Kenyan Heat (Darkin World Book 1)

Chapter Two

A low, rumbling warning sound came from deep in Nathan Allen's throat. Usually laid-back, he surprised his teammate - Private First Class Richard Thomas Mills the Eleventh - by fisting the collar of his shirt and pulling him so close their noses nearly touched. The other four men on the team were only surprised it'd taken Nate so long to put the annoying shaman in his place.

The man in Nathan's grasp was young, even by human standards. At twenty years old, Private First Class Mills' height put him four inches taller than Nate's six-foot-seven frame. The kid was lankier, and not nearly as muscled, however.

"What are you going to do, Sergeant Allen?" Mills sneered. Although shamankind were known for their extreme arrogance, this kid was drowning in his.

"Keep talking, and we'll see." Nate's grip tightened. His fingers itched to wrap themselves around the shaman's throat. He was seconds away from partially shifting and letting his beast loose.

The kid must have seen how close Nate was to losing his shit because his pale face blanched above a dark, patchy five o'clock shadow. Nathan knew his deep chocolate eyes likely began to change to amber as his beast fought for dominance. It happened with shifters when their emotions ran high.

"It was a joke." The kid's Adam's apple bobbed above Nate's grasp.

"I'm not laughing."

Although they were a team, these men were practically strangers. They didn't know of Nate's past. When Mills began talking about the "pussies" Zaire Akinyi slaughtered to become First, Nathan saw red. Those slaughtered werelions had been his parents. He'd been nine when they lost their lives, his father in a sanctioned fight that was rumored to have been rigged. Zaire killed his mother when she refused to become Akinyi's mate by default. A pride member secreted Nate away before the power-hungry man could murder him as well.

He'd quickly been adopted by American parents and shipped out of Africa. His name, Nassor Jelani, was changed to Nathan Allen. Although he'd been young, he never forgot his birth name and vowed to reclaim it one day. Even after all the years he spent in the U.S., Nate never completely lost his Zambian accent and, therefore, his tie to his place of birth.

To have his shifter parents called "pussies," all these decades later brought to the surface old feelings Nate had thought buried. Sadness, loss, anger, and helplessness welled within once more. His parents hadn't been weak but betrayed by an evil man. They deserved more respect, especially in death.

Mills sucked in a breath. "Your next words better be an apology," Nate warned. The shaman race's magic was in their words. The kid better not be gearing up to throw out curses at him.

"Everything okay?" a deep, German-accented-with-English voice asked.

Nate stared hard at the young man. "Just waiting for an apology from Dick here, Lieutenant," he ground out from between clenched teeth.

Corporal Andrew Stevens shared his race with Mills. The older man laughed at the nickname Nate had just given Richard. It was likely that the name would stick. The knowledge had to have been hard on the vainglorious youth, especially when Stevens whisper-chuckled, "Private Dick." It was surprising that a shaman would side with a shifter against one of his own. That too had to sting.

Dick's hazel eyes darted to those of their commander. First Lieutenant Wolfrick Jaeger was a tall, muscled werewolf. He was so "alpha," no one wanted to mess with him. Mills' gaze shifted to look out at the Ngong Hills when he found no sympathy there.

"I'm sorry for calling your kind pussies," Dick finally managed to force out the apology. It must've cost the egotistical, cocky prick considerably to have to bend. Still, it wasn't enough. Nate wanted to rain blows and insults of his own on the young man.