Hunter's Prey: Bloodhounds, Book 2 (8 page)

“Obviously beyond control, if you can’t even remember how you climbed on top of her.”

Fragments of memory came to him in a jumble. Exploding out of the bathroom to kiss her. Pulling at her hair as she took him in her mouth. Her body under his, sweet and soft, even when he rode her hard. “How much should I remember?”

“Your first new moon out of a cage?” Wilder shook his head. “Not much, I’d wager. Why don’t you believe her? Ophelia’s had hounds before.”

Rage. Blind, blood-pounding fury. Wood snapped as pain shot through him, and Hunter stared at the detached arm of his chair for several confused moments before he realized he’d torn it free without meaning to. “Oh, hell. This can’t keep happening.”

“No, it cannot.” The senior hound sat back with a sigh. “So. You’ve taken a mate.”

The words chilled him. “Then I need to untake her, because I didn’t give her much choice in the matter, and she doesn’t want to look at me.”

Wilder shook his head. “Sorry, but that’s not how it works. Not remotely.”

The temptation to smash the arm of the chair into the wall just to hear something shatter almost overwhelmed him. Hunter let it drop to the floor and took a deep breath. “Then how does it work?”

Wilder rose and rounded the desk to sit on the edge of it. “You find a way, that’s how. You give her flowers or pretty words or whatever she wants, because you’ll be hurting without her.”

His blind panic receded a little. “You think I should court her?”

“Doesn’t that seem the simplest route of action?”

Perhaps. If she wasn’t terrified or disgusted, if she hadn’t come to him out of responsibility or pity or loyalty. If only he could trust the fractured memories, that other part of him whispering in smug satisfaction that they’d pleased her well and thoroughly.

Maybe he had. Or maybe it was a kind lie she’d given him, one he needed to believe. “Do you remember what happens?”

Wilder seemed to consider that. “Mostly. Sometimes it’s a blur, though, and I only remember later.”

Not something any woman would want to hear. How could he tell her he didn’t remember without making it seem as if she hadn’t mattered? How could he court her without admitting to the gaps in his memory? “Maybe I’ll remember, after a day or two.”

“Like as not, you will,” Wilder agreed. “In the meantime, try not to punish yourself too much. I know Ophelia, and she’s a practical woman, above all else.”

Hunter wasn’t sure what comfort he was meant to take from that. “Practical about what?”

“About what it means to bed a hound. You didn’t shock her.”

There was that anger again. The pain at the idea of another bloodhound putting his hands on her. “I don’t even know if I shocked myself, so I don’t really see how
you
could know what I did and who was shocked.”

Wilder rolled his eyes. “You’re not the first cowboy at the rodeo, kid. I know you think your situation is unique, but
hellfire
. If she can still walk on her own and didn’t crack your skull with a flatiron to get you off her, you did all right.”

Hunter stared at him. Stared long past the point where the words had sunk in, stared until hysterical, relieved laughter rumbled up through his chest and escaped as one barked laugh. “You’re telling me to man up?”

But Wilder didn’t smile. “I’m telling you Ophelia doesn’t deserve to have you make her feel bad about the last few days.”

That doused his humor, drowned it with the reminder that he’d already hurt her once with his fear and again with his lack of memory. “I understand.”

“Good. Now get out.”

Hunter blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Wilder nodded to the door. “Go make yourself useful. Check on Nate again, and it wouldn’t hurt to turn a little of your attention Ophelia’s way.”

Since Wilder seemed uninterested in further conversation, Hunter rose and stepped over the discarded chair leg. He’d probably have to find someone to fix the damn thing, or learn how to fix it himself.

One more item to add to the list of broken things to be mended.

Ophelia had no idea how long it took to dispense with her duties. She checked on the staff, on Nate, and made sure their supplies would hold out for another day without shopping. Then she climbed the stairs, locked herself in her room and slid into the tub.

A few minutes later, a quiet knock shook the door. “Ophelia? Can I come in?”

She groaned and slipped deeper in the steaming water.

The door rattled this time, and Satira’s voice lifted. “I’m not going to go away until I see that you’re all right. Nate told me everything.”

He hadn’t said anything, but of course he’d known. His senses were as sharp as any hound’s or vampire’s. Ophelia raised her voice. “I’m fine.”

