The Hunt

by Allison Brennan

  What could she say to that? She didn’t completely understand it herself. Except that his lack of faith and trust in her hurt more than the psychology test that said she had a problem with obsession.

  “If I’m obsessive, a year wouldn’t change it,” she finally said.

  “A year can make all the difference in the world.”

  “It had been two years, Quinn.” Two years since her life was irrevocably linked with a killer.

  He nodded, leaned back in his chair and fiddled with his fork. “I know.”

  They stared at each other. Quinn looked as lost and confused as she felt.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said suddenly.

  She swallowed back tears. How could such a simple apology hit her so hard?

  Because she knew it wasn’t just Quinn. She was obsessive. There was her intense focus on the search—she’d put everything in her life on hold while looking for Rebecca. Her friends and family took second place to her job, whether it was finding a missing woman abducted by the Butcher or a lost child who’d wandered away from his campground. Nothing mattered to her except the search.

  She wanted to rescue someone. While she’d had success finding lost campers, any woman the Butcher got was as good as dead. She desperately longed for a happy ending, but everywhere she looked there was sorrow and pain. Maybe that was simply a reflection of her own guilt.

  If her reaction at the cabin was any indication, she’d never fully recovered from the attack twelve years ago. She would always be claustrophobic in small rooms. Windowless rooms. That’s why she had skylights throughout her house and directly above her bed. She had to see the sky no matter which direction she looked.

  But even the big sky couldn’t stop Sharon’s cries and the low, cruel monotone of the faceless killer every time Miranda closed her eyes.

  “I should have returned to Quantico.” She had never said that out loud before. It surprised her. She licked her lips. “I was just so damn hu—” She was going to say hurt. No. She wasn’t ready to tell Quinn that. She couldn’t tell him. “Angry,” she corrected. “Blinded by anger, I suppose. And by the time the year was up, I was on Search and Rescue and I really liked it. I fit in. It’s—I suppose it’s what I’m cut out to do.”

  “You would have made a damn good agent,” he said, his voice gravelly.

  Her heart skipped a beat. She wondered what he would do if she kissed him.

  The stray thought startled her and she leaned back, her hands clammy. A good agent? Yeah, she knew it. A damn good agent.

  One year. A year! She’d waited more than two years after the Butcher killed Sharon, restless, taking extra classes, working at the Lodge, learning self-defense. Anything and everything so she’d never feel vulnerable again.

  When she walked out of Quantico ten years ago, she’d never felt more lost. She knew then she would never go back.

  “Thanks.” Her voice cracked. She wanted to yell at him, rage at the injustice of what he’d done—regardless of the reasons. Maybe there was a hint of truth in what he’d said, something she had done that indicated she might not be able to handle the job.

  She focused on her pie and milk. Quinn did the same. The silence was both comfortable and awkward—she wanted to know what he was really thinking, but didn’t have the guts to ask. She wanted to tell him she’d never forgive him, yet she wanted to extend an olive branch at the same time. The conflicting emotions weighed heavily on her heart and mind.

  She and Quinn rose from the table at the same time and brought their plates to the sink. She ran water over them, waiting for it to get hot. He stood behind her, so close his warm, pecan-scented breath caressed her neck. She swallowed, not trusting herself to turn around. Not trusting herself not to touch him, kiss him, ask him to share her bed.

  She wanted him to hold her so she could sleep. To love him so she could remember what had been the most wonderful time of her life.

  His hands rested on her shoulders, so lightly she didn’t flinch. She closed her eyes. He brushed her hair away from her neck, his long finger drawing a sizzling path from her ear to her throat. With his other hand, he turned her to face him.

  When she opened her eyes, her mouth parted. He was so close, his naked chest inches from her. She felt the heat between them, as if he had his own thermostat. She swallowed, wanted to tell him to step back, but couldn’t find her voice.

  She was glad she didn’t.

