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Still smiling, Bailey shrugged. “I’m just so utterly loveable.”
Aspen blinked at the mamba. “Yeah, that’s not what it is.”
Quinley stifled a smile and ate another chip. In the short time she’d been part of the pride, she’d come to learn that the three females were incredibly tight. A lot of shit talk went on, and Aspen’s bearcat often got into it with Bailey’s mamba. But the love and loyalty between the trio was set in concrete.
They often checked in on Quinley when Isaiah wasn’t home, inviting her to hang out at Havana’s house. Much as Quinley liked her alone time, she wanted to get to know her new pride mates—especially those who were part of Isaiah’s immediate circle.
He and Quinley had only been mated five days now, but it somehow felt like longer. They’d started to brush up against each other’s quirks and pet peeves; were learning where and where not to step so no hot buttons were pressed. They’d developed a rhythm that worked for them and managed to share the same space just fine.
Quinley returned to the armchair. “Isaiah said you three work at a rec center for loners.”
“We do.” Havana knocked back more soda. “The place was our haven when we were younger. The guy who runs it, Corbin, took us in.”
“I seriously considered becoming a lone shifter,” said Quinley, “but my sisters were dead-set against it and begged me to find another way out of the pride.”
Aspen gave a nod of understanding. “Loners are easy targets. We encountered a lot of trouble growing up. It’d be so much more dangerous for a submissive. Not that I’m saying you’re weak—”
“I know what you’re saying,” Quinley assured her, unoffended. “And you’re right. By nature, we’re vulnerable to dominants. Their vibes can oppress us enough that it makes it hard for us to fight back. We learn tricks to get around it, but they don’t always work. Hence why my sisters freaked at the idea of me becoming a loner. They asked that I just seek a simple transfer.”
“But you wanted a mate,” said Aspen, taking the other armchair.
“Yes. I also didn’t want to go to another black-foot pride.” In between more bites of her chips, Quinley explained about the whole ranked and unranked division in such prides.
Havana gaped. “Oh my God, that’s ludicrous.”
Bailey nodded, her brows drawn together. “I usually admire brutal, but no, not in this case.”
Quinley gave a loose shrug. “It’s our normal, we don’t think much of it. But when new unranked members join, they’re toyed with by the ranked until boredom kicks in.”
Aspen squinted. “Because they want to get across exactly where you stand in the hierarchy—which is nowhere.”
Quinley dipped her chin. “I knew other breeds of shifter were protective of submissives. I wasn’t looking for protection, just peace, you know? So when I was filling in my FindYourMatch questionnaire, I made sure to note that I didn’t want to be paired with another black-foot. My preference was some kind of feline, but it wasn’t a necessity.”
Havana’s mouth curled. “Bet you didn’t have a pallas cat in mind.”
“They’ve been called everything from demonic to psychotic, but I always thought it was unfair. They don’t go looking for trouble, they’re just set on being the ones to end it. I can respect that.” Quinley chomped down another chip. “Ruthlessness is fine so long as there’s no targeting those who are vulnerable. Pallas cats don’t do that.”
“They’re very protective of their own, particularly the vulnerable—whether that’s children, the elderly, healers, omegas, or submissives,” said Havana. “It’s how it should be.”
“But the vulnerable often struggle majorly as loners,” Aspen cut in, “so I’m glad you didn’t go down that route, Quinley. Most especially because you really do suit Isaiah. Far more than I thought you would, actually. That website really does its job well. I’m glad it exists, because it’s a real good option for those in your position.”
Chewing on the last of her chips, Quinley balled up the packet. “Suiting on paper isn’t always mutually exclusive with suiting in real life—you see that all the time with dating sites. But things are going really well with me and Isaiah.”
Havana set her glass on the coffee table. “I saw his cat watching yours play—yes, I was nosing out of the window; go sue me. Anyway, I know it might have seemed sad that he didn’t interact much with her. But it’s a good sign that he wanted to be in her company and watch over her.”
“Does he ever play with her?” Aspen asked.
Quinley shook her head, hiding her disappointment. “There’s rarely any physical contact between them at all. She leaves him be, sensing that he needs to be the one to close the distance.” She rose, plopped her empty chip bag in the trash can, and took a napkin from the table.
Bailey tipped her head to the side. “Does he let you stroke him?”
“No,” replied Quinley, wiping the salt from her hands. “He’s never mean or snarly, though. I’ll take what I can get. Though I doubt I’d get any of it if it wasn’t for the brand.”
Aspen gave a slow shake of the head. “It’s amazing how much power a claiming brand can have over the mental dynamics of shifters, isn’t it?” she marveled. “It takes whatever you’re feeling toward a person to entirely new levels. Especially emotions like protectiveness and possessiveness.”
“They automatically kicked in once Isaiah and I claimed each other.” Quinley threw the napkin in the trash. “To be truthful, it can be kind of a pain.”
Havana smiled. “Isaiah does not like you being away from him—it’s this elemental thing he can’t control.”
