Paenther snorted. "And if the humans aren't interested in selling, we simply cloud their minds and tell them to move? Or would you have us kill them and dispose of the bodies?"

Maxim smiled. "Either." Had he really not heard the acid in Paenther's tone?

Paenther rolled his eyes and looked away. "We don't work that way."

Maxim sneered. "It's no wonder the Mage are about to free the Daemons. The Chief of the Ferals has no backbone."

Faith winced.

Paenther growled, a sound that sent chills skittering down her spine. "You go too far." As if in slow motion, his arms uncrossed, dropping to his sides, his muscles flexed as if preparing for attack, claws sprouted from his fingertips.

Her pulse began to pound as she watched fangs erupt from his gums and his eyes change to those of a jungle cat just as Hawke's and Lyon's had in the living room. She would never get used to this.

But this time Maxim mirrored the move. She watched in stunned fascination as he, too, went feral, the savagery of the look so at odds with his nice clothes and his painfully sophisticated demeanor.

Maxim snarled as he slipped off his blazer and tossed it aside. His stance shifted, his arms flaring out, his knees bending as if he prepared to attack an opponent.

They were just posturing. Surely they wouldn't . . .

Paenther launched himself at Maxim, missing her by inches, tearing a cry from her lungs. She scooted back onto the sofa, pulling her legs up and away from the tangle of limbs and claws at her feet as they went at one another like animals, tearing and slashing both clothes and flesh, sending blood flying everywhere.

Her pulse pounded, bile threatening to rise in her throat as she stared at the viciousness with horror.

She'd always imagined Feral House to be a fairy-tale castle. Now she knew better.

It was a madhouse.

Hawke had just dug his fork into another bite of meat when he heard the thud of bodies. And Faith's scream. He shot out of his seat and ran for the hallway.

"Hawke, wait!"

But Hawke ignored Lyon's order as he did his own promise to stay away from Faith. She was in trouble, and that trumped everything. With Lyon and Wulfe following close behind him, Hawke reached the media room to find a feral battle in full swing. Maxim and Paenther.

On the sofa, watching in horror, was Faith. Too close. An errant swipe of a clawed hand, and she'd be bleeding, too. As Lyon and Wulfe waded in to break up the fight, Hawke reached for Faith. One hand beneath her knees, the other at her back, he swept her off the sofa and into his arms and was slammed with such a feeling of rightness, such a furious, primitive possessiveness, he feared he might crush her in his savage need to hold her close. As he strode from the room, his hawk screeched in triumph, the wildness inside him urging him to keep going, to take her to his bedroom, bolt the door, and keep her for himself. Take her. Claim her.

Mine.

Her sweet scent enveloped him, the weight of her in his arms so perfect, so natural, it was as if he'd always known the feel of her and had been waiting his entire life for this moment. The need to bury his face in her blue-tipped hair, to nuzzle the curve of her neck, was almost beyond bearing. Would she taste as perfect as she felt? As she smelled? He shook with the need to know. With the need to touch her skin, to kiss her. His body throbbed with the desire to make them one, watching her eyes darken with rising passion as he drove into her.

Would she rise for him? Would she even want him?

Sanity returned in a rush, battling the wild need.

She wasn't his.

As he strode into the hallway, he knew it would be better if he set her down and walked away. If they remained casual friends and nothing more.

But his grip on her only tightened. Neither man nor beast wanted to let her go.

Chapter Four

Faith held on to Hawke's neck as he carried her from the room, the sound of breaking furniture, tearing fabric, and fierce growls following them. Her heart thudded in her ears, her body trembled. Yet her senses exploded at Hawke's closeness, at the feel of being in his arms. He smelled of soap and warm male, and something more, like a sunlit forest on a crisp autumn day, at once welcoming, calming, and thoroughly exhilarating. Heat flushed her skin, sinking into her blood with a startling arousal.

Her head spun with conflicting thoughts and warring emotions. Her arm tightened even as she fought off the sudden and overwhelming desire to tuck her face against his corded neck. To taste the skin there.

Heavens, Maxim would come after them both if he heard her thoughts.

