Act of Submission

Chapter One

"DA, DA, DA, DA, DA…Cat-man," sang Miles "Boomer" Walsh softly as he walked through the halls of his animal rescue shelter. The catchy play on a tune had been stuck in his head since one of his teammate's wives had shot him up with what they'd all termed Mercy Juice.

The stuff was potent.

People would have paid great money for a sample of that shit. He drummed his fingers on his leather-clad thighs as he continued to stroll down the hall. Stopping, he took a moment and broke into air guitar movements, taking the theme to an entirely new level. His guitar solo was epic, very Hendrix-worthy, if he said so himself. He banged his head along with it, and his behavior had little to do with him being alone. He'd do the same in front of others.

As Boomer finished his nonexistent riff, he grinned, knowing the guys would give him a hard time for his one-man show should they witness it. He gathered his long, dark hair at the base of his neck before securing it with a leather tie. A few stray strands of hair that looked almost purple in the lighting needed to be tucked in as they had a mind of their own. The men he worked with didn't understand why he sometimes added bizarre colors to his hair or why he wore the clothes he did. He wore what he liked. What he felt most comfortable in.

Period.

"Who am I kidding?" he asked out loud, unconcerned with the fact that he was talking to himself. He wore his hair the way he thought might best keep most people at bay. He liked being off-putting. Liked keeping others at a certain distance. Physical contact wasn't something he sought out. Sex was a necessary evil he had to endure to keep his beast satisfied, but it wasn't what it could or should be. It was hard, fast, dirty, and with the least amount of contact he could manage.

Doggie-style.

The irony in that wasn't lost on him. A cat screwing in a position named after a dog. The position could have just as easily been called cat-style, but that lacked the proper ring, never quite catching on.

Bummer.

Just the idea of being touched made him tense, his body reacting as if being touched hurt. It didn't. At least, not physically. The emotional damage was something altogether different. He didn't mind pain. That wasn't it at all. Truth be told, Boomer kinda welcomed pain.

He ran his tongue out and over a metal lip ring he'd just had done the day before, and hissed as the silver caused his tongue to burn. The pain felt good. As sick as it sounded, it felt natural. More natural than being touched—at least in a way that wasn't coming from violence. The lip ring was just one of many piercings adorning his body. He had trouble stopping. He knew to some he looked like he was up to no good—a Goth punk. He was who he was—to hell with them all. Besides, where had they been when he needed advice, needed help, needed freedom?

Nowhere to be found. Until it was time to judge him and the way he decided to live his life.

Typical.

Boomer took off his black leather jacket and tossed it onto a hook mounted in the hallway of the animal rehabilitation facility he owned, operated, and fully funded. There were enough shell corporations between him and it so that no one could ever trace it back to him. Hell, he didn't even exist on paper. At least, not the real him. Miles Walsh was long dead. Barely a footnote in history. That was the way he liked it. And that was the way it had to be. Immortals couldn't run around announcing they were immortal. Humans weren't ready for that.

Case in point, the internet was still abuzz after a recent underground blog posted evidence of the existence of, he and his kind—men who could shift forms into animals and who were soldiers. The people he worked for were trying their best to head off the allegations and make them look like the ramblings of crazy folks. Didn't stop the new trend popping up on social media of humans showing their support and adoration for shifters—like that would really hold true if they found out supernaturals were real.

People would lose their shit and take up pitchforks. It's what humans did.

Predictable bastards.

He'd been alive long enough to know the true face of mortals. He'd seen them turn on shifters. He knew firsthand what cruelties they were capable of. Of what everyone was capable of, human or not. Shivering, he tried to push the memories of his past down, to file them away in the deep recesses of his mind and lock them there. If they were tucked away, then they were safe.

He was safe.

From them.

From the nightmares.

Boomer closed his eyes briefly and drew in a long, slow breath. He caught the scent of the regulars. The large cats down the secondary hall. They couldn't turn into a human, nor did they want to. They weren't big fans of mortals, either. Boomer nearly laughed at how most felt toward the human race.

They hated them.

With good reason.

All the large cats on the property had been abused by humans in some form or fashion. Now they were his to watch over. His to protect and care for. He welcomed the task. It was an honor to care for his "cousins." He understood them in more ways than one, and he related to them. Even Scar, the new male who had come to call the rescue home only a week ago. Scar didn't want anything to do with Boomer, and Boomer couldn't blame him. The cat had suffered greatly. He just wanted to be left alone.

The faint sounds of growls reached him, and he knew then that two of the females were close to fighting. "Enough!" His snarled warning echoed through the facility, and then everything went silent. The animals knew who was in charge. They wouldn't push him.

