There were pieces in rounded glass cases as well as in turnstile displays near wall-mounted mirrors. Some of the decorative displays featured scarves and sequins, courtesy of her sales associate and good friend, Elle—the brainchild behind last night’s “let’s make margaritas” plan—who also happened to be Vinnie’s only daughter.
Totally envious that the redhead didn’t get hangovers, Bree tossed her a little snarl. Elle paused in her conversation with Greg, the store’s security guard, and discretely flipped her the finger. Bree sniffed.
There was a case of collectible figurines near the help desk that James Devereaux, who was Vinnie’s brother, manned. James’ mate, Valentina, managed the store. She was currently talking with a customer on the other side of the showroom—a human who had no idea the store was run by shifters. Since pallas cats had so fully immersed themselves into the human world pretty much the entire race was oblivious to the existence of her kind.
Their animal counterparts were referred to as Pallas’ cats, but shifters called themselves “pallas cats.” They didn’t claim territories, but their pride members often lived and worked closely together. Most of hers resided nearby in two apartment buildings and a cul-de-sac of houses—all of which were owned by Vinnie.
Working in a jewelry store wasn’t particularly exciting, but she enjoyed having a job that she didn’t have to think about once she got home. She could relax, switch off, and not have to think about the store until she next returned to work. She liked that. Liked having a little “simple” in her life. In her opinion, “simple” was often underappreciated.
Not many people were lucky enough to be able to say they liked all their coworkers, but the Devereauxs were amazing. Paxton’s mother was Vinnie and James’ sister, so the large family had pulled Bree into theirs the moment they realized she was Paxton’s true mate. They’d rallied around her after the death of her mother when she was seven, just as they had when her father died when she was eighteen. Aside from her parents, Bree had no other blood relatives in the pride, but she hadn’t needed any—not with the Devereauxs at her back.
His eyes on the tray of jewelry in front of him, the lion scratched his stubbly jaw. “I just can’t decide.”
Well, yeah, she’d noticed that.
He glanced at another tray through the counter glass. “Can I look at the opal necklace again?” he asked, gesturing to a third choice, which also happened to be the first piece he’d considered and decided against.
Keeping her smile bright by sheer force of will, Bree said, “Of course.” She returned the tray and locked the glass case. Just as she carefully placed the other tray on the counter, the front door swung open, letting in a stream of street noise.
“Hey, Alex, good to have you back,” Greg greeted.
Her heart gave an excited little leap, and her head snapped up. Bree couldn’t help but drink the newcomer in as he prowled inside. He had one of those smoldering Gunslinger walks. Every step was slow, smooth, and controlled with a little shoulder swagger thrown in.
Aleksandr Devereaux—son of James and Valentina, part owner of Pot of Gold—walked and talked with the calm of a man who was utterly sure of himself and his place in the world. He was arrogant but not self-obsessed. He just knew his own worth and valued himself.
Honestly, just looking at him would push any woman’s “I need quality time with my vibrator” button. Yeah, there was a reason that batteries rarely lasted in Bree’s house.
His broody, watchful eyes scanned the store. When those two bottomless pools of dark ink landed on her, her body responded—no, melted. Ugh. Very few things were more annoying than being so strongly attracted to a person you could never have.
She gave him a quick smile and then switched her attention back to her customer, who was studying the opal necklace intently. Alex wouldn’t be offended that she hadn’t greeted him. He didn’t do hellos. Or goodbyes. Or manners. Or apologies. He also wasn’t into small talk or standing on ceremony. He rarely smiled or laughed. He could be as direct as a bullet and unashamedly rude. But Bree liked that he said what he meant and meant what he said.
She heard his parents warmly welcome him inside and ask about his trip. He often went roaming alone for months at a time—it was typical of his kind. He wasn’t a pallas cat like his father. He took after his Russian mother. Alex was something even more ferocious than Bree’s kind. Something often referred to as “the devil’s spawn.”
When he was home, he usually didn’t come to the store more than once a week. When there was something he needed to tend to, he’d disappear into his office at the rear of the store. Which was a shame, really, because having him up front would certainly draw in females.
He was six-feet-plus of pure muscle. Muscle that flexed and bunched beneath his olive, tattooed skin. He had an uber-masculine face with a strong jawline and high cheekbones. His short, smooth hair was such a dark brown it was almost black.
Hell, even his default “blank” expression seemed to work for him. She’d heard more than one woman say it just made her want to melt his hard exterior. Yeah, he reeled females in effortlessly. But he only ever engaged in shallow flings. He never went on dates or made his bed-buddies part of his life. Many thought they’d be the one to change him; to heal the wound he’d suffered after losing his true mate seven years ago. He hadn’t felt the pull of the mating bond until moments before Freya—a relative stranger to him—died right in front of him. How shit was that?
For a long time, Bree had thought of him as an honorary cousin. It wasn’t until she was fourteen that she developed a crush on him. Twelve years his junior, she naturally hadn’t been on his sexual radar back then. That had changed over recent years, but he seemed intent on doing nothing about it. Shame.
“I really like the other two necklaces,” the lion told her. “But there’s something about the opal pendant that just stands out to me.”
“I know what you mean,” said Bree. She shot Valentina a quick smile when the woman joined her behind the counter and began rooting through one of the drawers.
The lion rubbed his nape. “I just want to get the perfect one for her, you know. She’s an omega, like you. So is our daughter—she’s only six; she’s struggling to keep her shields up, but she’s getting better at it.”
Bree could remember how it felt to experience the world before she’d learned to shield. It was like being a raw, exposed nerve. Every time you touched a person, the energy of their emotions zapped you. There was no energy-dial to turn down. You either shielded or you didn’t.
Omegas were considered the beating heart of the pride. Although not empaths, they were emotional healers. Omegas could read and extract a person’s emotions, but they didn’t experience those emotions along with him—just as a doctor would recognize symptoms of an infection and treat it but wouldn’t feel their patient’s pain. Absorbing a positive emotion was much like receiving a mental espresso shot. Absorbing a negative emotion caused a sudden bout of what she could only liken to severe heartburn.
“I’m guessing you’re the primary omega of your pride,” said the lion.
Bree shook her head. “Nope.”