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Rogue (Shifters Book 2) Mass Market Paperback – January 19, 2010

4.3 out of 5 stars 83 customer reviews
Book 2 of 6 in the Shifters Series

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Editorial Reviews

About the Author

New York Times bestselling author Rachel Vincent loves good chocolate, comfortable jeans, and serial commas. She’s older than she looks and younger than she feels, but is convinced that for every day she spends writing, one more day will be added to her lifespan. Now absorbed in the dark, tangled loyalties of her UNBOUND world, as well as the travails of a teenage banshee in her SOUL SCREAMERS world, Rachel can be found online at www.rachelvincent.com or urbanfantasy.blogspot.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

"Catch and release, my ass!" Grunting, I shoved the stray facedown over the trunk of Marc's car, snatching back my free hand just in time to avoid his teeth as they snapped together. The bastard was half again my size, and thrashing like a…well, like a scared cat, determined to shred anything he could get his hands on—including me.

Several feet behind me, Marc watched, no doubt mentally noting every aspect of my performance so he could recreate it later for my father. So far, I hadn't given him much good to report.

Beating prowlers senseless to teach them a lesson was one thing; I'd easily mastered most of the common scare tactics. But this whole chase-them-down-and-haul-them-out approach? That was bullshit. Complete and total idiocy. What was my father thinking?

The only stroke of luck I'd had all evening was that the stray had fled to a deserted make-out spot on the outskirts of Dumas, Arkansas. If he'd headed toward the town lights instead of away from them, I'd never have caught him. I wouldn't even have tried. We couldn't risk human passersby seeing an average-size young woman like me haul around a man who outweighed me by at least forty pounds. And the truth was that if the stray had known how to fight, I probably couldn't have caught him.

Not that the capture had gone smoothly, even so. Marc had made no effort to help.

"Can you give me a hand, here?" I snapped at him over my shoulder, slamming the stray's head back down on the trunk as he twisted, trying to break free of my grasp.

Masculine laughter rang out from behind me, unaccompanied by footsteps. "You're doing just fine, querida."

"Don't…fucking…call…me…that," I growled through clenched jaws. With my free hand, I seized one of the trespasser's flailing arms and pinned it to the small of his back. His other hand escaped me, clawing grooves into the paint. Not that it made any difference on Marc's oft-abused car.

Marc laughed, unmoved by my threat.

Leaning forward, I draped myself across the intruder's back to hold him still. His heart pounded fiercely against the thin, shiny material of a red blouse I'd had no plans to fight in.

His free hand flailed, still out of reach. I squeezed the wrist I'd captured. His bones ground together. Howling in pain, he bucked beneath me. I held on, determined not to screw up my first solo capture. Not with Marc watching. He'd never let me live it down.

"Let me go, bitch," the stray growled, his words distorted with his face pressed into the car.

Behind me, Marc chuckled again. "I think he likes you, Faythe."

"Either help or shut up." With my free hand, I dug into my back pocket for my new handcuffs, fresh out of the package and still shiny. It was time to break them in.

metal clinked against metal as I opened the first cuff, and the stray's thrashing intensified. he threw his head back and tossed his free arm up at an awkward angle. his hand smashed into mine. My fist opened.

For one agonizing moment, the open half circle of metal dangled from my index finger, the other end swinging like a pendulum. Them the cuff slipped from my grasp and landed across the toe of my prisoner's left shoe. Tightening my grip on his wrist, I bent to grab it, hauling him backward in the process. He kicked out. The cuff sailed beneath the car, skidding across the gravel.

"Damn it!" So much for shiny and new. I jerked us both upright and slapped the back of the stray's head. He growled. Marc laughed. I barely held back a scream of frustration. This was not how my first catch-and-release was supposed to go.

Shoving aside my irritation, I slammed the stray back down on the trunk, but it was too late to regain the upper hand. I'd screwed up, and he'd rediscovered his balls.

Grunting, the stray threw his elbow back, into my left side. pain tore through my chest and abdomen. My breath escaped in a single, harsh puff. his arm slid through my fist, and I nearly lost my grip.

Screw this. He'd blown his shot at nice-and-easy, which only left quick-and-brutal&!151;my favorite way to play.

I sucked in a deep breath. Fire raced up my newly bruised side. I shifted my weight onto my left leg and slammed my right knee into his groin.