He had a few people who helped him out now and then at the rescue, but for the most part, he was on his own with it, dedicating his spare time to the care of the animals who called it home. He didn't mind. It filled up his time, and that meant he wasn't expected to always go to every social gathering his teammates were having. And they had a fucking lot of them.

A couple of the guys had recently settled down and were starting families. He still couldn't believe it. Boomer hadn't really given the idea of such things much thought. They'd seemed too far-fetched. Too unobtainable.

Duke Marlow was as stubborn and hard-headed as they came, and somehow the guy had managed to find his mate—his other half—and they were expecting a little one. Duke's mate, Mercy, was quirky, and Boomer had a soft spot for the tiny redhead. She was pure-hearted and that meant a lot to him. She also was one of the few people he didn't recoil from when touched, though he didn't know why. The pregnancy was brand new, and from what Duke had told him, Mercy was very tired of late. That wasn't anything to be worried about.

They had enough shit to be concerned about. Thankfully, Mercy wasn't one of the problems. The girl could hold her own, and so long as they kept her away from the labs back at Paranormal Security and Intelligence, they all had a shot at survival. The woman was a serious danger around chemicals anymore. Ironic, since she'd been some sort of world-renowned scientist before she got pregnant. Boomer suspected her issues now came from her husband and Corbin, the team captain, stealing all her proper chemicals and replacing them with ones they deemed safe for her and the baby. Chemicals that didn't work, but of course, they liked to pretend it was Mercy's fault there were now issues in the labs.

He walked down the long corridor and opened the door to the primate area. Large sums of money had gone into its creation. Boomer had never intended to house any primates. He'd set up the facility at first for large cats only, but there were so many animals in need that he couldn't say no.

He didn't mind. He had amassed more money than he could think to spend, even with being immortal. The money was well- spent helping animals, and that brought him joy. He'd only just found homes for all the primates, save one—a relative newcomer to the facility and one that would more than likely call the place home for good.

The moment Boomer's thick-soled boots touched the ground within the primate room, he knew he was being stalked.

Hunted.

Watched from above.

None of Boomer's inborn shifter traits kicked in, for they weren't needed. The threat was hardly a real threat, though the little guy liked to believe he was fierce. Boomer pretended not to notice the slight movement in one of the trees to his side. The predator, if he dared to even call him that, was a chimpanzee Boomer had helped rescue from a testing facility not long back. Lil' Duke, as they'd taken to calling the chimp, slinked his way along the branches of the trees inside the habitat, being extra quiet.

It had become a game of sorts with Boomer and the chimp. As the chimp neared him, Boomer couldn't hide his smile. The chimp launched himself at Boomer, and he twisted, catching Lil' Duke in his arms and spinning with him, laughing as he did.

The chimp shook his head as if upset he wasn't able to get the jump on Boomer. "Maybe next time," said Boomer, easing the chimp to the ground. "You nearly got me."

Placing his small hand into Boomer's much larger one, Lil' Duke tugged, pulling Boomer in the direction of a playroom. In it was a collection of toys and clothing in which Lil' Duke enjoyed playing dress up.

"Come on. I'll play with you for just a bit," he said. "The guys are coming over. It's cards night."

The chimp blew raspberries, making him laugh. The little chimp didn't like card night, and Boomer knew as much. It generally meant he had to go to his habitat and play by himself. Something he didn't much care for.

"I know, I know, but it's my turn to host," said Boomer, winking. "And if I didn't host, then Duke would have to, and then I'd have to eat Mercy's cooking. That woman cannot cook. She should be banned from kitchens forever. Remember the pie you ate? She baked it."

At the mention of the pie, he'd gorged himself on and then become violently ill, Lil' Duke touched his stomach and rocked as if he might be sick—again.

"Yeah. See?" laughed Boomer. "Best I host tonight, buddy."

Chapter Two

Haven Carey placed some climbing rope onto the counter of the hardware store that still seemed to be doing well despite the fact she'd driven past a big box store just a few miles south. The place had old-town charm. She liked that. The counter itself once had a company logo on it, but it had long since worn away, now so smooth she wasn't sure how her items didn't slide off. A glass jar sat to the right of the register, and on it was a printed picture of a dog that needed some surgery. The owner was asking for donations. She had a huge soft spot for animals. Heck, she'd been dedicating her life to them before everything happened.

It all seemed like another life. Years ago. In reality, it had been weeks.

