Free His Purrfect Mate by Georgette St. Clair

cloud of dust kicked up by the car racing away from them down the street…and Pixie’s hand sticking out of the passenger side window, with her middle finger extended.
    Cursing furiously, Heath ran back up the stairs.
    The prince turned to look at him questioningly.
    “Which one of you is Heath, and which one of you is Jax?” he demanded.
    “I’m Heath. He’s Jax. We’re so screwed,” Heath groaned, burying his face in his hands.
    The prince lashed out with his foot so quickly that even Heath, with his lightning quick reflexes, didn’t have time to stop him; he landed a painful kick to Heath’s shin.
    Then the prince leaped on to the table and smacked Jax upside the head, hard, with his bag. The small bag was surprisingly heavy.
    “What the hell?” Jax shouted, raising his hand.
    “Ah, ah, ah,” the Prince chided, shaking his index finger at them. “You can not hit me. I am a prince, and I will tell my parents, and then it will not go well for you.  That was from Pixie and Bobbi, by the way.  Also I am supposed to bite you, but I will do that later, when you least expect it. Probably while you are sleeping.  Also, Pixie says that anything that I steal from you, I get to keep, after I give her half.  Now, I want you to read me a story.” He reached in to his small bag and pulled out a stack of books.
    “Let’s see, which one shall I have you read me first?”
     
     
    Chapter Eight
    “Yep, perfect house for a recluse,” Chloe muttered to herself as she parked her car in front of her grandmother’s sprawling old Italianate mansion.   The dilapidated house was tucked away deep in the woods, at the end of a half mile long, winding driveway.  Apparently Sophronia’s distaste for human contact extended to handymen.  The pale blue paint on the exterior of the house was blistered and peeling.  Bald patches were scattered like mange on the roof.
    The house looked on the verge of being swallowed up by a jungle of shoulder high weeds and rosebushes run wild.   Weeds thrust through random spots in the asphalt driveway, which was forked with cracks like lightning bolts.    It was a shame; the house had clearly been beautiful once. 
    Chloe had an odd feeling when she climbed out of her car, a trill of alarm that ran through her.
    It’s all right, she told herself, I’m just creeped out because this house looks like a horror movie setting.
    She walked up th e steps and saw that the front door was ajar.  Was that normal for her grandmother? She’d never been here before, so she had no way of knowing.  Nervously, she reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone.
    No bars. No service.  She was far from any cell phone tower.
    “Grandmother?” she yelled from the doorway.
    She was greeted by silence.   The cawing of birds in the trees lent a horror-movie feeling to the whole eerie scene.
    Well, she thought uneasily, as she stepped inside the front entryway, the advantage of being a panther shifter is that I can usually hold my own.
    Unless…
    The smells swirling through the air all hit her at once. She stopped where she stood, standing perfectly still.
    Wit h each breath that she drew in came the coppery tang of blood, and the thick, heavy smell of lion.  There were wolves in the house. She might be able to take on one wolf, but multiple wolves? A wolf pack could bring her down and rip her throat out.
    Down the entry hallway that led to a massive foyer, she saw paintings had been pulled from the walls and lay in shreds and splinters on the floor.  A wooden table had been overturned and the hallway rug had been wrinkled back.  From deep inside the house, she heard growls, growing closer.
    Heart pounding in her chest, she turned and ran from the house, the wolves in hot pursuit. She could hear them thudding through the house, and their roars tore through the air. 
    Should she try to run for it? They could probably outrun her – odds were she’d trip over something before she’d made it a