Stalker (The Hunt Book 3)

by Liz Meldon

  “Naturally,” he murmured, though his tone lacked the easy charm, the teasing edge, that she had come to expect. His gaze dipped to her lips once more, briefly, before he released her and started off down the stairs. Moira watched him go with a frown; he wasn’t exactly running, but clearly he needed to leave. Shaking her head, she darted back to where they had been sitting earlier and grabbed his sketchbook, then jogged after him. Down the stairs she skipped, her feet hammering the metal noisily, announcing her arrival as Severus’s pace slowed.

  Grinning as soon as the idea popped into her head, Moira suddenly moved faster—not stopping until she was practically on top of him, and by then, she jumped. Severus staggered down a few steps when she landed on his back, arms coiling around him, legs locking into place.

  “Cheeky minx,” he growled once he steadied himself, his smile glorious. He adjusted her on his back, making it more comfortable for both of them with his hands tucked snugly under her knees. She hung his sketchbook in front of them, her pointer fingers wedged into the spiral binding at the side. When she caught him looking at her, nothing more than a slight glance to the side, Moira swooped down and kissed his cheek.

  He stopped suddenly, standing there at the bottom of the stairs, the expanse of the stadium field before them. She had only meant for it to be a quick kiss, something sweet—something to express how happy she was with his decision. But he had stopped. And so had she, her lips lingering against his cheek. His scruff snagged against her, sharp and angry from his recent shave. She glanced up tentatively and found his eyes black again, his breath hard and uneven.

  She murmured his name against his skin, then kissed his cheek again, quickly this time. “Thank you.”

  Eyes closed, he took a moment to compose himself. When he opened them again, the black had disappeared, and he reached up to grasp the back of her head, fingers digging into the fabric of her wool cap.

  “You’re welcome,” he offered thickly, turning his head toward her, their lips but a breath apart. Moira gulped, then kissed the tip of his nose instead, retracting with a shrill giggle when he snapped his teeth at her. Severus’s chuckles intermingled with her laughter, and he readjusted her on his back again before carrying her down to the car—the air infinitely lighter between them.

  And a trip to Hell ahead.

  Chapter Five

  “I’m genuinely impressed with how many clothes you’ve managed to fit in that bag,” Moira said from the head of his bed. Severus glanced up, grinning at the sight of her sitting there, knees drawn up to her chest, his duvet cover with them. Outside, a late-spring storm ravaged Farrow’s Hollow, thick, heavy raindrops pelting his skylight, thunder booming from the roof to the foundations of their home.

  “Well, this isn’t my first trip to Hell,” he told her, fighting the urge to sneer the words—because he wasn’t upset with her. Just the circumstances. And Moira didn’t deserve his bark or his bite because of their circumstances. “You need a little bit of everything, but carrying luggage through check-in is rather frustrating. One bag will do. I don’t intend for us to be there long.”

  She nodded, staring at his bag and nibbling absently at her lower lip, her finger swiping up her phone screen. Her Facebook timeline whizzed by, full of people he knew she didn’t talk to anymore, photos of ordinary humans who were permitted to do ordinary things—while she sat in his house day in and day out, waiting for all this to be over.

  “Are you sure I need a winter coat?” Her voice was distant, distracted, nerves bubbling to the surface for the first time all day.

  “Yes. You’ll see what I mean when you get there.” Hell was a realm of weather extremes. Boiling hot in the day, bitterly cold come nightfall. The storm pounding Farrow’s Hollow now was nothing compared to what awaited them below.

  “It’s just bulky,” she muttered. “Takes up a lot of space in my bag.”

  “You’ll be glad you have it, I promise.”

  Again she nodded. She had been doing a lot of that today—nodding, silent and observant. After he had finally conceded to her argument, moved by her little speech about her and him, partners and what have you, Severus had spent the day educating Moira on what to expect in Hell—and doing the best he could not to let personal feelings colour his lectures. Demons were far more savage in Hell, more prone to brutality and heightened emotions. While there were only so many ways to actually kill a demon in Hell, there were thousands of options should you wish to hurt one. Severus knew that. The other demons knew it too—but Moira had no idea what she was walking into.

