Hunted: A Claiming Novella (The Claiming)

by T. A. Grey

  “Damn, I missed you,” he said.

  She smiled. He lifted her up, her bare bottom finding the cool wood door, her feet wrapping loosely around his hips. His cock nudged her wet folds. She twitched, ready for him.

  Then everything came to a crashing halt.

  A knock on the door. Penelope jumped. She nearly screamed, so startled was she, but Ryon slapped his hand across her mouth in the nick of time.

  “Who’s there?” The words came out more like, “Oo’s dare?” with Ryon’s hand covering her mouth.

  Talk about poor timing. Neither she nor Ryon appeared to want to stop.

  In fact, he nudged her wet folds with his cock, teasing her with what could be.

  “It’s Tarina, your boss. Great show, but I wanted to talk to you about the next program.” The door knob rattled.

  Penelope and Ryon froze. Luckily, one of them had remembered to throw the lock. They collectively sighed in relief.

  The locked door was enough privacy for Ryon. He settled in with his hands holding her up by the waist—and his cock pressed to her slit entrance.

  On a wet glide, he slid in.

  To keep from moaning, she bit her lip—then his neck as he started working his long length in and out of her. Oh, God, it felt incredible! It’d been far too long since she’d had sex with her husband. How was it that he felt even bigger and harder than before?

  “Can we talk about it later?” she gasped.

  They’d been days without this. Going from having making love often to not at all had been like torture. The pleasure now was too exquisite. She was going to come apart in a matter of seconds. Ryon knew it too, as he started rubbing her bud with his thumb and sinking into her harder.

  He knew exactly how to touch her buttons and make her come apart.

  “Eh, I have plans. A date actually. Hey, why is this door locked? It isn’t like you have anything I haven’t seen, Pen.” The door handle rattled some more.

  Penelope giggled and the door handle stopped.

  “Come back later, please.” She tried to call out firmly, but instead it came out wispy and breathless.

  She was close to coming. In and out he rocked inside her, his hot, vapid breaths tantalizing her senses.

  She heard grumbling on the other side of the door. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she heard footsteps retreating.

  “Mmm… Thank the Lord,” she commented.

  “Exactly,” Ryon agreed.

  His mouth slammed down across hers as he worked her faster.

  Muscles pulled tight as a bowstring as her hips writhed against him. She came apart hard—a strangled cry tore from her throat, caught by his own.

  Breathing erratic from excitement, Ryon rutted into her. He loved to finish with her.

  He stuck deep into her over and again, his heavy breaths panting in time to his thrusts.

  Her milking sex was what did it. She came apart, body trembling in his arms, his name a chant on her lips. Her quim squeezed him so tightly.

  He shut his eyes, her name spilling from him as he plunged deep inside her. The hot, telltale pulses of his release gushed inside her heavily. Their arousal mixed into the lovely scent she adored.

  She kissed him, unable to stop. “I love you so much.”

  Cupping her chin, he smiled down into her eyes and whispered the words that never ceased to make her melt. “I love you, too, Pen.”

  Epilogue

  Patrick Gaines limped down the gray stone staircase. Colder it grew the deeper he plunged into the abysmal dungeon. Fumes from crackling torches filled the tunnel way with the stench of sulfur and smoke. He reached into his pocket, pausing on one stoop, and balancing his weight heavily on his cane, and pulled out a handkerchief. He covered his mouth and nose with it to block the awful stench he was about to encounter.

  With each step, a bead of sweat dribbled down the contours of his spine. With each step he took he braced himself on his cane, swinging his broken, bandaged leg onto the next stoop without putting too much pressure on it. A brace, made from iron rods kept his leg stiff and awkward.

  However, there were many steps and soon he found himself panting in agony, spears of hot arching pain zipping from his wounded leg like wildfire. He trembled like a baby, wishing he could run down the stairs and be rid of them, only to find that impossible. He moved like a blind old man without his wits.

  His gut was bunched tightly by time he reached the bottom step.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow with his kerchief then covered his mouth again.

  The cooler temperature of the dungeon came as a welcoming relief to his sweaty visage. A sigh escaped him as he resumed his pace down the hall, to the visitor he was going to see.

  The further he went, the greater the stench became. The stench of a dungeon—nothing light to behold. The putrid odor felt thick and musty in the air, saturating it like dense fog. Shadows flickered from the oddly placed torches on the wall, illuminating some cells while leaving others in the blanket of darkness.

  The scent of old shit and buckets of spilt piss caught him swiftly as he passed one cell. His stomach suddenly heaved to vomit, but he slammed his throat closed and took a deep breath through it. More sweat dripped from his face in his wake. He continued on, past the heinous odor.

  He stepped over muddy hay and puddles of foul-smelling liquids—mixtures of piss and God knows what. His polished leather boots already looked scuffed and covered in brown bits—he didn’t dare think about what he’d stepped in. He’d simply throw these in the trash when he was out of here and buy a new pair.

  He would laugh at the situation, but it hurt too much to do so. It was almost as if the world was working to keep him away from this awful place. But he soldiered on and went to the wooden, gated door at the end of the hall.

