Hunter's Prey: Bloodhounds, Book 2 (2 page)

Hunter rode back into Iron Creek in a borrowed shirt that threatened to split over his shoulders at any moment, borrowed boots that pinched his toes, and borrowed pants that pinched something a whole lot more precious.

He still counted it a far sight better than dragging his sorry ass back naked.

Satira was waiting for them at the top of the steps, her skin gilded by the early-morning sun and her gaze fixed on Wilder, as if Archer and Hunter didn’t exist at all. As soon as Wilder dropped off his horse, he held out his arms, and she bounded down the steps and flung herself at him. Sweet enough, until she caught his mouth in a kiss so unashamedly raw that Hunter shifted awkwardly and tried to find somewhere—anywhere—safe to rest his eyes.

Ophelia came to the door and leaned against it, shading her eyes against the slanting light. She smiled, lifted a hand in greeting and pulled her lace shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

Not
a safer place to rest his eyes. Not when she was beautiful and refined, all the things he’d once known, all the things lost to him now that he was more monster than man. Ophelia stirred urges he’d best not consider closely—

—but he couldn’t look away.

She met him in the yard, petting his horse as he dismounted. “Good morning, Hunter.”

“Miss Ophelia.” He had a hat, one handed to him by the same amused brothel guard who’d lent his boots and shirt, and he hurried to yank it off his head. “You’re well?”

“Very. I’m glad to see you are, also.” Her expression sobered. “It was a good hunt?”

Speaking of such things to a lady—even one who hadn’t always been a lady—seemed unnatural. “Very productive.”

“Splendid.” She raised her voice to include the others. “Caroline came in early this morning. Made Archer’s favorite too, not that he deserves it.”

The man’s broad grin belied his words. “You wound me, harpy.”

A growl rattled in Hunter’s chest, driven by inexplicable, uncontrollable irritation. “Be polite.”

“It takes more than that to hurt my feelings.” Ophelia flashed him an expectant smile. “Shall we?”

Belatedly, he realized he was supposed to offer his arm. He thrust it out and prayed the cotton of his shirt would hold long enough for him to escort her inside.

Wilder led the way, his arm around Satira’s shoulders. “How did Nate fare while we were gone?”

“No worse than he fared while you were here.” Satira’s good cheer sounded forced. “Not getting worse is a bit like getting better, yes?”

“Sure is,” Wilder said quietly. “He needs time, that’s all.”

Time. How much time did it take, to adjust to being part vampire and part bloodhound? Hunter still felt awkward and unsettled simply dealing with the bloodhound half, as if a hundred moons might not be enough.

He might never be right again. Just like Nate.

Ophelia’s fingers stroked over the back of Hunter’s hand. “Would you like to change before breakfast?”

He wondered if she could see him limping in his ill-fitting boots. “Yes, ma’am. That’d be best, I wager.”

“I’ll walk you up,” she murmured, veering off the main hall toward the wide stairs. “I thought we might take a moment to speak, Hunter.”

Being alone with her was a delight and a danger. “Yes?”

She waited until they reached the second-floor landing to answer. “I’m visiting Miss Sylvie’s later to make arrangements for you and Archer. For the new moon,” she clarified matter-of-factly. “What will you need to ensure your comfort?”

The new moon. Sexual madness wrapped in savagery, and something he’d never endured outside the confines of a cage. A shudder claimed him, and he stepped away from Ophelia, unable to reconcile the clean sweetness of her scent with memories of such unbridled hunger.

It took effort to speak at all, and the words that came were rough and abrupt. “I don’t know. I’ve never found it comfortable before.”

She lowered her voice and closed the distance between them once again. “Satira told me how they found you at Lowe’s compound. Had you—had you always been in that cage?”

“Yes.” Panic closed his throat at the memory. “Even before they changed me. Don’t remember how long.”

Her breath escaped her in a rush, and she closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

Good sense fled as he reached out to touch her cheek, his fingers feeling rough and unworthy against her soft skin. “Life is what it is, Miss Ophelia.”

“It could be a difficult time for you, this new moon.” She caught his hand and held it to her skin. “Will you let me be the one to help you?”

Blood pounded in his ears on its way from his brain to his cock. He was hard in the time it took to ease his hand away, and his voice rasped out, hoarse and rough. “No, ma’am. I don’t figure that’s a good idea.”

