“I don’t want you having to do the things I do, Isabeau. There’s no need. I’ll teach you all the things you need to know to defend yourself and anyone you love, but when it comes down to it, you lose a little part of yourself every time you kill. It isn’t as bad in leopard form. Our cats are pure predators and that helps, which is why many of us choose that form when hunting.” He indicated the night.

She listened. At first she only heard her own heart pounding. The sound of air moving in and out of her lungs. She was acutely aware of Conner so close to her, his body heat warming her, his large frame protecting her. To her right she heard the soft brush of fur against something rough—a tree trunk she guessed. She inhaled and scented something wild. Her skin tingled as she recognized the scent of a leopard.

Conner stepped closer to her, his arm sliding around her to bring her tight against him. His lips pressed against her ear. “He’s hunting something close to us. Reach for the information. Even without your cat close, you can use its senses. You have a kind of radar. You must have known who was at your door sometimes before you opened it.”

She nodded.

“A cat’s whiskers are embedded deep in tissue and the nerve endings transmit information to the brain. You can use that information as a guidance system, sort of like feeling your way in the dark. You can read objects, where everything and everyone is in the forest, how close you are to it and what it is.” His fingertips slid over her face. “Like Braille. Right now, Elijah knows exactly where his prey is, his position and where he needs to strike to deliver a killing bite.”

Conner couldn’t resist touching her. Cats were tactile and he needed not only to keep his hands on her, but to rub his scent over her. She rubbed her face along his chest and throat, without even realizing she was doing it. He remembered how often she’d done just that when they’d lain together, naked, skin to skin. He should have realized then. Scent and touch was tremendously important to their species—a necessary thing.

Isabeau had taught him to play. With her, he’d felt different—more. Often, when he’d be curled up on the bed, cat-napping after a long and satisfying sexual encounter, she would stalk and pounce on him, so they would end up in a rough-and-tumble play that led right back to much more sensual play.