by Лори Девоти
Lusse’d laid out a test for him and he’d failed.
The boy was just insurance, but even that part of her plan had fallen short.
Not only had Risk not returned with the young witch, he’d allowed another hellhound to step into his territory and survive. It was unthinkable.
She threw the lipstick down. The open cosmetic rolled across the marble before thunking onto the white carpet below.
Risk should be here, finally embracing his darkest side. Finally ready to lead Lusse’s hounds in more than name only. With Risk as pack leader, willingly following her, she would be unstoppable.
Lusse gripped the sides of the server and stared into the mirror at her reflection. The months she’d spent training him, molding him. It couldn’t have been wasted. She had been sure he was ready. No, something was keeping him, and when she found out what it was, she would destroy it and any bit of humanity left in her favorite.
The smell of blood drew her attention back to the room. The boy stumbled in, barely moving faster than Bader who followed behind, his gaze on the floor.
“I see what you mean.” She smiled, admiring Risk’s work. The neck of the young man in front of her was thick with dried blood. “No real damage?” She stepped forward, running a finger along one particularly deep cut.
Bader’s head gave a slight shake. “You know hellhounds—”
“Near impossible to kill. Yes, I know.” She folded her arms over her chest, and studied the other man’s face. So handsome, with his blue eyes and ginger hair. And his physique showed promise, too. Broad shoulders, long muscular legs. But, all in all, he was still nothing compared to Risk.
“What happened?” she asked.
Eyes, void of emotion, stared back at her. “He won.”
She tapped a finger against her arm. Hellhounds were such a pain to break. Although there was a certain amount of joy in the act. She motioned for Bader to retrieve her favorite toy.
Eyes darting, Bader scurried to the silver-strapped chest she kept stuffed with items guaranteed to brighten an otherwise dull day. He flipped the lid up, then hovered above the open chest as if lost.
“The whip,” she ordered, then looking back at Venge, added, “…the special one.”
A tremor shook Bader’s back.
“Now,” she demanded, narrowing her eyes at her servant. Really, he was becoming tiresome, but lucky for him, she had bigger concerns today.
Nodding and mumbling to himself, he crept forward, the cat-o’-nine-tails balanced over his upturned palms.
Finally. She snatched the leather toy from his hands.
“Now, Venge, what did you say happened?” She let the black tails of the whip trail through her fingers.
His gaze didn’t waver. “He won,” he repeated.
Damn hellhound pride. They never learned. She snapped the whip, the tails sparking yellow as they struck together.
Venge’s eyes widened just enough.
He knew what was coming.
Tingles of pleasure danced through Lusse’s center. “There’s no shame in giving in. Your father has often enough.”
It was a lie, of course.
She slid closer, the whip whispering to her, begging for the feel of flesh against its tips.
“Are you protecting him?” she murmured, her lips brushing against the young man’s ear, her tongue darting inside. “He wouldn’t do the same for you, would he?”
Venge’s eyes flashed in response, but his lips stayed firmly closed.
“Ah, why must it always come to this?” With a smile she raised her arm, adrenaline surging through her. Pain. Sweet, sweet pain. Without it life would be so dull.
Sated, Lusse fell against the fur cushion of her chaise longue. Her arm and shoulder were tired, but in oh, such a satisfying way. Smiling, she allowed one of her female servants to knead oils into her overtaxed muscles with smooth steady strokes.
Venge had exhibited the same tenacity as his father. Rewarding, but also a problem. She was no closer to learning what had happened to her favorite.
Hours had passed. Something had to have gone wrong. With Risk or the plan? A line formed between her brows. Lusse had been sure he was ready and she so hated to be wrong, but she couldn’t think of anyone with the exception of a very select group of gods, and herself, of course, who could touch Risk.
“Bader,” she yelled.
He looked up from where he knelt, a bloodstained cloth clutched to his chest.
