiger forced Zach’s eyes away from those
interesting little teacup tits to her face. And he promptly forgot about her
body.

Every shifter in Pointe-Aux-Chat Parish knew about the very
small community nestled in the deepest part of the swamp called Bayou Ange, or
Angel Bayou. Shifters didn’t really go there unless they were authority figures
and even then, they went in groups. Zach had never given the small community
much thought since the people there went to nearby Germantown instead of Maison
Rouge for anything they needed. All he really knew about them was a combination
of historic fact found in the parish’s archives and gossip he heard in his
shop. But he was aware that if you ended up in Angel Bayou without an
invitation, shifter or not, you were bound to earn a hurting when you were
discovered. And you would be discovered. The Robicheauxs, the largest family in
Angel Bayou, were some of the most legendary hunters in the state. Something
that didn’t endear them to Zach. In his mind, hunters had no business living
near shifters in case they were ever tempted to snag a prize of the two-legged
variety.

And the pale-violet eyes staring down at him so impersonally
belonged to none other than a Robicheaux. That was another thing he knew about
the family. It didn’t matter what ethnicity they married into, the strange
purple eyes were dominant in the line. Those eyes gave her away as belonging to
the close-knit clan of rough, tough hunters who were said to fight a fence post
if it got in their way. That was why the Pointe-Aux-Chat Sheriff’s Office went
in the community with backup when they were called out, which was frequently.
The men liked to fight. A lot.

He wasn’t so sure how the family managed to avoid being
banned from Germantown, but he’d had several shifters from that area come to
his bakery and talk about how the Robicheauxs had torn up the town again.
Strangely enough it was always said with affection and a touch of amusement, as
though they were proud of the heathens. But in all the time he’d heard stories
about the Robicheaux clan, Zach had never once heard mention of a female unless
it was someone’s wife. Yet there was no mistaking he was looking at one now.
Those tits had given her away. Well, and the hips and the voice that made the
fur on the back of his neck stand straight up.

Once he was able to drag his gaze away from her mesmerizing
eyes, he catalogued the rest of her features. Long, bold nose with a bump on
the bridge. High cheekbones, square, almost masculine jaw, stubborn chin with a
cleft and a cute, rosebud mouth. His gaze snagged on those lips, which seemed
completely out of place on the rest of a face that screamed hard woman. Light-pink,
like sugar-crusted rose petals. He remembered that interesting concoction from
culinary school and her lips looked just as delicate and delicious. Which was
insane, really. He didn’t kiss humans.

But her pale lips and light eyes stood out to him. Set
against her sun-bronzed skin with the slightest tint of red beneath, she was
strangely exotic and sexy to him. Even his tiger was intrigued by her, eager to
catch her scent, but with her downwind, that wasn’t happening.

The loaded rifle cradled in her capable hands didn’t waver
once while he stared at her. The muscles of her arms stood out as she took the
weight of the weapon, but she didn’t seem strained. This was a strong,
dangerous woman. She didn’t seem afraid to be faced with a tiger that
outweighed her by several hundred pounds. If anything, she seemed almost bored.

“You’re trespassing,” she said suddenly, her voice calm and
collected. “And don’t try to act like you don’t understand me. Tigers aren’t
indigenous to south Louisiana.” She lifted the rifle up to align the sight with
her eye. “So why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here trying to steal my
kill, furboy.”

Zach was in love. Well, no, not in love. He didn’t do love.
He did lust. His tiger, on the other hand, wanted to knock her to the ground
and lick her from head to toe.
Idiot fucking cat.
It liked the fact that
she was threatening him. Shifter females didn’t do that. They all rolled over
way too easily, giving in to him before he’d even decided what he wanted from
them. This human, who should have been pissing herself in fear, wasn’t scared
of him, wasn’t intimidated by his size and looked as though she couldn’t care
less if he walked out of the swamp or was carried out in a body bag. Strike
that, she was a Robicheaux. She probably knew exactly how to skin and dispose of
his body in such a way that no one would ever find his bones.

And his tiger liked it. Zach told the animal to shut up,
even as he fought his body’s urge to shift and show her exactly how happy he
was to see her. His tiger wanted to share the hog with her, feed her the best
bits of meat and then lick off the juices. It didn’t even care he’d have to
cook the meat first. It wanted her to be happy with him. It wanted to please
her. In more ways than one.
Oh fuck, this is so not good
.

“I’m going to count to three. If you don’t shift and tell me
why you’re on my land, I’m gonna start shooting body parts starting with the
tip of your pretty ear.” The barrel moved inches to the right.