  Through the wood planks was a small, crescent-shaped cutout which was covered in iron bars so the guards could see inside.

  He stopped several feet before the door, unsure what made him do so. He didn’t hear any movement, but he knew she was in there.

  Lysse Karmine, part-Avagarian, and traitor to Tarlè. Her trial was in the midst of the fury; the people booed her so boisterously, the king had had to make the trial private.

  Get a hold of yourself.

  Gritting his teeth, Patrick stepped up to the door, jaw twisting as he peered inside.

  It was a small square of a space. Hay littered the floor in flat bundles, a wooden bucket for pissing sat in the corner of the room and a small, dirty pallet lay on the floor with a thin sheet covering it. Her new bed.

  His jaw churned, the sight striking him with unease. To know she was living here now, that this was her place—he didn’t like it.

  But she’d brought it on herself.

  “Lysse,” he called into the windowless space.

  Several quiet moments passed. No answer.

  Thick mucus filled his throat. He gently cleared it and tried again. “Lysse?”

  She swung into view. Directly in front of the barred door. So quickly he nearly took a step back in surprise. And there she stood.

  The first thing he noticed about her were her piercing eyes staring back at him from beneath a mop of dirty, stringy hair. She looked nothing like the sophisticated woman he knew. She looked reckless and wild. Like an animal.

  Those eyes saw him. Saw beneath him, to the very quick of his soul. Searing and destroying him until he stood there in a pool of his own sweat.

  Then she tossed back her head and cackled. A nasty laugh that made the hairs on his arms stand up.

  “Precious Patrick. Here at my cell. Why, oh why, has he come to visit me?” Her head dropped down, hair moving to obscure her face from him.

  “I’ve come to talk.”

  A hiss of air. Like a snake about to attack.

  I must relax. She can’t hurt me on the other side of the door.

  He stiffened at his own wayward thoughts. Who was he to be afraid of her? He shouldn’t be and refused to be. Wi
th that encouragement, he lifted his chin and felt his own cool demeanor slip back into place.

  “I suppose I can leave,” he said, turning to do just that.

  He made it not even a step around when the door shuttered, clanking loudly. He turned back around to see she’d grabbed hold of the black bars, her teeth bared and eyes wide.

  “Don’t. Leave.”

  He didn’t. After several moments her grip on the bars eventually loosened. She backed away. They’d put her in a brown woolen dress that covered her neck to toe. It looked like a potato sack on her.

  “I believe we have something to discuss,” Patrick said, clearing his throat.

  She stared straight at him, almost unnerving in intensity. She had actually transformed. She had bitten Penelope Farris. Lysse Karmine was not the woman he’d thought her to be. She was far more dangerous, far keener. Yet, he found himself here, standing outside her cell. Her only visitor.

  “What would that be? I’m not exactly in a position of discussion.”

  “They’re going to find you guilty at trial,” Patrick said at length.

  A fist to the door made it leap at him.

  Anger slashed her beautiful face. “You think I don’t know that? I’m a half-blood Avagarian, Patrick. They know it now. It’s no use trying to pretend or deny the facts of my being. I’m going to die by their scummy hands wringing my poor little neck.” A trickle of laughter came from her. Haunting sounds. “And everyone will cheer and cheer.” Her voice cracked. She looked away, hiding whatever emotion covered her face.

  “Lysse—I came here because I have a proposal.”

  Clank, clank, clank.

  The sounds of a guard steadily making his way down the steps to the dungeon caught his attention.

  He didn’t have much time.

  “A proposal. I’ve received many of those in my time.”

  “Not one like this,” Patrick said.

  That got her attention. She tossed her hair out of her face, astute gaze locking on him. “What do you mean?”

  “I thought I could use my influence to give you a stay on your execution.”

  So long passed before she spoke, that he thought he might have to repeat himself. The guard was almost to the bottom of the stairs and he couldn’t risk anyone else overhearing their conversation. He had to hurry this up.

  “To stay my execution,” she repeated slowly.

  “Yes,” was the hissed reply. “Now, we don’t have much time to discuss it before Lyle’s man shows up to listen. Give me your answer now or else---”

  “No.”

  He jerked, stricken. “No?”

  Cold eyes, the look of someone who’d given up, stared blankly at him. “I said no.”

  Clank, screech, clank.

  Louder it came, the shuffling of armed guards down the dungeon steps. Nearly to the end now.

  “How can you say that? I thought you were a fighter.”

  His challenge, though weak, seemed to rile her. A flash of anger in her eyes sparking heat. “Your plan would never work. There’s only one way it could ever work.”

  Clank, clank, clank, clank.

  He felt almost desperate now. Heart pounding fast and loud in his ear drums.

  “How’s that?”

  She grabbed the bars and pressed her nose between them. “Join with me. Free me.”

  Patrick blinked, then burst out laughing. Of all the ridiculous statements he’d heard in his life. To free her from the prison’s dungeon—to free her from her impending execution would mean his death too.

  “How insane,” he said.

  “Insane…” Her gaze flicked to the end of the hallway, where, at any moment the guards would swoop down to order him to leave. His time was almost up. Anything they said would be overheard and spread back to the king. “What’s more insane than dethroning King Lyle Hargrowe?”

