“Spoilsport.” I grinned and folded the knife closed, then slid it into my back right pocket. The bulge felt good. Comforting, though enforcers don’t usually carry weapons, other than what they’re naturally gifted with.

A hoarse grunt drew my attention to the ground, where Jace was in the last stages of his Shift. He looked like a huge shaved cat with a deformed head. No, it wasn’t pretty, but werecats grew accustomed to such sights early in life—long before puberty brought on a cat’s own first Shift.

The potential horror inherent in the in-between stages of a Shift was balanced by its temporary duration. By the knowledge that the very body currently suffering serious pain and monstrous mutation would soon be a beautiful, sleek, graceful animal capable of feats of speed and balance a human could never even imagine, much less experience.

But apparently—based on my fellow werecats’ reaction to the partial Shift—the knowledge that my partially Shifted face was the goal of my transformation, not just a necessary transition, made my fellow cats uncomfortable, all except for Marc. And Dr. Carver, who no doubt thought of me as a living science experiment.

As I chewed the last bite of my sandwich, dense black fur sprouted in a thick wave across Jace’s back. He opened his mouth and his canines elongated, growing to match the other sharp, curved teeth in his newly feline jaw.

A moment later it was over. Marc and I stood in front of a one-hundred-eighty-pound stalking, hunting machine. I’d seen the transformation a thousand times—hell, I’d done it nearly as often—but it never failed to amaze me.

Jace padded over to us and sniffed Marc’s feet. Marc chewed his sandwich with no regard for the cat. His tolerance was all Jace needed as a sign of approval.

Then Jace twisted around with a smooth, slinky grace, rubbing the entire right side of his body against Marc’s leg as he glided toward me. His head nudged the empty hand at my side, and I held my palm out for him to rub against. It was a familiar greeting, and a show of trust and affection. Not too much affection, because Jace knew better than to linger too close to me while Marc was around. Even though we’d broken up, and even though Marc was in human form, he wouldn’t hesitate to show Jace his place—which was nowhere near me, according to Marc.

I put up with Marc’s conduct because I didn’t want anyone else in my life—or in my bed—and I wanted him to know it. But we both knew that if Marc’s protective—or possessive—behavior got out of hand, I’d put an end to it. So far, that knowledge had been enough to keep him in line.