She didn’t argue, just lowered her gaze and nodded. “You’ll need
someone
, Hunter. There’s no avoiding that. Is there anything you’d prefer? A—a redhead, perhaps, or…several?”

He damn near choked. It was hard to imagine that his life had once been so easy, so trivial, that such an offer would have eased all his troubles. Now… “A woman I can’t hurt, if there is such a creature.”

“Hurt?” Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Honey, that isn’t what the new moon is about. It’s hunger, yes, but for a partner’s pleasure. Nothing else will satisfy it—certainly not hurting someone.”

“I’m not a usual bloodhound,” he reminded her gently. “I haven’t got much control. Or any real sense at all, when the hungers take me. I’m not right.”

“I don’t believe that.” She swallowed hard. “If you won’t take me, maybe Sylvie will do. She has plenty of experience, with hounds
and
men.”

He couldn’t stand there and politely discuss the woman he was meant to fuck in two weeks’ time, as if it was as harmless a topic of conversation as the weather or the price of grain. “I’ll do as Wilder thinks best. That’s my lot now, is it not?”

“No, actually, it isn’t.”

“It is until I’m trained.” It had to be, if the last three days were any indication of the violence he held inside him.

She took a deep breath, then another. “If you fight this, pretend you don’t need it like you need air, then you
will
hurt someone, Hunter. I just don’t know how to make you understand.”

“I’ll try.” A reckless promise, but he’d do anything to erase that pained look from her eyes. “I’ll think on it, Miss Ophelia. I promise.”

“That’s all I can ask.” She turned toward the staircase once again, but stopped. “Bear it in mind, what I said. What I offered.” Light footsteps carried her down the stairs.

Exhaustion and fear carried him to his suite, and remained his companions as he undressed and set about finding clean clothing. Bearing her offer in mind would be no hardship. The difficulty would be wiping it from his thoughts.

A year ago, he would have accepted it in a heartbeat. He’d accepted offers like it—dozens of them, spending coin on the most expensive women money could buy and enjoying their pleasures like he enjoyed everything—recklessly and foolishly.

That man was gone. Matthew Underwood, heir to a banker’s fortune, had died in a cage in the Deadlands. Died, along with every scrap of civilization and every hint of self-control he’d had in him, and those scraps and hints had been dear enough to begin with.

There was no going back. He was a monster now. A hunter, just as Nathaniel had named him.

She couldn’t become his prey.

Chapter Two

Ophelia sat on the sofa, her ankles crossed beneath her skirt and her hands folded primly in her lap as she waited for one of her oldest friends to enter the parlor.

Sylvie always made an entrance, and now was no exception. The tall brunette swept through the open doors, her silk robe sheer enough to show off a sapphire corset that had no doubt been imported from France at great expense.

She also held a bottle in each hand. “Bourbon or whiskey, love?”

“At ten o’clock in the morning?” Ophelia smiled as she shook her head. “No, thank you.”

Sylvie pouted as she settled on the opposite couch. “So proper. Brandy, perhaps? Or shall I have someone bring you tea?”

“I’m fine. I only came by to ask whether Ivy will be available to entertain Archer during the next new moon,” she explained. “I believe his preference is that she bring a friend. Or two.”

“You know I always welcome bloodhounds.” A purely mercenary grin of pleasure curled the brunette’s lips. “And not just because they’re enchantingly vigorous. The state the books were in when I inherited this place… I tell you, Ophelia, Old Miss Molly barely had two pennies to rub together. I need all the credits with the Bloodhound Guild I can get.”

The words gave Ophelia the courage to forge ahead. “What about a personal assignation? A new hound?”

“So the rumors are true, are they?” Sylvie leaned forward, eyes alight with curiosity. “You know the town’s been talking. The old hound dies, and three young, strong men replace him?”

“The rumors aren’t unfounded,” Ophelia admitted, “though the Guild isn’t happy about it. Hunter was made without their sanction or control.”

“Truly?” Clearly Sylvie thought the confirmation worthy of celebration, because she uncorked one bottle and took a healthy swig. “I thought the official word from the Guild is that no such thing is possible. Can you imagine the panic if
that
little bit of news got around?”

“I don’t really want to.” Nor did she want to imagine what the Guild would do if they discovered Nathaniel hadn’t died in the Deadlands, after all.