She shoved a five-dollar bill through the slit cut into the plastic lid, and then set about placing another item onto the counter. The urge to donate more was there, but she couldn't. Not right now. She was living on very little cash, and her bill there would already be high enough. Stealing wasn't an option for her. She'd already crossed enough lines. She wouldn't cross that one too.

Not yet anyway.

Glancing around, Haven noticed details about the store that others probably didn't. For a hardware store, it needed its fair share of repairs. There was a leaky spot on the roof that had yellowed one of the drop tiles on the ceiling, and two of the shelving units appeared to have had better days. None of it took away from the charm. If circumstances were different, she'd probably want to settle in the tiny town. Call it home even.

She waited patiently as the man behind the counter rang up her items. He turned over the small fire-starting kit she was buying. It would be handier than matches. When matches got wet, they were useless, and she didn't feel much like spending another night in the cold.

Fire was a must.

She was already so cold all the time. At times, she felt like she'd do anything to stay warm, but nothing really worked anymore.

The man behind the counter picked up a large hunting knife and rang it up next, his eyebrow rising slightly. It must look like she was either going hiking in the deep wilderness for the next several weeks, or she was a homicidal maniac who was about to go on a killing spree. Sadly, neither would be too far off the mark. She fidgeted slightly, uneasy about why she truly was making the purchases.

The older gentleman glanced over the rim of his wire glasses, a question forming in his gaze. Haven prepared herself, ready to spew forth any lie necessary. He lifted an arrow and checked the price tag. "Going camping and hunting?"

"Yep," she said, knowing it was best to stick as close to the truth as possible. Lies worked better that way. And she'd told her fair share of those in her lifetime. They'd started when she was barely in her teen and hadn't ended yet. Maybe they never would. Telling the man that she was currently living off the grid in hopes of exacting revenge on the men who killed her brother wasn't an option. Though she imagined he got his fair share of off-the- grid nut jobs passing through.

She was just hoping to avoid being lumped in with them. She also didn't need the authorities brought in. Too many questions. Not enough viable answers.

She'd spend some time in jail, for sure. Then she would spend time on a slab being examined for being a freak of nature.

The man rang up her rope and then the box of ammunition. "Looks like you're expecting big game?"

"Oh yeah," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. If she commented too much, her anger would take over. She couldn't have that. Rage was her personal demon. Once it had hold of her, it was difficult to find herself again. And Haven didn't much care for whatever it was she carried deep within her. If she ever let it free, she worried it would go on a killing rampage. One she'd never pull back from. "Really big game."

"Don't get too many ladies coming through here wanting to hunt and camp," said the man, ringing up another item. "It's refreshing. Good character-building. If I were forty years younger, I'd ask you out proper. You're one heck of a catch."

She couldn't hide her smile. He was sweet. But if he knew what she really needed the gear for, he'd never sell it to her. First, he'd call the police, and then when he heard the whole story, he'd probably close up shop, get out of town, and enter survival mode. It's what most humans would do.

If they were smart.

Monsters were real.

She was living proof of that.

Haven stiffened, remembering the look of fear and horror on the faces of her adoptive parents when her brother had first shown he was something more than human. When he'd lost control and shifted into a huge wolf in their living room, right before leaping through the picture window and taking off into the night. She would never forget their expressions. Never forget the smell of their fear as it rolled off them in waves. Worse than that, her own confusion over it all. Her own shock and horror. The guilt rode her to this very day.

Adopted at the age of four to the loving young couple who desperately wanted children, Haven and her brother, and fraternal twin, Harper, had been spoiled to near rotten status. They'd been inseparable, and until their teens, one would not be found without the other close by. They were loved and cared for, and couldn't have asked for a more storybook upbringing. But all that changed when they entered puberty. They'd had so many more issues than simple teenage hormones and the birds and bees.

Life would have been so simple if they'd only had to contend with pimples and the addition of body hair. Normal kids didn't know how lucky they had it, how easy that transitional period was for them. Normal kids had no worries about claws erecting at random from their fingertips. About sprouting fangs. About turning into an animal with no real understanding of how or why. And they didn't have to look at those who loved them and know they were a letdown and, more importantly, that the people who swore to love them and care for them were terrified of them.

Worse than that, normal kids didn't make phone calls home, begging their sisters to come for them because when they returned to human form they were covered in someone else's blood—sure they'd done the unthinkable.

Taken a human life.

Haven nearly choked up, thinking about Harper and how hard it had all been on him. She'd not had it that bad. Not even close. Yes, she was more than human, but she'd never fully shifted forms into that of an animal. She'd never lost control and killed someone. She'd been close, but stopped before going too far. Harper couldn't say the same.

