Hunted: A Reverse Harem Shifter Romance (The Feral Souls Trilogy - Book 1)

by Erica Woods

  Something does not add up.

  Her guilt was a heavy constant, shame always nipping at its heels. The desperation and panic I sensed within her were easily explained as left over feelings from the abuse it was clear she had suffered, but her fidgeting and her agitation seemed out of place. As though she was hiding something.

  I toyed with the idea that her situation was not quite what it seemed, but no matter the circumstances I constructed in my mind based on her behavior, nothing truly fit.

  What do I know?

  Someone had hurt her. She was too pale; the illusion of paper-thin skin could only be achieved by not seeing sunlight for prolonged periods of time. Streaks of dirt marred her translucent skin, while long, brown hair hung in a tangled mess down her back. Her face was drawn and her soft, brown eyes reflected anguish and desperation.

  The way she flinched at loud noises and sudden movements was disturbing—a behavior one generally developed when being beaten at regular intervals.

  The whole thing left a sour taste in my mouth. The girl was clearly a victim, but every time someone referred to her abuser, she seemed . . . uncomfortable. And not because she was terrified—although she was—but because she was hiding something. When Ruarc had wanted to know the bastard’s name she had all but fainted.

  Could it be because they are powerful? I mused. Or that there are more than one? A cult or a society, perhaps? Whatever her demons, they kept her prisoner.

  “Could you—I mean, I am ready for you to continue.”

  The small, anxious voice snapped me out of my reflections. When I looked down, I saw a set jaw, wide eyes, and a pulse that beat to the drums of terror. She was scared, but determined to survive.

  A sharp pain burrowed between my ribs.

  Poor girl. So much pain for one so young.

  Just a fledgling.

  Careful not to jostle her leg any more than necessary, I gently lifted her foot back into my lap and picked up the only needle in the first-aid kit. It was still inside its packaging. I unwrapped it, watching her eyes for any sign of anxiety.

  No more than a twinge.

  “Brace yourself, banajaanh,” I warned gently, hating the thought of causing her more pain. “This will hurt.”

  HOPE

  Ash was right. It did hurt. It hurt so much I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming. I was determined that no sign of weakness would escape me. No whimper, cry, or scream would betray my pain. If I’d learned anything in my years as a captive, it was how to deal with pain. And how important it was to hide your vulnerabilities from men.

  “Only a few more to go, banajaanh,” Ash said quietly. If I hadn’t glanced up, I would have thought he was as calm as a lake on a windless day. His voice was more than pleasant. Both soothing and hypnotic, deep and low. But his eyes told a different story. The story of a raging storm. Brutal and violent, like the tear of flesh under steel.

  Unable to look away, I watched as the corner of his eyes tightened with each pull of the needle, how shadows clouded his expression with every indrawn breath I couldn’t quite stifle.

  Almost as though hurting me hurt him.

  With a sigh, my shoulders relaxed and the pain dulled. It didn’t go away, not at all, but the sharp knife that was pain lost its edge and each cut felt a bit hollower.

  A man who feels pain when those around him feel pain won’t intentionally hurt anyone else. Not unless they have to.

  That, more than anything, brought forth the first tendrils of trust. Trust that maybe not everyone was out to hurt me. And trust that men like these wouldn’t align themselves with a group as evil and sadistic as the Hunters.

  Ash must have noticed the change in me for when he next met my gaze, the storm had quieted. “Are you all right, Hope?”

  I nodded, quickly looking away. Although I wanted to believe he had no intention of hurting me, I still found it difficult to maintain eye contact. The Hunters had trained me well.

  Too well.

  Plus, Ash was just too intense. When he looked at me, I couldn’t help but feel as though he could see straight through me. Like I was a wisp of a cloud, easily parted by the tornado that was his presence. But unlike the tornado, Ash’s surface reflected a calm sort of tranquility while his eyes occasionally showed the glimpse of the wild power he kept restrained. The burn of his scrutiny felt like a brand against my skin. Although I couldn’t see him, I knew he was watching me. Studying. Learning.