The stray made a single, pain-filled gulping sound, as if he were swallowing his own tongue. For a moment, I heard only Marc's steady breathing at my back and the crickets chirruping all around us. Then my prisoner screamed. He hit notes that would have made Steven Tyler wince.

Satisfied that he couldn't stand, much less run, I let him go. He crumpled to the ground at my feet, shrieking like a little girl.

"Well, that's certainly one way to do it." Marc stepped up to my side. He looked a little pale, and not just from the moonlight.

I smoothed more hair back from my face, eyeing the pathetic form on the gravel. "Give me your damn cuffs," I snapped at Marc, not the least bit ashamed of myself for dropping my opponent with a knee to the groin.

Marc pulled his own handcuffs from his back pocket. "Remind me not to piss you off," he said, dropping them into my open palm.

"You still need to be reminded?" Kneeling, I pulled the stray's arms behind his back and cuffed them. He was still whimpering when I hauled him up by his elbow and half dragged him to the passenger side of the car. At the door, I spun him around to face me. "What's your name?"

Instead of answering, he leered at the low neckline of my blouse. It wasn't the smartest or most original response, but it was a definite improvement over the guy who'd tried to take a taste. Still, I was in no mood to be ogled.At least, not by him.

I let my fist fly, and my knuckles smashed into his rib cage. His eyes went wide, and he clenched his jaw on an oof of pain.

"This is the last time I'll ask," I warned, focusing on his closed eyelids. "Then I'll just knock you out and call you Tom Doe. Your choice. Now, what's your fucking name?"

His eyes popped opened, staring into mine as if to determine how serious my threat was. Whatever he saw must have convinced him. "Dan Painter," he said, the end of his own name clipped short in anger.

"Mr. Painter." I nodded, satisfied that he was telling the truth, based on his expression and the steady, if quick, beat of his pulse. "To what do we owe the displeasure of your visit?"

His eyebrows rose in confusion.

I rolled my eyes. "What the hell are you doing here?"

The wrinkles in his forehead smoothed out as comprehension spread across his face. "Just doin' my civic duty," he insisted. "Chasing a piece of ass, not that it matters now. Bitch gave me the slip."

Marc stepped forward. "That must have been some piece of ass, to tempt you into south-central territory."

Groaning inwardly, I held my tongue. It would have been poor form to yell at my partner in front of the prisoner. Again.

"You got no idea." The stray looked at Marc over my shoulder. "Or maybe you do." His eyes slid back to me, and I ground my teeth as his gaze traveled down my blouse and snug black slacks. "This one's kind of plain in the face, but she's got it where it counts, huh?"

I felt Marc tense just behind me, and heard his knuckles pop. He was forming a fist. But he was too late.

"Consider this your only warning to stay out of our territory." My fist flew in a beautiful right hook. My knuckles slammed into the stray's left cheek. His head snapped back and to the side. And for the second time in four minutes, he collapsed—this time unconscious.

Already flexing my bruised hand, I let him fall. What did I care if he scraped his face on the gravel? He was lucky I hadn't broken his cheekbone. At least, I didn't think I'd broken anything. Except possibly my own knuckles.

Behind me, Marc made a soft whistling sound, clearly impressed. "That's not standard procedure," he said, his tone entirely too reasonable as he leaned over the stray's body to open the back passenger-side door.

"Yeah, well, I'm not your standard enforcer." The rest of my father's employees had more respect for the rules than I had. They also had much more testosterone and two fewer ovaries. None of them really knew what to do with me.

Marc grinned, pulling my injured hand into the light from the car's interior bulb. "I won't argue with that." He tilted my wrist for a better view, and I winced. "It's not broken. We'll stop for some ice on the way to the free zone."

"And some coffee," I insisted, already dreading the hour-long drive east to the Arkansas-Mississippi border, where we would release Dan Painter in the free zone on the other side of the Mississippi River. "I need coffee."

"Of course." Bending, Marc grabbed the stray's shirt in his left hand and the waist of his jeans in the other. He picked up the unconscious werecat and tossed him headfirst onto the backseat. "That was one hell of a right hook." Marc produced a roll of duct tape, apparently from thin air. He tore off a long strip and wound it around Mr. Painter's ankles, then bent the stray's legs at the knees to get his feet into the car. "I don't remember your father teaching you that."

"He didn't."

Marc slammed the door and arched one eyebrow at me in question.

Smiling, I knelt to look beneath the car. "Ultimate Fighting Championship."

He nodded. "Impressive."

