The Lion’s Tempest (Golden Pride #4)

Chapter 1

Ezra

The stray tabby is back.

She's sitting on the hood of Vaughn's bike, which is either the bravest or stupidest thing a twelve-pound cat has ever done.

Vaughn is going to lose his mind. I set out the food bowl — the one I keep behind the dumpster that I pretend doesn't exist when anyone asks — and make a noise with my tongue.

"Come on. Off the bike before he sees you."

She blinks at me. Doesn't move.

"Your funeral."

I leave the bowl and head inside. The bar is quiet for a Tuesday afternoon.

Knox is in the office doing something that involves frowning at his laptop, which could be anything from payroll to figuring out how to open a PDF.

Jason is behind the bar, reorganizing the liquor shelf for the third time this month because he stress-organizes the way other people stress-eat.

Silas is in his corner with a book, which is like saying the sky is up.

Robin's at the counter, testing a new pastry for the café. Tiny fruit tarts with some kind of glaze that catches the light. He's been bringing test batches to the bar for weeks, using us as guinea pigs, and nobody's complaining.

"Try this," he says, sliding one across the bar.

"What is it?"

"Apricot frangipane with cardamom glaze."

"I understood three of those words." I take a bite. It's spectacular. Everything Robin makes is spectacular, but I've learned you're supposed to say something specific or he gets suspicious that you're just being nice. "The cardamom works. It's warm without being heavy."

He lights up. "That's exactly what I was going for."

"I know. That's why I said it."

Vaughn comes in from the garage, wiping grease off his hands. "There's a cat on my bike."

"Is there?" I don't look up from the inventory spreadsheet I've got open on the bar. Tuesday means liquor order day, and we're low on the cheap bourbon. Also the IPA. We go through an unreasonable amount of IPA.

"Orange tabby. The one you've been feeding."

"I haven't been feeding anything."

"There's a bowl behind the dumpster with your name on it."

"Circumstantial evidence." I make a note about the bourbon. "She likes the warm engine. She'll move."

"She scratched the seat."

"I'll buff it out."

Vaughn grunts, which in Vaughn language could mean anything from "I'm going to kill that cat" to "fine." He takes a tart from Robin's tray without asking and disappears back into the garage.

This is my day. Inventory, orders, keeping the books that Knox has been doing wrong for a decade and only admitted when I caught a six-thousand-dollar discrepancy three years ago.

The garage is the real business — five lions who know engines, steady work from locals and bikers passing through, enough to keep the lights on and the property taxes paid.

The bar is more of an afterthought. We keep the liquor license active and the taps running, but our customer base is mostly us.

Shifter bar on a back road near nothing — humans don't exactly wander in for happy hour.

Every few months a lost tourist or a curious local pushes through the door, stays for one uncomfortable beer, and doesn't come back.

Which is fine. The bar is ours. The garage pays the bills. I make sure both sets of books are clean, the taxes get filed, and nobody gets audited. It's not glamorous. But someone has to do it, and none of these idiots can operate a spreadsheet.

My phone buzzes. Robin, from four feet away, because this is how we communicate now: Jason rearranged the vodka by country of origin. Please make him stop.

I look up. Jason has, in fact, created a geopolitical vodka display.

"Jason."

"It makes sense! Swedish vodka next to Finnish vodka. They're neighbors."

"Put it back by price point."

"That's boring."

He puts it back. He does this every time. I fix it every time. We both know our roles.

The front door opens, which is unusual enough at two on a Tuesday that everyone notices.

I notice three things. First: the suit. Not off-the-rack — tailored, charcoal gray, no tie, top button undone.

Someone who knows what clothes are supposed to look like.

Second: the rental car visible through the window.

Something dark and mid-size, the kind of thing corporate types get from the airport counter.

Third: the way he scans the room. Quick, efficient, cataloging.

Exits, occupants, layout. Not the way a tourist looks at a new bar. The way someone assesses a property.

He's young. Mid-twenties, maybe. Dark hair cut neat and professional. Clean-shaven. The kind of face that would be pretty if it wasn't so composed — like someone arranged his features for a headshot and he forgot to relax afterward.

He doesn't hesitate at the threshold. Doesn't do the thing tourists do — that half-step backward, the quick scan for the exit they just came through. He clocks us and keeps walking.

He walks straight to the bar with the confidence of someone who walks into rooms for a living.

"I'm looking for the owner," he says. "Knox?"

Jason glances at me. I give him nothing.