  A thrill of fear shot through me. My secrets were dark and ugly. Nothing I would ever want someone like him to know. Someone who was probably a much better person than I’d ever been.

  A tug followed by a sharp pinch let me know it was safe to look back up. Ash’s dark head was bent over my calf as he worked with a gentle but precise hand.

  “Last one,” he warned before quickly finishing the last suture and tying off the thread. He then cleaned the wound one more time before wrapping everything securely with a soft bandage. “You did well.”

  A warm glow filled me at the praise. “Thank you. For fixing me up, I mean.”

  He inclined his head, but there was a tightness around his mouth I didn’t understand, and when he remained silent as he put the bottle of antiseptic back into the first aid kit, I felt this strange compulsion to talk to him, to bare my soul and tell him all about my problems.

  But since I couldn’t do that, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I’ve never had stitches before.”

  “Is that so?”

  It could have been my imagination, but I could’ve sworn I saw a flicker of relief lighten his serious expression.

  “Yes, first-timer!”

  The sharp focus he suddenly directed my way made me squirm. “You have not had cuts that needed tending, then?”

  “Well, yeah, but they healed on their own—” My words turned to dust in my mouth at the look of rage that swept over his sharp features. Instinctively, I scooted back, forgetting I was on a chair and effectively trapped with a man that suddenly seemed much more dangerous than the Hunters ever had.

  But as fast as he’d transformed into something resembling a whirlwind of blades—sharp and deadly, and with the potential to kill us all—his features evened out until he looked as tranquil as the calm lake once more.

  “I see. And did you often have to wait for wounds to heal on their own?”

  “No,” I quickly replied. Too quickly. Ash’s brows rose, but all he did was nod. And somehow that nod made me feel as tall as a worm, and about as ugly as one too, because all he’d ever done was help me and all I could do was lie and tell half-truths.

  And he seemed to know it. Understand it, even. Was that possible, or was my imagination running wild?

  “H-have you had stitches before?”

  If he knew I was trying to change the subject, he didn’t let it show. Leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, he pierced me with that shrewd gaze of his. “Not for a long time.”

  “When you were young?”

  He looked thoughtful, then said, “Old enough.”

  It was strange, but the way he said so little, revealed so little, didn’t put me off or make me feel shut out. Instead, it relieved the pressure of the conversation, making me feel at ease and spiking my curiosity.

  “Old enough for what?” I asked, suddenly wanting to talk to him as long as he’d let me.

  His eyes flickered over me and his expression lightened. Without noticing, I’d leaned forward, eager for not a single word to be lost as he spoke. It was unlike me and it instantly made me wary.

  “To not need them any longer.”

  “How old was that?”

  A dark emotion flickered behind his eyes. “Sixteen.”

  Sixteen . . .

  My throat closed. “Oh.”

  I didn’t pretend to understand the dark pain I sensed in him or the strangeness of his statement—what did age have to do with stitches?—instead, I pretended to study my surroundings while digesting all these new emoti
ons, these new experiences.

  “Who are you, Hope?” Ash’s smooth voice cut through my thoughts like the Hunters’ metal through flesh. Piercing eyes bored deep, flayed layer after layer in search of something I suddenly feared he would find.

  This man . . . he saw too much. Understood things about me I still didn’t.

  He was dangerous.

  A stranger.

  What was I thinking? When had I forgotten about my perilous situation and how fast those closest could betray and wound? And when had I started speaking so freely, letting my curiosity get the better of me? I had to remember I didn’t know these men. Not really. They didn’t know my secrets, and should they ever learn the truth of my past . . .

  Fear was lead in my veins, chills upon my skin, but Ash was still looking at me with those intense eyes, waiting for me to answer.

  “I . . . I’m just m-me.” I tried my best to stop the shakes I knew would lash my voice, but to no avail.

  Ash drew back, mouth tensing. “I apologize. I did not mean to cause you distress.”