“I’m still coming in.” Satira cursed as the doorknob rattled again. Then metal scraped against metal, and the lock gave with a soft
pop
. Her friend slipped into the bedroom and closed the door with a thud. “Nate says Hunter hurt you.”

“Bullshit.” Water cascaded over the edge of the tub as Ophelia straightened. “He didn’t
hurt
me, for Christ’s sake. I’m not new. I’ve done this before.”

Satira twisted, locked the door and crossed the bedroom to stand in the open door of the washroom. Her gaze drifted over Ophelia’s neck and shoulders, then snapped up to meet hers. “Well, he wasn’t feeling subtle, was he?”

“I don’t look any worse than you.” Which wasn’t precisely true. Hunter had marked her over and over, almost desperately, as if each mark meant she belonged to him that much more.

“You look how I looked the first time,” Satira corrected, perching on the edge of the tub. “Of course, I didn’t know enough at that point to realize what it meant. How he felt about me.”

Ophelia swallowed a grumble and brushed her damp hair out of her eyes. “Hunter made a scene at Sylvie’s. Locked himself in the bathroom and wouldn’t come out until I arrived.”

“Oh dear.” Satira smoothed a hand over Ophelia’s head with a sigh. “Is that…? Well, it must be rare. I’ve never heard of it happening, but I don’t know as much about bloodhounds as you do.”

“It doesn’t happen often.” For need and opportunity to converge so perfectly… “He’s chosen me, and I don’t know if he realizes it.”

Satira’s fingers hesitated. “Chosen you…permanently?”

Ophelia covered her eyes with wet hands and struggled to hold back a hysterical laugh. “If I denied him now, it could kill him. And that’s what he’ll tell himself, Tira, that I have no choice. That I’d take him even if I wanted to get away, just to spare him pain.”

“Oh, Ophelia.” Satira wrapped her arm around Ophelia’s shoulders in an unsteady hug. “Come on. Come out of the tub before I fall in there with you. We can talk and figure out what to do.”

She tried to steady herself by dragging in a harsh breath, but it only intensified her panic. “There isn’t anything to do. You don’t understand. You didn’t
see
him. He’ll leave.”

“Shh, darling.” Satira disappeared into the bedroom only to return with a soft, plush robe. “Here, climb out. You need to have a good cry or a good scream.”

Ophelia had tracked water all over the floor, but she didn’t care. She let Satira wrap the robe around her and guide her into the bedroom. “I want to cry
and
scream. It was my only option, and now he’ll never believe I wanted him.”

Satira made a soothing noise as she coaxed her to sit, then fetched a comb from the vanity. “If there’s one thing I know about bloodhounds, it’s that they’re all crippled by ego. It’s a tangle now, but it might be easier than you think to convince him he’s devastating and irresistible.”

Ophelia stared into the mirror, at the dark circles under her eyes and the ravaged skin of her throat and shoulders. “I would tend to agree, except I don’t think that will work with Hunter. He’s so horrified that this happened, and so angry at himself for what he’s become.”

“Hmm.” Satira drew the comb carefully through Ophelia’s hair, her brows furrowed with the sort of intense concentration she usually turned to her work. “I suppose I don’t know who or what he was before the vampires took him. Perhaps someone accustomed to proper women?”

Matthew.
His name. She knew precious little more than that. He had manners, as uncomfortable as they seemed for him now, and he behaved as though he’d had money. But not even instinct could have accounted for some of the things he’d done, the ways he’d known to touch her.

“I think he was mostly a proper sort of man,” Ophelia murmured with a blush, “but certainly not accustomed to proper women.”

“Oh.” Satira ducked her head. “Well, then. It could be he needs a bit of time to get his head on straight. And if he doesn’t, maybe one of us can smack it into place.”

She smothered another laugh. “Somehow, I think he’d welcome it.”

“Oh, would he?” Leaning against Ophelia’s back, Satira wrapped her in a hug. “We could always ask Archer to punch him a few times, if it would make him feel better. Archer would enjoy it as well.”

“
Too
much, all things considered.”

“And you don’t enjoy watching them fight with each other? Just a little?” Satira straightened with a gentle wince. “On second thought, perhaps wait until I can properly appreciate it. I might sleep the rest of the day.”

“Caroline is making a late breakfast and early supper. We’ll all rest soundly tonight, I suppose.”

