Page 67 of A Cock and Bull Story

“That line—isthatline all I get for foreplay?”

The tiger shifter looks over his shoulder hesitantly at the dean and Dr. Going To Get Stabbed By Me. Dean Hardwick is wearing a smug grin. The scientist looks baffled.

“She's in the throes of heat,” the doc insists. “Take her now.”

I look at the imbecile askance—this guy’s insane.

“I am not in the “throes of heat”—obviously,” I spit.

The scientist scowls furiously at me for contradicting him.

“I have tested this product time and time again.”

“Yeah, well, you tested it wrong,” I snap at him.

“Your blood is a perfect match!” he yells in agitation.

I shake my head and let out a pitying sigh before addressing Dean Hardwick.

“Maybe you need to get another scientist?” I suggest to the only one who seems to have any brains in the room—aside from myself.

Dr. Failure gasps in insult before puffing up in importance.

“I am the top of my field; I’ll have you know!” he crows..

“Whoa. I thought Dr. Fauci was the top of the field,” I cut the mad scientist off—Doc Fauci is the only one I remember seeing on TV.

The shifter scientist looks at me with disgust.

“Those arehumanscientists.”

“Well, I bet they could do this shit better thanyou'redoing.”

The dude lets out an inhuman squawk and lunges at me, but Dean Hardwick holds him back. He's assessing me calculatingly like he did before when we first met.

It's not a good feeling.

The scientist looks like he wants to stab me—well, it's notmy faultthat his stuff doesn't work.

Doc begins pacing in agitation and muttering to himself, “Should work. Blood is a perfect match. All the levels, blah, blah, blah. Scientist talk.”

He doesn’t actually say that last bit—it’s just what I heard.

I snicker. What this idiot man doesn't realize is that I spend every day practically “in heat”. His little concoction of whatever isn't going to change anything.

It's like that episode ofFamily Guywhere Quagmire gets choked to death by his sister's boyfriend but he ends up living—because he chokes himself every night.

“Go over the numbers again,” the dean smoothly commands the scientist.

Dr. Reject clearly doesn't like being told to fix his shit but, considering how I'm not writhing on the floor in absolute wetness, he clearly needs to go reassess things. He stomps out of the room, pouting worse than a toddler who didn’t get his way.

Of course, I'm still left tied up, legs spread wide like a whorish sacrifice to the shifter gods.

The tiger is still looking at me lustfully—as are his other two companions.

I just glare back at them.

“Do you want some pointers?” I ask the tiger when he refuses to look away.