  “It is the cause of her distress that worries me,” a cool voice announced from behind.

  I jumped in my seat and turned my head until I could see the man in the doorway.

  Lucien.

  My palms grew damp.

  Ash leaned back in his chair. “Now is not a good time, Lucien.”

  Lucien ignored him. “Who are you, Hope?” he asked, coming to a stop behind me so I had to keep my neck twisted if I wanted to keep my eyes on him.

  Which I did.

  “Or is the better question, what are you?”

  For once, terror was not my enemy. It made me freeze, stopped my reaction from showing and revealing the truth of the matter—that what was more important than who. I didn’t even know what the monster inside me was. I only knew what it was capable of.

  Heat branded me when Ash grabbed my frozen hand. Concern marred his lowered brows, concern and something else. Suspicion? Worry? “We will not hurt you, banajaanh. Regardless of your answer.” He gave my hand a reassuring squeeze.

  I was not reassured. They were too close. Two strange men, boxing me in and making me feel trapped. My breath came in short, uneven bursts and my lips went numb.

  Have to pretend. Have to throw them off.

  “I-I don’t kn-know what you m-mean.”

  Thankfully, Lucien moved to stand next to where Ash was sitting, no longer trapping me between them. With narrowed eyes and head tilted to the side, he looked like an avenging angel. An angry, suspicious angel whose nostrils flared with every indrawn breath. Each rise and fall of his chest seemed to anger him more, until he shook his head in disgust and left the room as abruptly as he had entered it.

  Still holding my hand, Ash studied me with a thoughtful expression before letting go.

  I couldn’t decide whether I was more relieved or disappointed. It had been a long time since I’d been touched without the intention of bringing harm, and the comfort I’d derived from his warmth was more than I knew how to deal with.

  Fear of discovery slipped. It had been stupid of me to worry about that at all. What kind of people would ever suspect another of harboring a monster? To most, humans were humans, and although they’d asked what I was, they had probably meant it as most did, what kind of person and what kind of job. What I was, what I had been, was a captive.

  But now? I just didn’t know.

  7

  HOPE

  The pain of the stitches, Lucien’s suspicion, the way Ash seemed to see past my defenses to the withered, ugly thing inside, these things were nothing compared to the trauma my body had already gone through with the Hunters’ torture and my escape. But added all together it left me wrung out, tired beyond measure, and feeling like each second dragged on for an eternity. When Ash suggested a break—mentioning something about tea—before moving on to my other injuries, I gave a grateful nod and rested my head in the cradle of my arms on the kitchen table.

  The next thing I knew was the fuzzy quality of a dream. It began with pain. Not deep enough to jolt me awake, but enough to tense my body even in sleep. Cold metal pressed against my skin. My heart stuttered. But then it was gone and I relaxed. After a while, I dreamed of floating. Of deep voices murmuring. Of being enveloped in strong, capable arms while comforting heat warmed my stiff limbs and something soft and heavy draped over my body.

  And then . . . Then there was nothing.

  When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was the wonderful smells surrounding me. Clean sheets, fresh daisies, and the mouthwatering scent of a full breakfast.

  Is that pancakes? I wondered, filled with disbelief. My stomach rumbled, hunger a sudden sharp bite, and I sat up to take in the room I found myself in. It was large and airy, the bed situated in one of the outer corners, right below a window I guessed to be just big enough for me to fit through. There was only one door and no furniture except for the large, king-sized bed, a double dresser, and the nightstand on the right of me that contained the cause of one of the delicious, fresh aromas I had woken up to: a large vase filled with daisies.

  I sat up, mindful of my sore body. I was still fully clothed, barring the scraps of fabric that had been cut away by my leg and midriff, and I smelled—

  Scrambling out from the covers, heart beating erratically, pulse pounding, I ran my hands down my body, feeling for clean skin, for patches without grime.

  There were none.

  A huge sigh of relief left my distressed lungs and I collapsed back down.

