Page 11 of Little Bunny

A tranquilizer dart.

“You bitches need drugs to take me down?” He laughed as he tossed aside the dart. “Pathetic.”

He charged the guy to his right, his arm swinging. Claws gouged flesh, ripping through skin. Blood spurted from the wound, causing the hyena to scream as he hit the ground.

“We should’ve used a larger dose,” one guy said with a curse.

“You should’ve just stayed home,” Diablo snarled as three men turned into six then back to three. He shook his head, fighting hard against whatever they’d injected him with.

He tried to shift into his third form—a lycanthrope on two legs, still capable of speech but taller, more powerful, and a hella lot deadlier.

But something was interfering with his shift.

The drug.

It forced him to remain in his current form. What the? Diablo had never heard of a drug capable of negating a shift, and it lightweight scared him. He’d never been denied access to his forms—human, wolf, or lycanthrope.

“Nah, he’s starting to feel it,” one of them said.

The three kept multiplying, but Diablo knew it was the drug making him see double, triple, then single.

He shook his head again, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat.

If he was going down, they were going with him. He lunged at the hyena shifter ten feet in front of him, boots scraping the ground. His claws had receded against his will, but he didn’t need them to handle these pussies.

He clenched his fist, slamming it into the guy’s jaw, laughing loudly when he heard bone crunching and watched as the bastard went down.

Diablo spat on the ground. “Bring it,” he said to the last man standing, but swayed heavily, his vision blurring.

“That’s right. Go nightie-night, big guy.”

Diablo fought against passing out long enough to memorize every detail of his face, down to the crisscrossed scar over his left eyebrow. “Cuando el diablo descienda sobre ti, recuerda este momento, pendajo.” When the devil descends upon you, remember this moment, asshole.

“I have no idea what you’re saying. Just go the fuck to sleep.”

The ground sped toward Diablo as he crashed, the world around him fading.

Chapter Four

Elijah groaned as he turned over. He had a killer headache, and his mouth was so dry his tongue was sticking to the roof. And why did his breath taste so horrible?

His heart pounded as fragments of the previous night came rushing back—the pool game, the flirtation, the overwhelming presence of Matias pressed up behind him, guiding his every move with a firm hand and a voice dripping in sin.

And then… the bourbon. The cosmos. His absolutely humiliating exit.

Elijah groaned again, flopping back onto the bed as realization hit. He’d puked. Right in front of Matias. The most dangerous, gorgeous, and arrogant man he’d ever met, and what had he done? Turned into a drunken, useless mess.

“Tell me that didn’t happen,” he grumbled to himself.

Cracking his eyes open, he froze. This was not his bedroom. Those were not his scratched and chipped dressers. These were polished, expensive looking. The tops of his dressers were cluttered. The ones in this room were clear, except for the large flat screen perched on one of them.

This room was large with black-out curtains hanging in the windows. The walls were free of framed dime-store pictures like Elijah had hanging on his bedroom walls.

This room spoke of elegance. Elijah’s room shouted of second-hand furnishings. He didn’t even have proper curtains in his room. They were thrift store sheets he’d nailed in place.

Even the air smelled clean, like freshly hung laundry.

Elijah stiffened when he felt a presence. Turning his head slowly, he furrowed his brows. Matias was sitting in a cushioned chair, his hands clasped over his stomach, his eyes closed.

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