Page 34 of Chasing Stripes

“Kalyna says Artemis can’t complete a sentence without mentioning you,” Rust continued, swirling amber liquid in his glass. “And apparently the dishware in the bakery levitates whenever your name comes up.”

“Fae magic fluctuates naturally,” Bartek muttered, ignoring the warmth spreading through his chest at the thought of Artemis talking about him.

“Ah, yes,” Haavi nodded sagely. “The well-documented phenomenon of ‘floating kitchenware but only around certain tiger shifters.’ I remember studying that at the academy.”

Jash Clancy, Artair’s head of security and a leopard shifter with a perpetual five o’clock shadow, snorted into his beer. “Next you’ll tell us the mating marks on your palms are ‘standard magical interference.’“

“They’re not mating marks,” Bartek growled, though his conviction wavered. The golden handprints matched every description from the old texts about compatible pairs.

“Right,” Haavi nodded, expression serious though his eyes danced with suppressed laughter. “And I’m secretly a chihuahua.”

The poker game continued amid good-natured ribbing, but Bartek’s attention repeatedly drifted toward the baker.

“I fold,” Artair announced, setting down his cards. The bear shifter studied Bartek with unnerving perception. “Speaking as someone happily mated, I’m curious—why fight it?”

The direct question silenced the table. Bartek stiffened, prepared to deflect, but something in Artair’s steady gaze demanded honesty.

“I have responsibilities to the pride,” he said after a moment, the words emerging easier after several drinks. “My father always emphasized that every decision must benefit the people first. Personal...entanglements complicate leadership.”

“Did Hudson actually tell you not to find a mate?” Rust asked, raising an elegant eyebrow. “Because that doesn’t sound like him.”

“Not in those exact words,” Bartek admitted. “But the message was clear. The pride comes first. Always.”

“That’s some selective interpretation,” Haavi muttered, shaking his head. “Uncle Hudson practically shoved three eligible tigers at you during the last pride gathering.”

“Different species, though,” Jash pointed out, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Traditional families often balk at cross-species mating. Statistics show that?—”

“No one wants your statistics, Jash,” Haavi interrupted. “The point is the pride doesn’t need an alpha who’s lonely and sexually frustrated. They need one who’s balanced and fulfilled.”

“Eloquently put,” Rust said dryly.

“What I lack in elegance, I make up for in truth,” Haavi grinned, unrepentant.

“The pride doesn’t need your loneliness, Bartek,” Rust added, his tone softening. “It needs your strength. And she makes you stronger—that much is obvious.”

The bent poker chip snapped in half in Bartek’s fingers as memories of Artemis flooded his mind—her laugh, her scent, the way magic danced around her when she worked.

“Cross-clan matings strengthen communities,” Artair observed. “My family’s alliance with Thora’s sabertooth connections has expanded our territory and protection capabilities.”

“And the sex is phenomenal,” Jash added helpfully, earning a warning glare from Artair.

Haavi leaned forward, uncharacteristically serious. “Mimi thinks the pride would benefit from a fae alliance, especially with the recent vampire clan tensions. Sometimes duty and desire align perfectly.”

The words wormed their way into Bartek’s consciousness, challenging assumptions he’d held for years. Perhaps his father’s wish for him to prioritize the pride didn’t require sacrificing personal happiness. Perhaps the two weren’t mutually exclusive.

“Tomorrow,” he announced suddenly, decisively, “I’ll invite her to dinner.”

The table erupted in exaggerated cheers and raised glasses. Jash pretended to wipe away a tear while Haavi clutched his chest in mock emotion.

“Our little tiger, all grown up and finally admitting his feelings,” Haavi sniffled.

“Shut up,” Bartek growled, though without heat.

As the night wound down and his friends departed—Rust with a warning not to “patrol” past the bakery on his way home, Haavi with a suggestive comment about claw-proof sheets—Bartek found himself drawn to the window, staring at the darkened bakery across the street.

The golden marks on his palms glowed stronger than ever in the dim light, illuminating his reflection in the glass. For the first time since they’d appeared, he didn’t try to hide them.

THIRTY

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