“Leave that.” She waved her hand in the air. “Let one of the others tend to it.” Why the old servant was so fixated on cleaning up every little drop of blood as soon as it was spilled was beyond her. She rather enjoyed the scent herself.
“Bring the horn. I think it’s time we called Risk home.”
His eyes darting from side to side, Bader gave a slight bow and scurried from the room.
Her hands fisted at her sides, Kara watched as her captor spun away. His fingers, just seconds before wrapped into her hair, now gripped the silver chain at his neck. The firm muscles of his back tensed as if engaged in some kind of internal disagreement.
Now would be a good time to escape, but how? Keeping her body immobile, her breath soft and steady, she let her gaze flit around the room. There was a small window over the kitchen sink, but unless she quickly developed the ability to fly, there was no way she could reach it before the man in front of her realized her plan.
Her cell phone — where was it? Not in her clothes, that was for sure. She would have felt the weight of it when she’d dressed. Probably still lying on the cold asphalt outside the Guardian’s Keep. She tilted her head back, letting it bang softly against the wood.
What good was conquering your fears if it didn’t help save you from reality?
A sudden wave of heat swept over her. She leveled her gaze to see her captor had settled whatever battle he had been waging and again stood facing her.
Every muscle in his body was tense, like an animal ready to spring. A vein in his neck pulsed a steady primitive beat. Even his wound seemed darker, angry. His eyes focused on her as if looking for any sign of movement.
No place to run. No way to defend herself. What was left? Words. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had. All she had ever been very good at wielding.
Biting her lip, she looked up.
His eyes flickered back at her.
3
Kara pressed her palms flat against the door behind her, unable to remove her eyes from those of the man in front of her. Unblinking, he stood there, his pupils barely visible in the surrounding glow, like a pebble tossed into a pool of molten lava. Instinctively she knew when that pebble sank all hope of saving herself would be lost.
Drugs? Some virus? Whatever was causing this strange condition didn’t matter. She had to bring him back from whatever hell he was descending into.
Feeling unreal, as if she were watching the scene from within someone else’s body, she asked, “You feeling all right? You want me to call someone?”
Muscles still tensed, the man took a deliberate step toward her. “Who are you?” The question fell from firm lips that barely seemed to move.
Kara swallowed. A name. He wanted a name. That was simple, normal. She could supply that. She clung to the feel of the hard wood door behind her to keep her centered. “Kara. Kara Shane.”
He held out his hand, brushing the backs of his fingers against her cheek. “What are you?” he asked.
At the simple gesture, a tingle of awareness rippled through Kara. Refusing to acknowledge it, she concentrated on his question.
What was she? Fair enough. Hadn’t she been asking herself the same thing for as long as she could remember? Her throat closed in, making it hard to answer. “Poet, baker, candlestick maker. That’s me.” She pressed a hand to her neck willing the muscles to relax.
The man in front of her seemed to vibrate with a raw sexual energy, and her own body, ignoring the screams of her rational brain, pulsed in response. Everything was u
nreal, surreal. Her hand stole out toward him, wanting to touch his chest, check to see if his skin was warm or hot like the simmering in his eyes.
He made a small movement as if to move closer and she stopped, her hand frozen in midair. This was unreal. It had to be.
Grasping at the moment of reason before it slipped away, she closed her eyes and willed the nightmare she was captured in to dissolve, focused on waking as she had so many times before, alone and terrified, but safe in her bed.
“Poet?”
The soft questioning word caused her eyelids to fly open. He was still there. Still tense, and still emitting a strange energy that made her heart quicken and her breath turn to small shallow puffs in her chest. “Yes, poet.” Her voice seemed loud in the quiet room. Suddenly annoyed with his response, she dropped her hand to her side and continued. “There’s nothing wrong with poetry, you know. We can’t all rape, plunder and pillage for a hobby.”
Her captor froze, the carmine-tint of his eyes deepening to a dark burgundy. “I do not rape.”