  His lips touched hers so tenderly, if she hadn’t felt the jolt of desire flood her body, she’d have doubted he’d kissed her at all.

  Then he kissed her again, more firmly, his hand moving from her shoulder to the back of her neck, kneading her muscles, holding her head to him. Deeper, his tongue gently parted her lips until their tongues lightly dueled, back and forth. She leaned into him, tentative at first, then found her arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close.

  His kisses moved from her lips, down her jaw, to her neck. She shivered from the heat, from wanting him. A deep yearning that bespoke ten years without him. Without the man who knew exactly where to kiss, where to touch.

  He softly kissed her behind her ear.

  “I’ve missed you, Miranda.”

  She drew in her breath. Had he really missed her? For ten years she’d had to consciously keep Quinn in the far corners of her heart and mind because she didn’t want to think about him, didn’t want to miss him.

  But now the dam had broken, and her repressed feelings rushed through the floodgates. For ten years it had been so much easier to pretend Quinn hadn’t been such an important part of her life the short time she’d known him; now, it was like the time between hadn’t existed. She still loved him, still wanted him, but the raw ache that had festered since his declaration at Quantico stabbed at her heart.

  She stepped back and bumped into the kitchen counter. “Quinn—I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that.”

  “Why did you avoid me back then?” He squeezed her shoulders, his eyes shining with the same heat and desire she felt.

  She shook her head. She couldn’t have this conversation now, not when her emotions were so close to the surface. His affection confused her; it was much easier to remember his hardened stance against her graduation, his emphatic statements about her abilities when they first saw each other where Rebecca had died.

  “I need to go.”

  “Miranda, don’t walk away again. We need to talk.”

  Shaking her head, she pulled away from his hold. She had to think, impossible to do around Quinn. Her blood seemed to boil and bubble beneath her skin, her stomach churned with confusion and heartache and love all mixed up. Nothing made sense to her. It had been so much easier to exist, to control her emotions, before Quinn walked back into her life.

  She glanced at him, saw frustration cross his expression. She turned and ran back to her cabin, feeling like a coward but not knowing what else to do.

  Quinn stared after Miranda’s retreating frame, his chest tight. He turned to the sink and noticed the running water. Had it been on the entire time? He slapped off the faucet.

  What had just happened?

  He thought at least she was opening up to him. She had softened her feelings toward him. That there was hope—

  And that kiss. Time or distance made her taste even sweeter. He wanted more.

  What was he thinking? That they could pick up where they’d left off? That he could tell her he still loved her and they could start talking marriage?

  Quinn had never stopped loving Miranda. She irritated him, annoyed him, angered him, but he’d loved her almost from the beginning. He was proud of her, admired her intelligence, her strength, her perseverance. She was so beautiful. Seeing her sitting across from him eating pecan pie reminded him of ten years ago when he’d spent a two-week vacation here, at the Lodge. In her cabin. When they snuck into the kitchen to eat pecan pie and barely made it back to her cabin to make love.

  He didn’t have time for long-term relations
hips; he’d been involved with a few women over the years, but only briefly. None of them could compare to Miranda. Some were prettier, some were smarter, but none were Miranda. Her spark. Her strength. Her.

  What had she been thinking? Why couldn’t she just answer his question? He’d half expected her to jump down his throat, to yell at him about his decision at Quantico. He hadn’t expected to see so much raw, needy emotion in her fathomless eyes.

  Damn, damn, damn! He wanted to follow her, to explain his reasons again about why he’d pulled her from the Academy. She’d focused on the psychiatrist’s opinion about her obsession with the Butcher, but that was only part of his reasoning. If it was only the shrink, Quinn would never have agreed to remove her from the program.

  What Miranda had never understood, and he’d obviously failed to make her understand, was that her reasons for wanting to become an agent were all wrong. Working for the FBI wouldn’t give her what she thought it would, and he feared she would have been miserable.