  He would keep her safe.

  Severus would protect her with his life, should that be his only option.

  As far as he was concerned, as soon as they crossed the hell-gate, she was his responsibility. The only comfort he had was knowing that his inner demon was savagely possessive of her. Once he was his whole self again, he wouldn’t think twice about killing for her. He wouldn’t think twice about anything when it came to Moira.

  In a way, he welcomed that—the shift. On Earth, he fretted over her so relentlessly, weighing every option and rooting out the best course of action. At least in Hell, instinct would guide him. Moira belonged to him down there, and he needn’t weigh any options—he would just do, knowing that his actions, whatever first sprang to mind, would keep her safe.

  “Are you all packed then?” he asked, sighing when she nodded mutely again. “Good. You should try to get some sleep before we go.”

  “I can’t.” Those ethereal blues lifted to him, and he found himself wondering if the magic of the hell-gate would alter them just as it would alter him. “There’s no way I can sleep, Severus.”

  “That’s fair, I suppose.” He had done his best to explain what the check-in procedure would be like once they crossed through the hell-gate, insisting that it was quite similar to the arrivals terminal at an airport. However, he had a suspicion that much of this information had gone in one ear and out the other. As gung ho as Moira had been about tagging along to the underworld, it had become clear as the day wore on that she wasn’t looking forward to it. In fact, if the look on her face right now said anything, she was terrified.

  Terrified, but she would do it all the same.

  Yet another reason why he loved her.

  He had tried to instruct her as best he could on Hell customs and protocols, promising her that while demons were brutes down there, Lucifer ran the realm with an iron fist. There were far more rules in Hell for demons than there were on Earth—Severus had always thought that was the reason so many applied for permission to live topside amongst humanity. Compared to Hell, Earth was like the Wild West for demons; as soon as they were approved, it was all anything goes—within limits.

  Because, well, angels couldn’t exactly let demons run amok, could they?

  Ol’ Lucifer still shared a few traits with his former brethren.

  As Moira had sat with him throughout the day, enduring lecture after lecture, Ella and Alaric had been given a mission of their own. The pair had been sent out to shop for Moira’s trip, as she still only had a handful of her own clothes, and none were suitable for Hell. So, armed with Moira’s credit card, Ella had shopped all day with her best friend’s taste in mind, and Alaric did his best to ensure what was chosen would help her blend in.

  They had returned with mountains of clothing, mostly black, regal, maybe even a little punk, which would suit her just fine. Pants, skirts, dresses, blouses—structured, lacey, billowing, tailored, studded, spiked. Moira was spoiled for choice, and before the incubus had left for his night with five different clients, she, Ella, and Severus had chosen about twelve outfits to carry her through the trip.

  If Severus had belonged to a low-class family, it wouldn’t have mattered. Alas, he would be bringing her home to the head of the Saevitia clan—a clan with centuries of upper-class pedigree and weight behind it. The sprawling estate that had been his childhood home was also the seat of his family’s power, steeped in patriarchal tradit
ion; his father was the eldest-born son, one of six, and therefore led the family in all matters—in the nicest home of the lot, too. What Moira wore would matter, particularly with his mother. How she styled her hair, applied her makeup, and paired her shoes to her outfit would matter.

  It wasn’t the prospect of hunting Diriel that would make this trip a nightmare—it was his fucking family.

  The very thought of how tedious the whole affair was going to be made Severus want to slam his head against a brick wall until he was bloody and numb.

  Naturally, that wasn’t an option. He was to be Moira’s protector and guide through the drudgeries of Hell; she’d need him in top form, alert and observant in all matters. He had taken so many clients this evening to ensure that his strength would last him at least a week. Hell would heighten his senses, but he knew he needed more than that. He needed to be brimming with life essence—and he was.

