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that he’d joined Roman’s pack; with his personality, few packs would put up with him.
    Marcus caught himself wondering, again, if Casper was the source of his new uneasiness and the return of his nightmares.
    Could he have been one of the men in the cages? Was that why Marcus was having so many flashbacks to the past?
    Or even worse…one of the men who had bet on the forced, illegal fights?
    But no, Marcus would have scented it. Most of the men who’d bet on the fights had been killed. The few survivors had been tracked down, arrested and jailed for life. Almost all of the prisoners had died when they’d risen up against their captors, and the other two who’d made it through – he knew who they were. With a growl, Marcus returned to his lunch and tried to banish all the thoughts that were tangling together in his brain now.
    Matthew. Eileen. The guards. The jeering crowds.
    Fur rippled all over his body, his snout protruded and his fangs shot out. With a mighty effort, he forced his wolf back down, and it raged there, gnawing at his mind and hurling itself against the prison of his skin.
    How much longer could he go on like this?

Chapter Seven
     
    After Marcus left, Eileen went out to her car and brought in the overnight bag she kept stashed in the back seat. She took a long, hot shower and tried to banish all her worries from her mind, scrubbing the mud off and basking in the heat.
    She dug into her bag for a fresh outfit. She changed into a pair of rhinestone-studded jeans and a sky-blue Angora sweater and low-heeled blue pumps.
    Tomorrow she’d go in to town, do some shopping for appropriate shoes and pick up her suitcases, she decided.
    In the meantime, what to do with her mud-spattered clothing from this morning?
    There was a washing machine and dryer in the far right corner of the living area. She’d never washed a load of clothing before in her life, but how hard could it be?
    She grabbed her silk jumpsuit, tossed it into the washing machine and stared at the clothing. Nothing was happening. The clothing just lay there.
    Soap. It probably needed soap.
    She looked at the box of laundry detergent sitting next to the washing machine. How much should she use? Her clothes were really dirty. She put in ten cups just to be sure, and closed the lid. She stared at the machine. Nothing.
    Well, there were buttons on top of the machine. They had to be there for a reason.
    She pushed a bunch of them, and after she hit one that said “Start” the machine rumbled and then started making noises like water was rushing in.
    Ha! Eileen Pennyroyal, domestic diva, was unstoppable!
    She was sitting on the Adirondack chair, sending her father a smug text to let him know that she was on the Kincaid Pack’s property working out the final details of the contract, when she glanced over at the washing machine and realized that huge mountains of soap suds were boiling over and spilling out of the lid and onto the floor.
    At the same time, there was a pounding on the front door.
    He was back!
    And she was as good as dead.
    “Son of a seacow,” she gasped. “They will not be able to identify my remains.” She ran into the bathroom and grabbed armfuls of towels, ran back and began frantically scrubbing at the floor. More soap spilled out. Rivers of it. The washing machine was a volcano erupting with soap.
    The door flew open, and a very pregnant female shifter with a big mop of curly red hair waddled in, followed by a tall, lean female shifter in overalls and a T-shirt, and a fat old beagle.
    The pregnant female was holding a basket of muffins. She stared with mild surprise at Eileen, who was kneeling, frantically scrubbing and ready to burst into tears.
    Eileen stood up. “What do I do? Make it stop!” she cried, pointing at the machine.
    The redhead glanced at the taller woman. “Erika, you take this. I’m too big to bend,” she said, patting her stomach.
    Erika raced over to the washing machine, knelt down, reached behind