  Maybe he should have let her be miserable. But he loved her too much, and she was too loyal a person to quit when she realized she’d romanticized the role of an FBI agent.

  Plain and simple, she’d wanted to be an FBI agent so she would have the authority to track down the Butcher. She’d never have been satisfied working in, say, Florida or Maine or California—unless the Butcher started hunting in one of those states. And she very well might have been assigned to the cyber squad, robberies, or political corruption—none of which would bring her any closer to facing down her demons.

  He’d hoped that after a year off she’d come to realize that either she didn’t want to be an agent at all or that she could put the Butcher far enough behind her to work on whatever the Bureau assigned to her.

  He’d wanted her to return. She would have been a top agent if only she could truly put the past behind her. But Miranda’s deep involvement with the Butcher investigation, from the moment she returned from Quantico, told him she’d made her decision long ago.

  He closed his eyes, uncertain how to work through Miranda’s pain and anger toward him. For a few minutes, they’d almost reached that comfort level where he could have said anything, and she would have opened up. But they hadn’t gotten there, and he didn’t know if they ever would. As soon as he stepped too close, she put up an invisible barrier.

  Sometimes, Quinn wanted to shake Miranda until she listened to what he said, to stop her from continually questioning his motives. But tonight he’d just wanted to take her to bed and hold her close.

  Until she opened up and talked to him, as well as listened to what he had to say, there was no hope of mending his broken relationship with the only woman he’d ever loved.

  CHAPTER

  15

  In the way it is with some dreams, he kept pressing the mental rewind button to watch Theron soar through the sky, flying two hundred miles an hour, his wings beating deep and sure as he homed in on the swift and knocked the prey out of the sky with his sharp talons.

  Over and over, he repeated this dream, at will. In the back of his semiconscious mind he worried about where he was, whom he was expecting, but for now he wanted to replay his raptor hunting.

  He didn’t wake up until the cold metal handcuff snapped across his wrist.

  She was back.

  He struggled in the sweat-soaked sheets and she laughed. The low rumble he knew all too well.

  “What?” he asked, his voice thick from sleep. Theron disappeared, and he remembered where he was.

  Back in Montana.

  “I want you.”

  “No. I’m tired.”

  Silence. He came fully awake.

  Never say no to me.

  The waxing moon, three-quarters full, shone bright through the large windows, casting gray shadows across his loft. Highlighting his bed, his solitary dresser, his hunting rifle.

  And her.

  She wore black, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight braid. Her delicate jaw and pale skin lied—there was nothing soft about this woman.

  She frowned at his automatic refusal. “I come out here in the middle of the night to give you pleasure and you say no?”

  Pleasure? Maybe for her. Always for her. He hated that he reacted. He tried and tried to keep his body from betraying him. But she knew what to do.

  Why had he returned? Because the urge was so great, he couldn’t resist. The punishment for giving in to the urge to hunt was having to see The Bitch.

  She stripped off his sheet and her frown deepened. “You’re dressed.”

  She rolled him onto his stomach and pulled down his boxers. She slapped his buttocks hard. Whack!

  Whack! Whack!

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a voice that sounded sincere. “You know I hate doing that.” She kissed the hot spot, where she’d hit him.

  She loves it. He grimaced as she reached between his legs and grasped his dick. He was already semi-hard. Damn his body. Damn it to hell. Why did it react to her? Always. He should cut it off to spite her. Mail it to her in a pretty package. She liked it so much? She could have it.

  Growing in her capable hands, he moaned, trying to bury the sound in his pillow. But she heard, and he felt her cold smile on his back.

  “There, there, sweetheart,” she murmured, releasing him and crawling up his back. She turned his body slightly so she could kiss him. “It’s been a long time.”

  Not long enough.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Did you miss me?”

  Hell no.

  “Of course I did.”

  “I thought so. It’s just been hard for me to get away.”

  Yeah, I bet.