"I thought so." On my hands and knees in the gravel, I felt around beneath the car, searching for my handcuffs. I'd lost my first pair diving into the Red River in pursuit of a harmless but repeat offender a month earlier. If I came back without the new set, my father would have my hide. Or dock my paycheck.

My fingers scraped a clump of coarse grass growing through the rocks and skimmed over the rounded end of a broken bottle.

"Need some help?" Marc reached down to run one hand slowly over my hip.

I grinned at him over my shoulder. "You're not going to find anything there."

"That's what you think." His hand slid up my side as my fingers brushed a smooth arc of metal. I grabbed the cuff and backed out from under the car, and Marc pulled me to my feet. He turned me around to face him as I slid the cuff into my back pocket, then he pressed me against the side of the car.

"Let's take a break," he whispered, leaning in to brush my neck with his lips.

"Like you've been working," I said, but my hand reached automatically for his arm. My fingers brushed the lines of his triceps, my nails skimming the surface of his skin, raising goose bumps. I loved drawing a reaction from him. It gave me a sense of power, of control. And yet the feeling was mutual; I couldn't say no to him, and he knew it.

"So why don't you put me to work?" he purred against my ear, pressing closer to me. His fingers edged between me and the car, moving slowly to cup my rear, his grip firm and strong.

I leaned forward to give him better access. "Do we have time?"

"All the time in the world. Unless you have a curfew I don't know about."

"I'm grown, remember?"

"Oh, I remember." His tongue trailed lightly down the side of my neck, hesitating slightly at the four crescent-shaped scars, leaving a wet trail to be caressed by the warm September breeze. "You're very, very grown." His tongue resumed its course, flicking over my collarbone before diving into my cleavage. The sweet spot, he called it. With good reason.

"What about our unwilling guest?" My fingers trailed over his chest, feeling the hard planes through his T-shirt.

"He can find his own date." Marc's words were muffled against my skin, his breath hot on the upper curve of my breast.

"I'm serious." I pulled him back up to eye level. "What if he wakes up?"

"He'll be jealous." Marc leaned in to kiss me, but I put a hand on his chest. Breathing an impatient sigh, he glanced through the car window over my shoulder, then back up to meet my eyes. "He's out cold. Besides, we never have any privacy at the ranch, anyway, so what does it matter?"

Privacy. It had become our most precious commodity, and the supply was never enough to meet the demand in a house full of propriety-challenged werecats—noisy, overgrown children with supernatural hearing and no lives of their own. Marc was right: middle-of-nowhere Arkansas was about as private as we were going to get. Ever. For the rest of what passed for our lives.

I nodded, sliding my hands slowly beneath the front of his shirt. "Okay, but you'd better have a blanket in there." I tossed my head toward the trunk. "'Cause I'm not lying down on this gravel."

He frowned, and his nose met mine as he bent down for one more kiss. "Who said anything about lying—" his cell phone rang out from his hip pocket, just as his lips brushed mine "—down."

I smiled, not a bit surprised. Timing was everything, and in that regard, my father was a force to be reckoned with.

Marc stepped back, pulling the phone from his pocket, and my hands fell from his chest to rest on my hips. "Damn it, Greg," he muttered, glancing at the backlit screen.

"Tell him what we were about to do, and he'll probably leave us alone," I said, pulling open the front passenger-side door. Unlike most fathers, mine was…enthusiastic about my relationship with my boyfriend. So was my mother. They loved Marc as if he were a son, and would have done anything to make an honest couple of us, including gluing the ring to my finger. It was kind of creepy, if I stopped to think about it for too long.

"That's not a conversation I particularly enjoy having with your father." Marc scowled as the phone continued to ring. "And if I get one more tip from Michael, I'm going to throw him right through the living-room window, even if he is your brother."

I flinched. "He didn't."

Marc raised his eyebrows.

Damn. He did. Marc wouldn't have to kill Michael; I'd do it myself. I just could not make people understand that my private life was exactly that: private.

Smiling now, Marc pressed the on button and held his phone to his ear. "Hi, Greg. What's wrong?"

My father's reply came through loud and clear. "I just checked my messages and found something interesting. An anonymous call about a dead cat. I hope you have your shovel."