"But you're going to now," she said before glancing at the man at the register and smiling.

He looked confused. "Ma'am?"

"Sorry. Thinking out loud."

He winked. "I do that often myself. Got your total for you. Will that be cash or charge?"

"Cash," she answered, knowing that in order to stay off the grid, she couldn't leave a paper trail. "Thank you for your help."

"My pleasure. Would you like help out to your car with it all?"

"I think I've got it, but thanks." She paid the man and then grabbed her bags. As she headed for the door, her inner alarms went off, alerting her to a danger near her. She pushed the door open, and the bell chimed at the same moment she caught a familiar scent.

"Gotcha," she said with a slight smile that faded fast as the noonday sun found her. She flinched, the bite of it making her step back into the comfort of the overhang shading the store. Her hands were full, so she couldn't grab her sunglasses and put them on to help ease some of the sting.

Sheer will and determination forced her to put one foot in front of the other as she made her way in the direction of her car, pausing only when the familiar scent intensified. She looked across the street and spotted a tall, redheaded man there, wearing a kilt and biker boots. The t-shirt he had on read Want to see what's under my kilt? Ask.

She groaned. Men were such idiots. She'd been following this particular idiot around for the past few days and already had a pretty good idea of just how much of a ladies' man he was. The tall, dark- haired one who was with him was a new addition. She'd not seen him before, but his surly expression meant she'd heard of him —he had to be the grumpy one she'd been told of. Heard of how lethal he could be.

How lethal they all could be.

They were stone-cold killers, and they were going to pay for taking Harper's life. Pay for what they'd done to him. Had she not been holding two large bags, she might have given in and touched her stomach, the visions of the horrors she'd found when searching for her brother all coming back at her hard. Even the sun couldn't burn them away from her.

They'd butchered him.

Sick bastards.

She'd kill them here and now, but she needed them to lead her to the one with the piercings. The one the anonymous tipster had told her about. The Goth, punk-looking one. He was the one who had delivered the killing blow to Harper. And he was the one who would pay first. She was ready now. She had all the supplies she needed to track and wait them all out indefinitely if need be. There would be no rest for her. Not until they all answered for their crimes.

Haven watched as three men—the redhead, a blond with pink ends, and the surly looking man with dark brown hair—all entered a liquor store. She hurried to her tiny beater of a car and loaded in the supplies she'd need. Then she climbed in the driver's side, pushed her sunglasses on, flipped the visor to protect her more from the sun's rays, and then she waited, watching the liquor store through her rearview mirror. She'd follow them to wherever they were headed, and if possible she'd make her move tonight, to hell with tracking them longer and getting to know her enemy better.

She clutched the steering wheel, and it made a strange cracking noise. She stiffened and glanced up in the rearview mirror, paying attention to her reflection. With slow movements, she eased her sunglasses down.

"Shit," she murmured, noting that her normal dark brown eyes were now icy blue. A sign she was losing control. The next step would be black. And when they turned black that meant she had lost all control. Several long, deep breaths later and her eyes flickered before returning to normal. She glanced around, nervous someone may have noticed.

No one seemed to.

She had to shift on her seat, away from the window, as the sun moved her way, shining in on her. It seemed like forever ago when she'd had no issues with the sun. No problems with her eyes burning and her skin feeling as though it was just this side of igniting in full sun exposure. She never used to get a sunburn with only about ten minutes of exposure to full light. Now no sunscreen helped. Only fully clothing herself with long sleeves and pants or full skirts and sunglasses seemed to ease it somewhat.

She stiffened as she thought of Harper. He'd never suffered like she did with the sun. He seemed to relish the light—always wanting to be in it. Lowering her head, she held in the tears wanting to come for him. For what they'd had. They'd been each other's everything, and now he was gone.

Ripped away by monsters.

The monsters in question exited the store, and Haven had to force herself to remain calm. The urge to run up to them and start pummeling on them was overwhelming. All the rage and anger she'd been holding in since she'd learned of Harper's passing was coming to a head and fast.

"Deep breaths and wait," she said to herself. "You want the Goth one first."

They entered a large black SUV and pulled away. She waited long enough to avoid looking obvious and then pulled out, following a safe distance behind them. For elite super soldiers, they hadn't noticed her yet and if they had, they hadn't let on.

Maybe it was a trap. She didn't care. All she wanted was a chance at avenging her brother's death. And tonight, she'd take it. The sun was setting fast and soon darkness would fall. She'd use it to her advantage.