  For years, her husband suspected she was having an affair. But the stupid fool never imagined it was with him.

  “I have a special treat for you.”

  No. No.

  He turned his head and watched her retrieve a long dildo from her jacket pocket. One end was fat, the other slender. He hadn’t seen it in a long time.

  No.

  She rolled him over onto his back, then stripped. She had a disciplined body. Though forty was closing in, her figure was trim, firm, and graceful. The body of a dancer, the face of an angel, the soul of a demon.

  She straddled him. Not his penis. His face. She ground her damn cunt into him. “Make me come, sweetheart.”

  He couldn’t refuse. He remembered what happened when he protested. So he ate her the way she liked. Maybe if she was satisfied she wouldn’t use that damn thing on him.

  She pushed so hard into his face he couldn’t breathe. She damn well knew he couldn’t. But if he pushed her away she would really hurt him.

  She eased up enough so he could catch his breath, then rode his face hard as she orgasmed, clutching the headboard, moaning out loud.

  “Oh, yes,” she said as she slid down his body and licked her juices off his face. “That was nice. You deserve a reward.”

  No.

  She spread his legs and smiled at his quivering erection, the moonlight casting blue shadows across her body, making her pleasure look sinister. Evil.

  She was pure evil.

  She caressed his penis almost lovingly. She picked up the dildo from the nightstand and slid the thick end into her wet cunt, moaning in pleasure. It had a strap and she buckled it onto herself.

  “No,” he croaked. He hated this and she knew it.

  “Did you say no?”

  Shit, he hadn’t meant to. It just slipped out.

  “I didn’t.”

  “Don’t lie.” She slapped his face and he bit his tongue.

  Damn bitch.

  There was nothing he could do. If he protested—she knew his secrets. Every dark secret he had. She knew about the girls. Knew and mocked him. Enjoyed his rage, his anger.

  Fueled it.

  She gently touched his face, panting her pleasure. The pleasure she got from hurting him.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But you should know better than to
say no to me.”

  She’d had him under her thumb for fifteen years and if he didn’t do exactly what she wanted, when she wanted, she’d take the one thing from him that he valued most.

  His freedom.

  I hate you.

  Did he? Yes! But there was a time . . . he remembered a time when he could reach out and touch her and she would console him. Lick his wounds. Hold him and murmur sweet words in his ear. Touch him kindly.

  That time was long gone, but the past held him in an iron grip, unbreakable. Like her.

  So he laid back and did nothing. He was her bitch and there was not a damn thing he could do about it. It hurt, but his dick was rock hard. Pleasure and pain, so entwined. Can’t have one without the other.

  She moaned and gyrated, on the verge of orgasm. If she came she’d stop, and he’d get no relief. She never cared about him. It was all about her. Always about her.

  He imagined throwing The Bitch onto the floor and sticking the damn dildo up her ass. He imagined slapping her silly until she begged him to stop. He could easily picture tight clamps around her tits, the tits she never let him touch.

  The image set him off and he moaned in release.

  She reached down and jerked him so hard his moan of pleasure turned to a scream of pain. As she hurt him, she came, her body hot and slick. She collapsed onto him and kissed his tears away. “That, dearest, was for saying no.”

  I hate you.

  She pulled out abruptly and took off the dildo. She dressed, then kissed him—almost tenderly—and released the handcuff. “I’ll be back,” she said with a sweet smile.

  Under that fake sweetness she was an evil bitch. He watched her leave.

  He hated her. But he was trapped for life. If he tried to kill her, he would fail. He wanted desperately to hunt her down and slice her throat. Watch her lying smile turn grotesque in pain. Watch her realize that her creation was her demise.

  If he left, she’d find him. If she couldn’t find him, she’d spill his secrets. He knew what would happen if she ever went to the sheriff. All tears and sweet softness. All a lie.

  “I didn’t know, Sheriff, until I found their driver’s licenses . . .”