It didn’t take long for Satira to twist Ophelia’s hair into a loose braid. Then she held out a hand. “Can I stretch out with you for a little while? Wilder won’t settle until he sees to the messages that came in while we were away. But if you’d rather be alone…”

“No, it’s all right.” Ophelia grasped Satira’s hand. “Thank you for listening.”

Satira made a dismissive noise as she kicked off her shoes. She flopped on the bed with a soft sigh and shoved up the sleeves of her shirt—one that had to have come from Wilder’s closet. “How did our lives change so quickly?”

“Bloodhounds, that’s how.” Ophelia had never expected to retire from prostitution only to find herself taking care of a handful of hounds, and she’d certainly never dreamed she’d form such an instant attraction to one of them.

“They do tend to complicate things, don’t they?” Satira curled on her side and tucked a hand under her chin. “Ophelia, if I ask you a question, will you answer honestly?”

“If you have to ask me that, you know the answer will be ‘maybe, maybe not’.”

Her friend frowned. “I want you to answer honestly, even if you don’t think it’s the answer I’ll want to hear.”

Ophelia rolled to her side and propped her head on her arm. “Very well. I promise to tell you the truth.”

“Are you terribly unhappy, managing the household for us?”

Damn.
She hesitated. “It isn’t how I pictured spending my retirement, I’ll admit.”

Sometimes Satira looked on the world with eyes that were old before their time. And sometimes she looked as she did now, like a young woman who cared for those around her with the reckless commitment of one who’d never been truly hurt. “I was selfish, to try to push you into retiring at all. I worried about you all the time.”

“As well you should have,” Ophelia admonished. “It wasn’t an easy life, even at its most luxurious. But I don’t need this job as an excuse, or to occupy myself. I have money.”

Satira’s hand crept across the comforter to brush Ophelia’s. “You could stay, you know, even if you found another housekeeper to manage the place. Stay for Hunter, or stay for me. You don’t need to work to have a place here. You’re my family.”

Relief, sudden and complete, and it found release on a sob. “A boarder. Every good estate needs one.”

“Oh heavens, Ophelia, don’t cry—” Satira squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry. I wanted to make you feel better.”

“It does, I swear.” She swiped at her eyes and smiled. “I’m tired of going to the butcher’s shop every other day. How do they
eat
so much?”

“There are three of them. Hell, four of them, since Nate eats meat when he’s not eating Hunter.” Satira wrinkled her nose. “Oh dear. That sounded less…illicit before I said it.”

It felt good to laugh so hard her aching muscles protested. Ophelia collapsed to the bed and gave in to her fit of giggles.

Chapter Seven

After three days without fresh blood, Nathaniel wasn’t gentle.

Hunter ground his teeth together and stared at the shelves behind the other man. Letting the half-vampire sink fangs into his wrist was hardly pleasant, but Hunter could handle pain. What he couldn’t abide was the memory of vampires stealing into his cage to drink from his throat while he lay chained against the wall.

The best times—the rare times—were when they’d let him suffer. Animal cunning had taught him to thrash and howl, to fake fear like a mindless beast. They liked hurting him when it made him squirm, and he liked hurting when the alternative was sick pleasure, a vampire’s magic winding through his body to make him hard and hungry.

Nate let it hurt, thank the Lord, and Hunter gritted his teeth and endured in silence.

Finally, Nate lifted his head with a short laugh, his teeth dripping and his lips glazed with blood. “Silence. There’s nothing silent about what you did. You ignored the handshake, the deal made.”

“Blood makes you less coherent than the town drunk.” Hunter pulled his arm back and clamped his hand over his wrist. “And didn’t we have a talk about that telepathy shit? Keep out of my head.”

“Not yours.” Nate swiped his sleeve across his mouth and closed his eyes as he tilted back his head. “I can hear them all if I stay very, very still. Everyone upstairs.”

There were times when the man in front of him resonated with something familiar. Bloodhound, or something close to it. At the moment, he was all vampire. “Don’t imagine they care for it any more than I do.”

“Perhaps.” He spun away, his gaze darting to and fro, as if searching for something. “And perhaps no one else has quite as many things to hide, hmm? Even Archer doesn’t flinch from the mirror. But you…” He laughed again. “Shattered. A million tiny pieces, and no more you.”

This was why he never let Satira accompany him while Nate drank. In time, the man would settle again. But if Satira saw her beloved guardian like this, wild-eyed and crazed, babbling nonsense…