  They didn’t bathe me.

  My heart slowed.

  When I’d remembered the blood and dirt coating my skin and seen the contrast to these clean, fresh sheets, I’d known a moment of stark panic. Too dirty for this untarnished white, I’d thought. And I desperately didn’t want any of the guys to see me naked. My undernourished, damaged body aside, being naked in front of anyone, especially while unconscious, left me feeling like hundreds of insects were trying to crawl up my throat and out of my mouth.

  I swung my legs down the side of the bed, fighting the darkness closing in at the corners of my vision. Not healed yet, then. Pristine, white bandages climbed up my foot, circling my ankle before ending midway up my calf. Thinking about all the stitches necessary to close that wound made my throat close and saliva fill my mouth.

  I swallowed and winced at the pain in my sides.

  After my body had given out on me, Ash must have finished his doctoring. There was an uncomfortably tight bandage wrapped around my upper body from my waist to just below the thin piece of clothing still covering my breasts. I wasn’t sure what the bandages were for, but when I moved, a terrible, piercing pain burrowed into my lungs, spreading through my ribs and chest.

  What the . . .

  I gingerly skimmed my fingers over the surface of the bandage. Either the monster had blocked this pain during my escape, or I’d been too preoccupied by the throbbing in my leg to take notice of other injuries.

  I struggled to remember what Gregory had done to my ribs—I’d drifted in and out of consciousness near the end of my last torture session, and the memories were hazy at best. Did I want to know?

  No.

  The pain made it hard to breathe, but I knew from experience it wouldn’t take more than a few days to heal completely.

  Bracing my hands on the bed, I got up and crept to the door. It opened with a small creak, giving me my first look at the second floor of the guys’ big house.

  Do they all live here together? It had seemed that way, but that was strange, wasn’t it? As far as I remembered only families tended to live together. I doubted they were closely related—they looked nothing alike—but maybe they were distant cousins or something.

  Or just friends?

  I slowly made my way down the hall, curious about where each of the seven doors on this floor led. What a strange layout, I thought, fascinated by the wide, furniture-free hall. The child in me imagined that each door led into a strange and r
iveting new place. The door with the snowflake sticker on the front would definitely lead to a winter wonder paradise.

  Pausing outside the snowflake door, I studied the cute sticker. It looked like something I could’ve had as a child, all sparkly and adorable. Tracing each line of the design, totally absorbed, I didn’t notice the door opening until I tumbled forward.

  “Morning, love,” Jason greeted cheerfully as he caught me against his body. “Beautiful way to start the day.” He held me to his chest and grinned down at me, sunny brown eyes slowly turning into molten fire as they stared into my own.

  I was clearing my throat nervously when I noticed that the chiseled chest my face was pressed into was, in fact, naked.

  Stuttering meaningless nonsense, I pushed away from him and lowered my gaze so I wouldn’t stare.

  Do his abs have abs?

  Naked except for a pair of boxers, his broad body was a wall of muscle. A wall I was busy ogling.

  “I’m so sorry!” I squeaked and covered my eyes, face surely a bright, flaming red. The large bulge in his boxers had startled me, and when I stepped back, eyes tightly closed, I tripped over my own feet.

  Strong arms caught me before I hit the floor and I was right back where I started, pressed against a mostly naked man.

  “Y-you can let me go now,” I stammered.

  “Do I smell?”

  I looked up at his suddenly serious face, wrinkling my nose in confusion. “Err, no, I don’t think so?”

  “Are you sure, love?”

  “Uhm, yes?” It wasn’t like I had sniffed him or anything, but I couldn’t exactly stop breathing and with my face so close to his skin, I could easily pick up on his darkly sweet scent. He smelled of virile, healthy male.

  Virile? Healthy? When did I go crazy and start thinking these things had their own scents?

  “Why does it matter?” I asked. Unless . . . Did I smell? God, was that why he asked? Mortification swept through me as I remembered I hadn’t washed yet.