"That's me," Knox says, appearing from the office doorway. He's doing the thing he does — filling up the frame, all broad shoulders and quiet authority. Not threatening. Just present.

The man in the suit doesn't flinch. But I see the shift. Subtle — a tightening around his jaw, his weight settling more firmly onto his back foot. His eyes flick to Knox's, and whatever he sees there — the gold, the predator stillness — he clocks it. He clocks all of us.

Shifters. He knows.

His heart rate picks up. I can hear it from here. But his face stays professional. Whatever he's feeling, he's got it locked down tight.

"Nicholas, I also go by Nico if you prefer," he says. "Coldwell Development. I was hoping to discuss a business opportunity with you." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a card. Holds it out with a hand that doesn't shake.

Knox doesn't take the card. Doesn't move at all for a long moment. Then: "You want to buy my bar."

"I want to make you an offer for the property, yes. The land and the existing structures. Coldwell is—"

"No."

Nicholas blinks. "You haven't heard the offer."

"Don't need to." Knox's voice is even, almost pleasant. "Not selling."

I watch Nicholas process this. Most people would push. Argue, flatter, negotiate. That's what developers do — I've seen them before, circling the neighborhood every few years when property values shift. They always push.

Nicholas puts the card on the bar.

"Understood." He nods once, like he's closing a file. "Would you mind if I stayed for a bit? Long drive."

Knox shrugs. "It's a bar."

"What do you have on tap?"

Jason rattles off the list. Nicholas picks the IPA, pays cash, and tips three dollars on a six-dollar beer. Then he looks around the room with that same assessing gaze.

"Could I get nachos?"

"Full order or half?"

"Full. Thank you."

He takes his beer to the booth by the window — the one with the best sightline to the parking lot and the front door.

Opens his laptop bag. Pulls out a MacBook, a charger, and a leather notebook.

Arranges them on the table with the kind of precision that suggests he does this in every bar in every town.

A system. A routine. Jason brings him nachos a few minutes later.

He starts typing.

The bar is quiet. Robin catches my eye and mouths what the fuck. Jason is staring. Silas hasn't looked up from his book, but he's stopped turning pages.

The guy from Coldwell Development is sitting in our bar and doing his work like he didn't just try to buy our home out from under us.

I should be angry. Knox is clearly angry, in his controlled, alpha way — I can see it in the set of his shoulders as he disappears back into the office. Robin is already composing a rant. Jason looks like someone scratched his bike on purpose.

But I'm watching Nicholas in the window booth, and what I'm feeling isn't anger.

It's curiosity.

He's uncomfortable. I can smell it — not fear exactly, but unease.

Low-grade tension in someone who knows they're in a room full of predators and is choosing to stay anyway.

His heartbeat hasn't settled. His shoulders are a fraction too high.

Every few minutes, his eyes lift from the laptop and sweep the room — a check, making sure nothing has changed.

He doesn't like being here. He doesn't like us. Not in a hostile way. More like someone who's been told the stove is hot and is sitting in the kitchen anyway because that's where the work is.

But he tipped well. He said please and thank you. He accepted Knox's no without arguing. And he asked before staying.

The tabby jumps up on the windowsill outside, right next to Nicholas's booth. He notices. Looks at her for a long moment. Doesn't tap the glass, doesn't try to make friends. Just acknowledges her existence and goes back to his laptop.

Huh.

"Ezra." Robin is suddenly next to me, voice low. "He's literally here to take our home."

"He's literally here to eat nachos and drink beer."

"That's not—" Robin makes a frustrated sound. "Aren't you worried?"

"Knox said no. We own the property outright. There's nothing to worry about."

"Then why is he still sitting there?"

I look at Nicholas in his booth. Suit jacket off now, draped neatly over the back of the seat. Sleeves rolled once at the cuff. Working steadily, pausing only to eat a chip or take a sip of his IPA. Sitting in our bar like it's a coffee shop, like humans walk in here every day, like this is normal.

It's not normal. Nobody comes here on purpose.

"Because his car's in the lot and it's a long drive back, and he's a professional who's not going to waste the afternoon." I close my inventory spreadsheet. "He'll finish his beer, finish his nachos, and leave. And we'll never see him again."

Robin doesn't look convinced. I'm not entirely convinced either.

But the stray tabby is still sitting on the windowsill, watching Nicholas with the same expression I probably have — not friendly, not hostile. Just interested. Waiting to see what he does next.

I go check on the bourbon order.