“Oh, sorry. Just the pillaging then? My mistake.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glowered back at him, all the fear inside her draining away, leaving just an exhausted shell of resentment. How dare he bring her here, strip her naked, and then question her, as if she were the guilty party?
He looked back at her, a furrow of doubt, perhaps even sadness, etched between his eyes.
And despite all rational thought, she felt it again — the tug toward him, but this time it was less sexual and more kindred, a recognition of pain and a desire to alleviate it. Suddenly calm, she blinked. His eyes, now a swirl of green, gray and brown, not a single dash of red, seemed to hold as much confusion as she felt.
Swallowing hard, she forged on. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Risk.” The name came out in a low growl.
Strangely, Kara didn’t feel intimidated, though, more…intrigued.
“Strange name. You’re what? A rock star?” Her tone was dry, the question brazen, the type of thing Kelly would have asked.
Kelly. Her gaze dropped to the paper at her feet.
“What’s that?” Bending his knees, the man slid down to retrieve the flyer, his body brushing hers as he did.
Kara reached out to snatch it away.
“Patience, please.” A frown settled on his face as he studied the paper, his body now close enough Kara could smell his warm masculine scent. She shifted her stance, long-neglected muscles at the apex of her thighs tightening.
Keeping her gaze steady, she ignored the quickening of her heart and the dampness forming in her too-tight jeans.
“I thought you said your name was Kara?” He held out the flyer; a picture of Kelly dressed for kickboxing stared back at them.
“I did.” She reached for the paper again, but he simply slid closer, his arm extended over her head, less than an inch separating them now.
“Then this is…?”
He was too close. His chest brushed her breasts, and his breath moved her hair as he lowered his face back toward her neck.
“Then this is…?” he whispered against her ear.
A shiver darted up her spine. “My sister,” she replied, the words coming out rough and sharp.
He pulled back far enough to look her in the eyes, his own gaze intense. “You’re a twin? An identical twin?”
Kara pressed her sweat-dampened palms against her jeans, and tried to ignore the rapid beat of her heart. Afraid or excited? She’d lost track of her own emotions. Did it matter? However he affected her, she had to escape. She had to act strong. “That’s right. Wouldn’t want to break up a pair, would you?” Another very Kelly-ish question.
He stepped back until there were a few feet separating them. “A pair,” he murmured. “Is it possible?” He stared at her again, his gaze wandering from her still bare feet to the top of her head. Kara felt another ripple of awareness, but when his gaze snapped back to her face, his eyes held nothing but cool analysis.
He turned again, striding toward the door at the back of the room.
Kara frowned at his dismissal. “What about me?”
He paused, placing his hand on the door frame in front of him, then slowly pushed himself back around to face her. “Yes, what about you?”
His gaze pierced her, pinning her to the door. Regretting the impulsive question that drew his attention back to her, Kara clamped her teeth onto her lower lip.
“She’s lost?” He held the flyer toward her.
Kara nodded, her reply barely more than a whisper. “For a week.”
“Not dead?”
The word sounded harsh, callous. Kara’s chin jerked upward and she shook her head with a short definite motion. No, Kelly wasn’t dead. She didn’t know where she was, but she was alive — Kara could feel her.
“Can you find her?” he asked.
Kara blinked back the dampness that threatened to form in her eyes. “I…haven’t.”
“Maybe…” he folded the flyer up and shoved it into the front pocket of his jeans “…you haven’t been looking in the right places.”
Kara took a step forward, a seed of hope fluttering to life in her chest. “You mean, you’ll help? You’ll help me try to find Kelly?”
“No.” Not bothering to give her another glance, he disappeared behind the door.
The blood drained from Kara’s face, and her knees bent beneath her. Retreating before she sagged to the floor, she rested her head against the wood door. What was she thinking? Why would he help her, and why would she want him to? She didn’t even know him.
