Hearing the greenroom door close behind her, Mila rolled her eyes. Fucking GQ just had to follow—

“Don’t move.”

Mila froze. That wasn’t GQ’s voice. No, it was a woman’s voice. Unfamiliar. Cold. Despite the warning, Mila would have whirled on the spot if it hadn’t been for the snick of a gun. Her cat shot to her feet with a feral hiss, eager to strike at the intruder.

“Oh, this was almost too easy,” said the stranger. “Cat shifters are supposed to be tough to sneak up on.”

“I heard you. I just figured you were someone else.” Thanks to Dominic, she’d been both frazzled and distracted. She took in a long breath and smelled . . . jackal. She’d never liked those little bastards.

Looking into the glass of a framed wall poster, Mila caught the reflection of the woman behind her. Average height. Curvy. Red hair. Pale skin. Gray-blue eyes. Holding a whopper of a freaking handgun with a silencer attached to the barrel—a gun that was pointed right at the back of Mila’s head.

Her heart jumped just as her inner cat hissed again and lunged for freedom, wanting at the bitch. And Mila had no doubt that her cat could take their foe on. The jackal was right to use a gun and attack from a distance. Mila’s kind didn’t fight fair or easy, and their inner felines were positively merciless. They might be only slightly bigger than a domestic house cat, but they were also, pound for pound, one of the strongest breeds of shifter. And they always went for the face.

“You’re a cool one,” the jackal observed.

“What do you want?” asked Mila, her voice flat even as adrenaline spiked through her, preparing her, sharpening her already-acute senses.

“Nothing. I’m merely here to collect—”

Mila grabbed the freestanding lamp and swung it as she whirled. The metal base hit the jackal’s arm so hard that little reverberations scuttled up the bone of Mila’s arm. Fucking ow. The gun dropped to the hardwood floor with a clang.

Before the jackal could make a dive for the weapon, Mila slammed the base of the lamp into the bitch’s chest, sending her staggering backward. Then, wicked fast, Mila shifted.

Absolutely furious, the little cat flew out of the pile of clothes and wrapped herself around the jackal’s head. Snarling and hissing, the cat shredded her face with razor-sharp fangs and claws. Tasted blood. Growled in satisfaction. Welcomed the rush of adrenaline, intent on exacting vengeance.

The jackal’s cries of anger and pain were muffled by the cat’s thick fur. No one would be coming to help the intruder. No one would interfere.

The jackal shook her head as she stumbled around the room, unable to see. She pulled hard on the cat’s body. The cat didn’t release her. No. She dug her fangs and claws deeper, refusing to give up her prize. Refusing to show pity.

The jackal retaliated fast and hard. Delivered harsh blows to the cat’s head, sides, and spine. Clawed at the cat’s face, legs, and flanks.

The cat ignored the pain. The scent of her own blood mixed with the smells of the jackal’s blood and fear, and that only drove the cat wilder. She tore more strips out of the female’s face. Sliced into the lips, eyelids, and forehead. Bit into the nose and sides of the face. Mercilessly mauled as much skin and muscle as she could reach.

Even through the sound of blood thrashing in her ears, the cat heard the satisfying sounds of the jackal’s screams, the tearing of flesh, and the—

Something hard and heavy slammed into the cat’s head. Glass shattered. Water doused her fur.

Hurting and slightly dazed, the cat loosened her hold on the female. The jackal took advantage and dug her claws deep into the cat’s flanks as she finally ripped the cat away from her face. Screeching, the jackal slung the little cat across the room.

The feline flipped in midair and landed on her feet near the dresser, panting and growling. Ready and raring to pounce once more.

The female growled back at her, eyes blazing with fury as she moved toward the gun. “You crazy fucking—”

The cat launched herself at the female again.

Having finally shaken off Charlene—who was somewhat pissed by his insistence that she stop interfering—Dominic headed straight for the greenroom to track down Mila. He shoved open the door . . . just in time to see a silvery blur of motion spring through the air and latch on to a woman’s head. It was Mila’s cat, he quickly realized. She savagely clawed at the woman’s face and ripped at her scalp. What the fuck happened here?

Gaping in shock, Dominic watched as the woman—blinded by all that fur and no doubt disorientated by the cat’s weight—staggered all over the place, punching and slapping and clawing at her attacker. The cat ignored her. She had a death grip on that woman, and she wasn’t letting go. No. Snarling, the feline just kept on ravaging her enemy with her sharp claws and fangs.

The scents of blood, fury, fear, and jackal slammed into his system, and Dominic’s shock was quickly replaced by the same rage that made his wolf let out a guttural roar. It didn’t matter that the cat was dominating the fight, Dominic still wanted to slap the little bitch that had dared harm her. That had bloodied her.

Mila wouldn’t have started the fight—her kind followed the principle of “live and let live.” No, the redhead had to have brought the fight to her. He felt some grim satisfaction in knowing that the jackal was no doubt sorely regretting it.

He wanted to intervene and help the cat, but, well, she didn’t need it. And it would have been suicidal to get between two fighting female shifters anyway. They’d just as easily turn on you, offended by your belief that they required any aid.

Unable to do anything other than stand there and offer the cat his silent support, Dominic ground his teeth. The patches of blood matting the cat’s fur worried him, especially because he had no idea how much of that blood was hers or how serious her injuries were.

He whipped out his cell phone and dialed the number of the Mercury Pack’s Beta female. Ally was working the bar tonight, and as a Seer, she could heal physical wounds.

She answered on the fourth ring, but he didn’t bother with greetings. “Ally, I need you in the greenroom.” He ended the call just as fast and pocketed his phone, wanting to keep his hands free in case the little cat needed him. Right then, she still didn’t seem to require help. It was kind of surreal to see a creature so small and fluffy acting like . . . well, like that.

He noticed the gun and swore. He picked it up, and yeah, it smelled of the jackal. Rage blew through him yet again, and he took a carefully controlled breath.

Did it surprise him that Mila obviously hadn’t let the weapon stop her from defending herself? No. Just like it didn’t surprise him that she’d obviously caught the jackal off guard. He’d learned a lot about Mila’s kind from Madisyn. There was no warning with a pallas cat. No posturing or hissing. They just struck—no care for whether they were facing someone who was stronger, bigger, armed, or even part of a group. Nope, they straight up wouldn’t give a shit.

He heard footsteps just before Ally, Jesse, and Harley came skidding into the room.

“Dear God,” said Ally, wincing at the noise level. He didn’t blame her. As the cat thrashed, bit, hissed, and snarled, the jackal screamed and cursed and condemned it to hell. “I heard all the hissing and yelling in the background when you called,” Ally went on, “so I brought Jesse and Harley, figuring something bad was going down.”