Before Alun could weaken, he retreated into his office and slammed the door. It would be so easy to give in to the unwelcome desire; linger by the reception desk, inhaling lungfuls of air laced with that seductive scent; allow his soul to feast on that face, a beauty as far from Alun’s grotesque features as it was possible to be. David’s slightly tilted eyes, finely modeled cheekbones, pointed chin, and artfully tousled hair made him resemble an Arthur Rackham wood sprite. The artist had gotten those details right too—half the page boys and attendants at the Seelie Court had a similar look, although none were as enticing as David.
Alun stalked to his desk, spun his chair with a vicious jerk, and sat. Ironically, his own appearance was an advantage in his practice among the supe communities, his monstrous visage perversely comforting to them. No matter how extreme their problems, they sussed that he had it worse.
Likewise with the double handful of humans he treated, all of them in council-ordered treatment for PTSD following unfortunate close encounters with supes. His appearance validated their experience—yes, monsters existed in the world—while offering assurance that not all monsters were threats.
While ugliness didn’t guarantee evil any more than beauty guaranteed goodness, in Alun’s case, his appearance precisely reflected the blackness of his soul.
In the days before his curse, he’d been arrogant and entitled. As Court Champion and a favorite of the Queen, he’d been granted more privileges than he’d deserved, including that of leading the hunt. That night, the one that had forever changed his life, he’d ridden out with a score of other courtiers who’d sought either the thrill of the chase or the reflected glory of being part of his entourage.
Before, his longbow had always struck true, but that night, it had not. The buck had spooked at the last second. He’d caught it in the flank instead of the breast, and it had bounded into the brush.
“Shite.” Alun had slung his bow over his back. “You lot stay here. I’ll take care of this.”
He urged Cadfael forward, trusting the stallion to pick a path through the dense foliage. Leaves crackled under the horse’s hooves, but the night was silent otherwise—eerily so.
When Cadfael broke into a moonlit glade, Alun discovered why. The buck lay on its side, flanks heaving, eyes showing white in terror and pain. A man was kneeling beside it, drawing Alun’s arrow from its flesh.
A man? No. For one thing, he was too beautiful to be real. His white-blond hair shone silver in the moonlight, his eyes were as dark as a secret forest pool. His full mouth would make the gods weep, were it not drawn down in fierce concentration.
But he was more than his beauty. Awareness skittered along Alun’s skin, drawing him forward with a wanting that would be pain if it weren’t so sweet.
Achubydd.
He’d never thought to see one. They kept themselves apart, nomadic, their clans ghosting through the lands of both Faerie and the Outer World. At one time, they’d lived only in Annwn, the Welsh Otherworld, but with Arawn’s disappearance, its gates had closed forever, putting the achubyddion at the mercy of fae who lusted after their abilities.
“If you must hunt the night,” the man said, his voice low and musical, “you should be sure of your aim.”
“Usually I am.”
He tossed the arrow aside. “Do not try unless you know you will succeed. Otherwise you do naught but scatter pain in your wake.”
Alun shifted uncomfortably in the saddle under the accusing glare. “I intended to put an end to him swiftly.” He swung to the ground and unsheathed his hunting knife from his belt. “Stand aside and I will do so.”
“No.” The man placed one hand over the buck’s wound. “You forfeited your claim when you failed in your covenant for a clean kill.”
“I can’t in conscience leave him like this—suffering, unable to flee from predators.”
He lifted one slanted eyebrow, nearly white against his brown skin. “Such as yourself?”
Heat stole up Alun’s throat, and he thanked the Goddess for the dappled moonlight that hid his telltale blush. How long had it been since anyone had shamed him? They had tried, with insinuations and petty Court politics, but nothing had ever touched him until this accusation of clumsy brutality.
He strode forward, ready to end the unpleasant feeling. “Let me—” Before he got halfway across the clearing, the buck heaved to its feet and bounded off, its gait unmarred. Alun’s mouth fell open. “He’s . . . he’s—”
“He is well.” The man rose slowly. “And no longer susceptible to a hunter’s ill-aimed arrows.”
“Forever?” At the man’s nod, Alun fumbled to stow his knife. “I never knew— That is, I’m aware that your kind can work near miracles on people—at a cost. But to make an animal invulnerable?”