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Product Details

  • Mass Market Paperback: 400 pages
  • Publisher: MIRA (January 19, 2010)
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: 0778329143
  • ISBN-13: 978-0778329145
  • Product Dimensions: 4.2 x 1 x 6.6 inches
  • Shipping Weight: 6.4 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)
  • Average Customer Review: 4.3 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (83 customer reviews)
  • Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #1,059,932 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)

Customer Reviews

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Format: Mass Market Paperback Verified Purchase
The first book, Stray (Werecats, Book 1), was better and I only gave it three stars so this book is getting two. If I could, I would give it 2-1/2 stars.

The first part of the book was pretty good. It kept my attention and I was interested to see where the author was going. However, around the middle of the book, the book hit a lull. The only action was a couple of dead bodies. The middle of the book was centered around the main character, Faythe's, angst over keeping secrets, her relationships with various individuals, and trying to figure out what was going on. Which, fine, that is probably like real life, but a little action wouldn't have hurt to keep the story going. The last part of the book picked up the pace a bit, but not enough.

Using only vague SPOILERS, the reason this book only got two stars is because I don't like the main character.

1) Faythe is incredibly selfish in her relationship with her boyfriend, Marc. He wants some reassurance that she isn't with him only because he's a bed warmer and she refuses to give it to him. If she isn't sure of it, why is she leading him on?

2) She's not the brightest character. There is a bit in the story about stupid women in movies (The Howling) that run outside, almost naked, without a weapon. In several scenes, Faythe does something similar. It doesn't always end badly, but she doesn't seem to learn from her past mistakes (referencing the abduction scene in Stray). Faythe is just as stupid as the women in the movies that she mocks.

3) Faythe's mentality is wacky and not healthy. There is a part in the book where she doesn't want to harm this guy because she's "already hurt him enough".
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Faythe Sanders is back, working hard to prove herself as the first female Enforcer for the South Central Pride. Teamed up with her one-time fiance and current lover, Marc, she's got a lot to do to show her father she's worthy of his pride and support. But when strays start showing up dead Faythe's skills are put to the test. When one of their own joins the strays in the after-life the mystery begins to deepen even as it starts to unravel. The killer smells like a jungle cat and 'more'. So who is this rogue and how the the missing strippers, who all bear a striking resemblence to Faythe herself, tie into this plot?

If you liked Stray you're bound to love Rogue. The story picks up quick and keeps a steady pace. Just don't expect many surprises, if you read Stray you'll know pretty much everything that is going to happen in this sophomore novel before cracking it open. But while predictable, Vincent had woven a more emotionally resounding and complex tale. The women in the werecat world begin to be more visible as strong members of their society which I think most readers will be pleased with.

What I did not like about this book and Stray is Faythe herself. She's always doing the rebellious and stupid thing, even when she knows it's a mistake. It's like she doesn't care despite her narrative saying she does. She abuses her father's protection, Marc's devotion and her mother's kindness to the point I want to smack her in the head with a brick. Her spoiled ten-year-old attitude has grown tired by the end of the novel, but you will see a slight improvement, so let's hope she continues to grow and mature through the series. See her next in Pride, the third novel!
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I want to love STRAY and ROGUE. Rachel Vincent builds an interesting world with both a caste system and gender bias. She portrays the werecats as they enter a time of change - where a stray might be adopted by a Pride, a girl might inherit, and the strays are tired of being pushed around.

While I enjoy the world, I do not love the main characters. I do love some of the secondary characters. Jace, in particular, is a sweetie. I rooted for him in the first book. Faythe's mom is a BA disguised as June Cleaver, but Faythe is too self-absorbed to notice until the end of ROUGE. Luckily, Faythe become less self-absorbed throughout the story. Her personal growth could move a bit faster, but I saw evidence that she was beginning to think of the Pride first.

Nothing in Marc's personality changed to make me like him better. Take this sentence: "I'd never known him to demand anything less than all of my attention, and I didn't recognize this polite, courteous behavior." There was a more alarming quote, but my bookmark failed to stay in place. Their relationship seems abusive to me. Not just on Marc's part, but on Faythe's as well. He flat out states he does not trust her. ROGUE is a paranormal romance. In my romance stories, I need the main couple to be in love. Marc and Faythe feel mutually dependent rather than loving to me.

The mystery half of the plot - tracking down a killer of tomcats and kidnapper of strippers - felt like it was given equal weight, but the culprit was too obvious. Faythe shows her brain many times in the novel. With her mental faculty, she should have put the pieces together long before she did. On the other hand, I liked Manx. I wish she entered the novel earlier so she could have more screen time.

I still plan to read PRIDE when it comes out.
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