“Well.” Sitting back, her friend spread one arm across the back of her couch. “A new hound, one without a lick of training? How many new moons has he seen?”

Ophelia closed her eyes against a painful stab of sympathy. “I don’t know, exactly, but I could find out. What I do know is that he’s spent them alone. Caged.”

The crystal stopper slipped from Sylvie’s fingers to thump harmlessly on the soft cushion. “Oh, Ophelia. Is he—is he
sane
?”

“
Yes
,” she said firmly. “He’s going to be fine. But I know he’s frightened of what this cycle will bring. I got the feeling he’d rather be locked up at the manor than come here or
anywhere
, but he doesn’t have that luxury.” Another month of deprivation could steal whatever chance he had left.

“No, no.” After another bracing sip from her bottle, Sylvie’s infamous nerves settled into place. “Of course I’ll see to him. You know I’ve seen my share of troubled bloodhounds.”

Ophelia clenched her hands until her knuckles ached. “I know. I would see to him myself, but he—rather rightly—believes it could be an unnecessary complication in our usual relationship.”

Both of Sylvie’s perfectly shaped brows swept up. “Is your relationship complicated?”

“I’m the house manager.” Ophelia shrugged. “Making sex a part of that could be a complication, yes. Especially this kind of sex.”

Sylvie stared at her.

Ophelia had to answer the unasked question in her friend’s eyes. “You know better, Sylvie. If Hunter and I were involved, I couldn’t send him here to you. He wouldn’t come.”

“No, I suppose he wouldn’t.” A nod. “I’ll take care of him. And have Ivy find a few adventurous girls to help her keep the other one occupied.”

“Thanks. I mean it.”

“Of course, love. I owe you everything, do I not?” Sylvie waved her arm, the silk sleeve of her robe rippling as her gesture took in the brothel beyond. “Your loan gave me my freedom. I wouldn’t have been suited to an early retirement.”

No, she wouldn’t. “You don’t have to twiddle your thumbs. You could get married. Things out here aren’t like back East, Sylvie. A lonely rancher mightn’t care what you used to do.”

“Or what I used to bed?” Her laugh held an edge, self-deprecation and desperation. “This is who I am, my dear. Drunk before getting dressed. You were always more suited to a gentle life than I was. I like money, and I don’t mind looking after the girls. At least I’ll do right by them, even if half of them don’t have the wits to lace a corset straight.”

Meaning they needed to be taken care of. Regardless of what people liked to think, a savvy woman could make her way in a frontier settlement or a big city, but the ones who weren’t so capable often quickly found themselves at the mercy of the strong—or unscrupulous. “They’re lucky to have you.”

Sylvie looked away. “I’m no saint. I’ll get rich on them, same as old Molly should have done. But look at you—a month out of the trade, and you’re already turning romantic. What are those hounds doing to you?”

“Nothing.” Ophelia cursed the blush that rose in her cheeks. “It’s—I forgot what it was like, Sylvie. Being in a place where people want and expect such different things from you. I’m starting to think it isn’t right for any of us to live our whole lives never being with a man who didn’t pay to have us.”

“Perhaps not. But what are the alternatives? Either they pay for sex, or we pay for security by having sex. I’m on my back either way, but at least my house is my own.”

“True.” For most of them, sex would always be a transaction of one sort or another, and her musings were indulgent, to say the least. “I’m thinking of leaving Iron Creek.”

That brought Sylvie’s head up fast enough to make the woman wobble tipsily. “You’re what?”

“There are plenty of places for an independent woman of means to settle.” Places where she hadn’t recently plied her trade.

Sylvie’s eyes narrowed, and even liquor couldn’t dull the shrewd edge. “Not so much of a change, is it? You’re still spending your days seeing to everyone else’s needs, but now they’re not so simply satisfied as a man who needs a good ride.”

“It’s exhausting in an entirely different way,” she admitted. “Sometimes it’s like I have five children.”

“Yes, I understand the feeling.” Rising, Sylvie deposited her liquor bottles on the low table and moved to her desk. “If you need money, I’m steady enough to start repaying what you lent me. And if you need a replacement, I have one or two girls who might be more suited to playing mother than they are to being lovers.”

“It would be a while. I have some things to do first.” Like arrange the estate so a stranger could run it, and make sure Satira wouldn’t worry herself to death over Nate.