In the hallway, Hawke stopped and turned his head, their faces so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. "Are you hurt?" His gaze captured hers, his eyes dark with concern yet utterly electric.

"Cease!" Lyon's voice boomed from the open entryway, directed at the combatants.

"No. Just . . . shaken." Soon Maxim would come looking for her. If he saw them like this . . . "You need to put me down, Hawke."

A low growl rumbled from Hawke's throat, and she started, half-afraid he was going feral again. But the look on his face had a savageness of an entirely different kind. He stared at her as if he wanted to devour her.

Her breath caught. Heat bloomed low inside her, pooling at her core.

"Hawke."

"I'm trying." His words surprised her even as his arms began to shake. The desire in his eyes flushed her skin and sent her pulse leaping.

She lifted her hand, needing to touch him, then clenched her fingers into a fist and pressed them against her thigh, knowing she'd only fan the flames of this inappropriate relationship if she did.

"Hawke, please put me down. Please don't let him find us like this."

He closed his eyes, the struggle clear in the hard set of his jaw as he leaned forward, burying his nose in her hair, inhaling long and deep. With a violent shudder, he let her legs slide to the floor, then released her, putting a small cushion of air between them even as he remained too close, crowding her between the wall and his long, hard body. He pressed his hands to the wall on either side of her, his head tipped forward, enclosing her in a cage of rioting sensation. Her heart pounded, her body liquefying, as she met his white-hot gaze.

"Your heart is thundering." He watched her carefully, the softness of his words in direct counterpoint to the piercing intensity of his eyes. "Are you afraid of me?"

"No. I'm afraid of Maxim catching us like this. He's so jealous."

Hawke's face hardened, his mouth thinning. "Promise me something, Faith. If he ever hurts you, or threatens you, you'll come to me. Or to any of the other Ferals."

She stared at him, at the fierceness in his eyes. A chill went up her spine, but she shook her head. "He's not going to hurt me." He'd just squeezed her shoulder too tight was all.

"You don't know that. I don't trust him, Faith. And you barely know him." His gaze never left her face. Slowly, his expression softened even as his gaze gripped hers in a satin vise. "I don't want you to get hurt, Smiley," he said gently. "Not by him. Not by me."

The lump that formed in her throat at his words was sudden and unexpected. The peculiar sweetness of believing someone cared. As the seconds ticked by, as the sounds of fighting continued, their gazes held, deepening. Awareness flushed her body, rising to stain her cheeks.

The sound of falling bodies and wood splintering broke the spell. If Maxim saw them staring at one another like this . . .

Pressing her hand to her forehead, she slid out from between Hawke and the wall, putting a little distance between them before she turned back. "Does this happen a lot?"

"The jealousy?"

"The going feral. The fighting."

Hawke's mouth turned rueful. "All the time. You'll get used to it." He shrugged. "We're animals."

She stared at him. There was no judgment in that statement. No irony. "You really are, aren't you?"

"We put on a civilized front. But once we're marked, once the animal spirit claims us, the animal nature that used to be part of all Therians is triggered. We are not civilized men."

Lyon's voice barreled out of the room, thick with anger. "Training. In the basement. Now."

A moment later, Maxim strode out of the room, his fine clothes torn, that slicked-back hair sticking up at odd angles around his bloodied face. But whatever wounds he'd suffered had already healed, and in his eyes shone a hard light, a light that burst into a furious flame as his gaze caught sight of her with Hawke. It didn't matter that they stood three feet apart. She'd known it wouldn't.

Hawke straightened. Maxim growled, his face taking on that terrifying, fanged animal mask again. As he started toward them, Hawke stepped forward, angling himself so that she was behind him, then drew his own fangs and claws.

"Maxim, stop this!" she cried, but he ignored her.

Lyon, Wulfe, and Paenther erupted from the room. Wulfe started to go after Maxim, but Lyon stopped him with a single word. "Hold."

Maxim lunged, taking a swipe at Hawke, turning his cheek into bloody ribbons.

Faith gasped.

All hell broke loose for a second time as the two Ferals crashed together, but this time was so much worse. Because this time she knew she was the cause. This time Hawke was involved.