  Having returned only a half hour earlier, just after midnight, he had practically floated up to his room, passing Moira and Ella in front of the TV on Alaric’s level on his way to take a quick shower. His roommate was working at the bar tonight, Ella had fallen asleep midway through the movie, and Moira had padded upstairs to join him some five minutes ago, her unease palpable.

  “Severus?”

  He picked up a freshly ironed dress shirt, folding it. “Hmm?”

  “Tell me about your family.”

  His jaw clenched, and he set the shirt into its proper place in his large bag. With Moira’s gaze burning a hole straight through him, he straightened with a sigh, then went back to his closet to grab the next item. “Why?”

  “Because you seem to hate them.”

  He offered a cold, dead sort of laugh. “Picked up on that, did you?”

  “And because they’re the only thing you haven’t told me about Hell,” she added after a tense beat passed. “I should know as much as you can tell me.”

  “I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell,” he said tersely, ignoring the tremor in his fingers as he folded a pair of black slacks over his arm, then in half again, and placed them in the bag. “Typical family tragedy, I suppose. Parents didn’t love me. No one respected me.”

  Parents didn’t love me. No one respected me.

  The biggest understatements of the year. His cheek twitched, fully aware that he was playing it all down for her—and perhaps it would be better to be frank.

  But he couldn’t do it.

  And he hated himself for that—for his weakness, still, all these years later.

  “Why?”

  “No one rejoices when they discover they’ve sired an incubus, I’m afraid.” He paused, hands planted on his hips, and glowered down at the neatly packed piece of luggage. “It’s all very dull, Moira.”

  She leaned forward, crawling down the bed until she reached his bag. He would have preferred her to crawl straight to him, those delicately parted lips used for something much more enjoyable than this conversation.

  “I want to know.”

  “It…” He shook his head, glaring up at the skylight now, at the storm raging outside. “It’s not something I enjoy talking about.”

  “Okay.” She sat back on her heels, fiddling with his bag’s zipper. “That’s fine. Forget I asked.”

  “No, no.” Severus closed his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose, then took a resigned seat at the end of the bed. She was right, after all; she ought to know what she was getting into. “Look, to say my parents were disappointed that I hadn’t popped out a chaos demon like my mother and my older brother is an understatement. Incubi are the lowest in demon society—I was an insult from my first breath, especially for a family who had the power and prestige mine did. I’ve always been an embarrassment, a disappointment… I eventually left. If I’d stayed, someone would have wound up dead, and it very likely would have been me.”

  His jaw clenched, and he fought to hold back the tidal wave of memory flooding toward him.

  It all stopped when Moira grabbed his hand. Just a touch, and he was back in the present, staring at her exquisite features as she moved his luggage out of the way and shuffled closer.

  “Sounds awful,” she murmured, curling up at his side, her head nuzzled under his chin. Severus swallowed hard, the inner demon rumbling contentedly within, and watched her collect his hand and place it on her thigh. These last weeks, he had forced himself to ignore what a delightful temptation his little hybrid could be, battling instinct and desire and downright need with everything he had.

  Yet he couldn’t blame her for this—for comforting him. Because it worked. Moira kept the memories at bay, her touch healing him in ways it had never been before. Sighing, he pulled her closer and brushed his lips against her forehead.

  “It was,” he whispered, “terrible. I doubt much will have changed, though I suspect they’ll applaud me for corrupting an angel, hybrid or otherwise.”

  She tipped her face toward him. “Corrupting an angel?”

  “Why else would an angel ever voluntarily go to Hell?” he mused, another lifeless chuckle slipping out. “They must be corrupted.”

  “I’m not corrupted.” She sounded insulted at the idea.

  “No. You’re not.” Severus trailed an open-mouthed kiss from her forehead to the tip of her nose, his smile feeling more genuine at last. “Not even close.”

  “So, okay…” Gripping his shoulders, Moira shuffled about on his lap, not settling until she sat straddling him. Face-to-face. Hers beautiful, determined. His very likely in awe of the exquisite creature who deigned him worthy of straddling. “Just for the sake of preparedness, why don’t you give me the CliffsNotes version of everybody? Basic rundown, so I kind of know what to expect.”