Her tormentor emerged from the back room, a flannel shirt in his hand. He shoved his arms into the sleeves and began sliding buttons into place. Even disheartened by his refusal, her traitorous gaze zeroed in on the disappearing muscles of his chest.
He rolled up his sleeves, leaving his toned forearms bare.
“I won’t try.”
Kara rolled her eyes to the ceiling, counting the log beams to keep from screaming her frustration. She was pathetic, leaping at the first hint someone might help her, and now what? He was going to lord her idiocy over her?
“I will find her.”
Kara’s gaze dropped to see him spin on one bare heel and stride into the kitchen.
Risk finished placing the last platter on the table and nodded for Kara to join him. She hesitated, hands gripping the top of her chair, anxiety wafting off her like mist off the sea.
“You eat like this all the time?” Her gaze darted over the plates of meat arranged on the table’s top.
“Not all the time.” When he was on a hunt he didn’t eat at all. He could go days, even weeks without eating, but when he was preparing for a hunt, like now, he ate and he ate well.
And that was what he intended to do right now. Let the female fend for herself. Giving her one last impatient glance, he pulled out a chair and sat down.
“You have anything less…red?” she asked, a crack in her voice.
He frowned. “It’s cooked.”
“Barely,” she mumbled. Then, gesturing toward the refrigerator, she continued, “No, I mean like something green or yellow. You know, fruits, vegetables?”
Picking up a fork, he speared a slice of venison. “Prey eats plants.”
The mist of emotion around her thickened to a cloud. Cursing silently, he lay down his fork, the venison still on it. “Eat,” he commanded.
Something flickered in her eyes — not her power — fear; the scent hit him squarely in the face. Damn. Gripping the edge of the table, he fought the need to press her against the wall; to bury his nose in her hair; to control, dominate and conquer.
Why was the urge so strong? Fear and anger always pulled at him, but he had learned to manage his reaction. But with this bit of a witch, the tug on him was more intense than any he had ever experienced. Heat glowed to life behind his eyes and his nostrils flared. He dropped his gaze to the tabletop. He had to get her calmed down.
Taking a
deep breath, he willed his body to relax then looked up, his teeth bared in what he hoped was a nonintimidating manner. “There might be bread and peanut butter.” He pointed to a drawer near the sink.
Chewing on her lower lip, she nodded.
With her facing the refrigerator, he studied her. She was attractive enough for a witch — small, rounded buttocks, legs long for her height, and hair with just enough curl to tempt his fingers to weave deep into its depths. His cock twitched at the thought. Disturbed by his body’s betrayal, he adjusted on the hard chair.
He had to focus on the hunt. If the tales of twin witches were true, Kara and her sister could be invaluable to him. Perhaps even powerful enough to free him from Lusse forever. But if he hoped to find her sister and use their magic to break Lusse’s hold, he couldn’t be getting sidetracked every few minutes by the alluring scent of her overactive emotions or the equally alluring sight of her rounded buttocks.
He had to get her calm and himself focused. Concentrate on the need to find the missing sister not the desire to take this one.
He avoided looking at her again until she had returned, a loaf of sourdough bread in her hand. “You want some?” she asked.
Risk stared at the white slice in front of him. He mainly kept bread to lure animals to his traps. He glanced up at her heart-shaped face. The scent of fear had faded again, but anxiety still clung to her.
She watched him, eyes huge, the hand holding the bread quavering ever so slightly.
Have to keep her calm. Brows lowered, he took the bread.
A breath he hadn’t realized she was holding escaped her lips in a huff. Then pulling out the chair across from him, she collapsed on the seat.
“So, you’re really going to help me find my sister?” she murmured, the slice of bread pressed to her lips.
His gaze on his plate, he nodded.
She stuck a knife into the jar and spread a slow zigzag of peanut butter onto the bread. “How…” Her lower lip disappeared in her mouth again. “How do I know I can trust you?”