  His head nearly snapped in half at the double-take he did. Yet…his ears perked up. “Say again?”

  Her eyes glowed with satisfaction. “Join with me and I’ll help you to dethrone the king. I have an army of Avagarians hungry to fight for this territory and kill Lyle. I’ll help you, if…you get me out of here.”

  The guard had reached the bottom step. “Oy! Time’s almost up. Finish your business.”

  Patrick’s eye ticked. A muscle spasm soon joined by another. “This is madness.”

  “We have no more time to speak. The guard’s upon us. You have my word, Patrick. Free me from here and I will make you a king,” she whispered fiercely.

  Patrick stared into her eyes and felt a sense of—truth. She meant it. And, perhaps, she could help him. She had resources and powers he did not. But he only had moments to think.

  “I need an answer now or my offer is off the table. What will it be?” she asked. “There’s no time, Patrick. Tell me now.”

  The guard was halfway down the hall. In less than a minute he’d be at Patrick’s side, ushering him back upstairs. He had to think fast.

  “Fine. I agree.”

  He saw Lysse’s expression of deep satisfaction a split second before Patrick turned, his hand on his sword-cane, withdrawing his blade in one silent sweep. The guard did not see it coming as Patrick turned his blade on him and advanced.

  He would be king one day. He’d make sure of it.

  One way or another.

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  CHAINS OF FROST

  Available now!

  Chloe awoke to a definite chill in the air. She shivered and pulled the covers more fully over her. Except all that did was make her legs colder as the cover came up. Grumbling, she turned to the other side and pulled the cover up to her cheek. Instantly her legs and butt were chilled with goose bumps.

  Popping open her eyes, she sat up and came to the quick and sudden realization that she was not in her hotel room anymore. She looked down at the little white towel wrapped loosely around her and pulled the ends tighter as she tried to control her racing thoughts.

  Where the hell was she? A vast study or maybe a library. Her sister was nowhere to be seen.

  The room was dark and filled with low-lit candles and a grand chandelier that cast the leather furniture in shadows. She stood on shaky legs and tried to remember what had happened. Cemetery, spell casting, demon zombie screaming her name, then to bed. She gasped as she recalled waking up to two men and that nasty roaring she’d heard in the cemetery. The demon had followed her. And men were trying to kidnap her.

  Spinning around, she caught sight of a man standing at an archway window looking out. Shoot, that wasn’t a man.

  As silently as she could, she kept her eyes on him and backed up. Don’t hear me. The man was huge, though not in a steroid taking, pumping iron way. He was tall with shoulders that filled the wide-open window. Damn, that window really needed bars or something over it to keep people from, oh, falling to their deaths. His back and lean hips caught her attention next. He wore a black long-sleeve shirt and matching pants yet the simple ensemble made him look dangerous in an ‘I’m completely normal’ way. Even his hair was dark. Long too, pulled into a severe tie at the back of his head.

  Three more silent steps backward on the freezing cold floor beneath her bare feet.

  “Surely, you at least wish to know who I am before you leave.” She jumped at the sound of his voice and tripped over a table behind her.

  She toppled to the ground, her butt skidding on the cold stone floor in a clump. Quickly disentangling herself, she stood, clutching the towel tighter around her. His vo
ice…It was cold and hard. It held a tone that could mistakenly be construed as passive or bored, but she was sure was just indifference. Was this what a killer sounded like? He could talk to you in that detached voice as he swung the sword that would take your head.

  She thought briefly about righting the table she knocked over but decided edging toward the huge double-sided door was the smarter idea. Escape. She took another silent step toward those doors.

  He turned toward her and her feet stopped moving. It was the complete opposite of what she should be doing, yet she couldn’t will her body to move any more than she could tear her eyes away from him.

  She knew who he was in an instant. It didn’t matter that she’d never met him or even had one iota of what he looked like before. One did not become commander of a legion of vampires that fought demons for a living without getting that cold, hard look in his eyes.

  A deep scar was set into his skin underneath his right eye. It was jagged and reached from his nose to his temple. It must be old because it wasn’t red with freshness, but a paler shade of his skin. His hair formed a widow’s peak that somehow made him look more severe…and even more intriguingly handsome. Chloe tried to recall the last time a man had her staring but couldn’t think of one. Yet this man commanded her attention with his very presence, without words or actions.

  He stood straight and erect as if he was about to command armies to attack, not have a conversation. This man was Commander Tyrian en Kulev, the scariest man on the face of the Earth. And he wanted to talk to her. Hell, he technically owned her, thanks to her father’s insane will. Right, time to go, Chloe thought, and edged toward the door.

  He merely watched her. “If you will not have this conversation with me, then you will only make things harder on yourself, Ms. Bellum.” She winced at the use of her name. But his words worked. She stood frozen, clutching the small hotel towel like it could save her from this man.

  A swarm of emotions flitted through her as he simply watched her with those tracking, deadly eyes. With one look, he managed to make her feel like the sole focus of his thoughts and words. It might have been flattering if this man didn’t technically have rights to her now. And if he didn’t make his living by being a really good killer. Oh, and if he didn’t scare her so badly.