  He pursed his lips, gaze dropping to her pale pink ones. There were a thousand other things he’d rather do to her in that moment than discuss his family, but she sounded so damn earnest—so genuinely interested in knowing him.

  No one had ever wanted to know him before.

  He swallowed hard at the thought, mouth threatening to dip into a frown—until she wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing them closer together, her head cocked to the side.

  “Well,” he started with a heavy sigh, “my father, Ira, is bitter and cruel. I doubt he’ll say more than two words to you until he considers you worthy of his time.”

  Moira nodded. “Okay. Dad’s an ass. Noted.”

  “My mother, Bellona, is a chaos demon,” Severus continued, the woman’s face flashing across his mind—forever pinched with annoyance, but only when it came to Severus. “However, she was demoted to housewife and mother when she married, so I suppose she’s bitter too. Angry. Angry at the world—unless you’re my brother. Her primary interest in you will be figuring out how best she can pick you apart.”

  Moira’s hands slid to his shoulders, then down his chest, fiddling with his shirt buttons. “Sounds like a real treat.”

  “My brother Malachi is one of those lucky bastards born with brains, brawn, and pedigree,” Severus muttered, distracting himself from the sudden rush of anger and anxiety by watching her fingers pluck at his shirt buttons. Long, elegant fingers, rippling with raw power—all she needed to do was learn how to use it. He snatched her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing each fingertip before pressing them over his heart. “My brother is older and stronger than I am. He tormented me when we were children, and he delighted when others did the same. I can guarantee that his interest in you will be primarily carnal—”

  “Ugh.”

  “And when he realizes you’re taken,” Severus growled, yanking her flush against him, his inner demon roaring to life at her surprised squeak, “he’ll leave you be.”

  “Fantastic,” she muttered, their lips no more than a breath apart. Severus bucked beneath her, relishing the gorgeous red that painted her cheeks in response.

  “Yes, they really are a joy,” he grumbled, wincing when his steadily hardening cock nudged against her thigh. If he let t
his carry on for too long, the damn thing would become far too difficult to ignore—and he didn’t want to force that on her. So, he focused on her supple lips, perfect for nipping at, and the inquisitiveness of her gaze, able to both pierce his sordid exterior and warm his broken soul. Severus cleared his throat, his voice thick as he said, “The light of my very existence, even.”

  Huh. Not quite as jovial as he’d hoped to sound. Moira likely saw right through him, so he nuzzled her cheek instead, hoping to distract her. “You sure you still want to go?”

  “Positive,” Moira said, grimly, but without missing a beat. “It’s good to be prepared, even if what I’m preparing for sounds like it will be the literal worst experience of my life…” Her breath hitched. “Excluding, you know, being tortured by a psychopath.”

  Severus hated to think about it, Diriel’s hands on her body, but what he hated more was that she still thought about it—and would for years to come. It wouldn’t help the situation for him to become enraged every time she brought it up, to throw a fit, break something, stomp about snarling. Sure, it would vent his frustrations with the whole thing, unleashing some pent-up rage so it didn’t consume him, but it wouldn’t help Moira. Moira was the one who mattered here. It wasn’t his place to make a scene when the pain truly belonged to her.

  So, he held her. He battled the surge of desire within as she trailed her ever-so-slightly-parted lips across his cheek and exhaled sweetly as she passed his ear. Her arms tightened around his neck, and his hand brushed up her back before threading into the loose white mane fanning out around her. Hugs were healing, she’d once whispered, cradled in his arms after awakening from a nightmare. Severus had merely smiled against her skin, not believing it, but doing his part all the same.

  Yet as they held one another now, listening to the storm outside, he realized the truth of the matter—that he needed a hug, a real embrace, before they departed for Hell in a few hours. To her, it might be healing, but to Severus it was empowering. To feel the weight of another being, to have them lift and protect him, envelop and keep him—it made him feel stronger, somehow.