“No.”

She wasn’t being difficult to simply be difficult, was she?

Resting his forearm on his knee, Lock stared at her. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“No.”

“Is there a reason you don’t want to go to the hospital?” And he really hoped it wasn’t something ridiculous like she used to date one of the doctors and didn’t want to see him, or something equally as lame.

“Of course there is. People go there to die.”

Oh, boy. Ridiculous but hardly lame. “Or…people go there to get better.”

“No.”

“Look, Mr. Mittens—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“—I’m trying to help you here. So you can do this the easy way, or you can do this the hard way. Your choice.”

She shrugged and brought her good foot down right on his nuts.

Gwen took off, shifting in midhop, which amped up her wounded speed another twenty miles per hour or so. She could see the path leading out of the riverbed and planned to get there and then to the trees. Grizzlies couldn’t climb trees, and Macon had some really high ones. Yet, she didn’t realize how fast grizzlies could move until the big, shifted bastard grabbed her from behind. He wrapped those furry arms around her waist, the four-inch claws a little too close to her tender underbelly, and lifted her up. Intent, it seemed, on carrying her cat ass to some horrible hellhole where human beings went to die so their organs could be harvested!

Well, Gwen O’Neill wasn’t going out like that.

She started twisting and swiping at him with her claws. She could feel fur-covered flesh being ripped off, and although he never once lashed back at her, he didn’t let her go, either—until he got slammed into by the full force of a six-hundred-pound male lion.

Gwen went down with them, but the bear had to turn his attention to the lion trying to kill him and removed his arms from around her waist. Relieved, Gwen scrambled away as the two beasts fought. It was brutal, bloody, and ugly—she enjoyed every second of it, too, until that multicolored long-furred wolfdog came running up to her, barking and barking until she shifted into a black woman who had a tendency to blame Gwen for everything. So, in a way, she was still barking, when she said, “What the hell are you doing? Stop them!”

“I shouldn’t interfere,” Gwen said blandly, as two apex predators fought to the death behind her.

“Gwen,” Blayne chastised, her caring dog side out there on display, “he saved your life. I saw it. Now stop them!”

Gwen and Blayne had met in what Gwen still referred to as prison but others called Catholic school.

Ninth grade detention specifically. After a rocky introduction, they’d been best and inseparable friends ever since, with more in commonthan people realized and a bond that was stronger than anyone dare risk trying to come between—as quite a few males had learned throughout the years.

And yet, none of that stopped Gwen from torturing Blayne when the opportunity presented itself…like now.

Giving a helpless shrug, Gwen said, “It’s really none of my business.”

“Gwendolyn O’Neill!”

She blinked. “Ma? Is that you?”

Blayne pushed her shoulder, so Gwen pushed her back.

Blayne’s mouth dropped open. “Don’t push me.”

“You pushed me first.”

So Blayne pushed her again and Gwen pushed her back.

“Don’t test me, Gwen,” Blayne warned. So Gwen pushed her again, this time using both hands and putting a little more “shove” in her push than she had before.

“So what ya gonna do? Huh?” Gwen gleefully taunted, ignoring the brutal pain in her calf and the blood pooling at her feet. “What are ya gonna do?”

And like she did that first time they met in detention all those years ago, Blayne Thorpe grabbed Gwen’s hair and yanked like she was yanking weeds out of her garden.

The lion had managed to get him on his back, his paw raised above Lock’s head, while Lock was moments from throwing him off and then batting him around the river until he was nothing more than a gold furry ball of flesh.

Unfortunately, both males were distracted by the screaming, naked women fighting while a She-wolf quietly watched from a distance and scratched her ear with her back leg.

Normally Lock would be right there with that She-wolf, watching two really attractive naked women fighting while scratching parts of himself he couldn’t reach as human, but he was still worried about Mr.

Mittens’s calf and yes, if he had his way, he’d call her Mr. Mittens until the end of time.

Shoving the lion off him, Lock stood and shifted. He stalked over as the feline brought up her hands, her claws unleashing and the other female—a canine from the scent of her—covered her face, screaming, “Not the house cat, Gwen! Not the house cat!”

Not even wanting to hazard a guess at what the hell the canine might be talking about, he grabbed both females around the waist and yanked them apart.

“Stop it! Both of you!”

“She started—”

“You started—”

“I don’t want to hear it!” he roared, silencing them immediately. “Again with the fighting?” he said to Gwen. “What the hell are you thinking? Your leg is hurt, or did you conveniently forget that part?”

“You’re hurt?” the other demanded, looking guilty when she really shouldn’t. “Gwen, why didn’t you tell me?