She pressed herself back against the wall, then scooted past them to where Lyon and the others stood. Doing nothing. "Aren't you going to stop them?"

"No." Lyon watched the battling pair with keen interest.

She turned back to the horrific battle where the two Ferals tore at one another like wild animals, clawing, slashing, biting, snarling. Blood soaked their faces and what was left of their clothes as they crashed into the long, narrow hall table, breaking it in two. A large vase fell to the floor, shattering.

"He hasn't been able to fight like this without shifting since he got out of the spirit trap," Paenther murmured.

"Maybe he's finally coming out of it." Lyon's voice sounded equally surprised.

"Lyon . . ." Faith pleaded.

"Faith, it's better if you go upstairs. Kara?"

Kara stepped out from behind the men, giving her a sympathetic look. Faith hadn't even realized she was there. "Come on," Kara said, with a tilt of her head.

Faith hesitated, then joined Kara, deciding Lyon was probably right. If she left, Maxim might decide to come after her and leave Hawke alone. But as they started down the hall to the foyer together, the sounds of animal battle made her shiver, compelling her to turn and watch.

Kara didn't try to stop her.

"This is my fault," Faith muttered. She'd come with Maxim to help make this transition easier for him. Not harder.

"You're not at fault, Faith," Kara said, standing at her elbow. "You're just an excuse. They're always fighting, whether out of anger, frustration, or just for the fun of it. This is normal for shifters. As long as the Ferals remain in human form or this in-between place, they fight as equals and never really hurt one another. Not permanently. You'll get used to it."

Perhaps she'd get used to the fighting in general, but she would never get used to Maxim's attacking Hawke, or any of the men, out of jealousy over her. Maybe the best thing to do was leave, return to Warsaw for a time. At least until after Maxim was brought into his animal and had had a chance to settle in. And settle down. Then, perhaps, she'd come back to Feral House for a visit, to see if the man had truly changed. To discover whether they still had a chance together. Because it was becoming increasingly clear that this Maxim was not a man she wanted to be with, let alone spend an eternity with, connection or not.

She forced herself to watch the fight, traitorously proud that Hawke was tearing "her" man to shreds. Hawke was by far the better fighter. But she refused to remain the cause of such animosity. Her remaining at Feral House helped no one.

Resolutely, she turned away, meeting Kara's sympathetic gaze. "Okay, let's go."

Maxim might have started the fight, but Hawke was damn sure going to finish it. The rage was egging him on, the red haze floating at the edges of his vision, but for the first time since he'd escaped the spirit trap, he was holding it at bay. Furious, yes. Fighting, absolutely. But not out of control.

Hallelujah.

And he needed this fight. He needed to tear this asshole to shreds and had since the moment he'd heard Faith's cry of pain in the living room. He almost wished he weren't in control because in his true berserker form, he might just kill the prick. And he wanted to. Goddess, he wanted to.

"Cease!" Lyon's order rang through the hallway. He'd let them fight, but was now calling a stop to it.

Hawke started to pull back, but the wicked gleam in Maxim's eyes preceded a vicious swipe of claws across Hawke's chest, and the battle was on again.

"Maxim, stand down!" Lyon roared.

The newest Feral completely ignored his chief's command. The prick wasn't going to quit fighting until someone made him. And Hawke was more than happy to be that someone. He'd already assessed the man's weaknesses. Maxim was fairly strong though not as strong as Hawke. And he wasn't particularly quick. What's more, he was a dirty fighter. Two could play at that game.

Less than a minute later, Hawke found the opening he was looking for, swept Maxim's feet out from under him and body-slammed him to the ground, face-first, digging his knee into the small of the prick's back and his claws deep into his neck.

Maxim continued to growl and snarl, trying to buck Hawke off him, to no avail.

"Get back in your skin, Maxim!" Lyon ordered. "Retract your claws!"

Still, Maxim refused to bow to his chief's authority. Hawke leaned forward, and, in a vicious move he'd never before pulled on a brother, he shoved his claws deep into Maxim's side. The shifter roared with pain, trying to slash behind him with his own claws, and missing.