“There are many things you do not know—that you’ll never know—about . . . about . . .” The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, his eyelids fluttering, and he began to topple forward. Alun caught him, and let the momentum carry them both to the ground.
His legs were twisted uncomfortably beneath him, but he was loath to risk disturbing the man draped over his lap. He stroked the man’s silky hair back from his high forehead. Traced the arc of a cheekbone to the ever so slightly pointed ear. Breathed in the scent of his skin, like rain on heather.
And there, curled awkwardly on the ground with Cadfael cropping grass at his elbow and a full party of hunters waiting for him on the other side of the grove, he had fallen in love with Owain Glenross, and sealed both their fates.
He could never be forgiven for what had followed, but at least he could atone somewhat by helping others—and prevent another stubborn man from destruction at his own hands.
David Evans had to go, for his own good as well as the safety of the supe communities and Alun’s own fragile peace of mind.
Alun punched up Sandra Fischer’s number and got her voice mail again, damn it.
“Sandra. Alun Kendrick. I’ll grant you some slack since you’re an F1W2 victim, but are you insane? You sent a human to staff my office. Are you trying to call down the wrath of every supernatural council in the Pacific Northwest? Because you’ve definitely called down mine. Fix this. Immediately.” He lowered the handset, ready to slam it, but raised it to his ear again instead. “Get well soon.”
David remained rooted in his chair for two minutes while he waited for the virtual steam to stop shooting out his ears. Of all the arrogant, self-righteous, pigheaded . . . Gah!
This was a psychology practice, right? Well, time to stage a little intervention of his own.
He marched into the inner sanctum (without knocking—ha!) and planted himself in front of Dr. Kendrick’s desk, hands clenched at his sides so he wouldn’t pick up the nearest ten-pound textbook and wing it at the doctor’s plus-sized skull.
“You make it sound as if you don’t think I can handle the job.”
Dr. Kendrick opened a copy of the Portland Business Journal, holding it up so it blocked David’s view of his face. “You can’t.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve taken many”—one—“classes on clinic office management. I’ve completed most”—about a third—“of the coursework for my RN degree, and I have extensive experience in”—getting fired from—“medical and dental practices of all types and sizes.”
Dr. Kendrick lowered the journal, and David flinched. He couldn’t help it. When he’d only heard The Voice, he’d fit his vision of a matching fantasy man to it. The sight of that tortured face—overlaid by the odious attitude—was a shock. Unfortunately, the doctor caught his reaction, and the perpetual frown deepened.
“Yet despite your impressive credentials, you’ve chosen to temp for a one-man psychology practice. On sabbatical from your stellar career?”
David sniffed and tried his best to look confident. “I’m considering my options. Of which there are many, before you ask.”
“Doing me a favor, are you?”
“Yes. I mean no. I’m here to do
the best job possible. It’s to both our benefits if we can put together a workable professional relationship.”
Dr. Kendrick grunted and raised the journal again. “No point. I’ve already logged the request for your replacement.”
Was that so? In that case, Dr. Smug was in for a surprise. In the meantime, David would simply pretend that the doctor was a reasonable human being. At least one of them could be professional.
“Here’s your schedule. The charts are cued up on your laptop.” He slapped the agenda printout and a handful of take-out menus on the desk. “IM me with your food choice by four and I’ll have your meal here in time for your dinner break at six.” He bared his teeth in a dare-me smile. “Have a nice day.”
He pivoted smartly on the toe of his perfectly polished loafers, lifted his chin, and put an extra slug of confidence into his walk out of the room. With each step, he repeated pretend, pretend, pretend in his head, waiting until he’d closed the door before the breath whooshed out of his lungs and his chest deflated.
Sheesh, usually altercations occurred around David. This was the first time that he might not only have been part of the melee, but the direct instigator. If anything was likely to put an end to his hope of landing a permanent gig, this was it. Attacking your boss with a blunt instrument? A sure way to get fired.
He plopped into his chair and poked at his keyboard until his abbreviated menu appeared, glancing at the time in the corner of the screen. The first patient—oops, client—was ten minutes late. Since one of the many things David didn’t have access to was the client contact information, he couldn’t call and confirm the appointment. It would serve Dr. Douche right if he was reduced to playing solitaire beer pong in his office for the next hour, perfecting his snarl.
The outer door opened, and a man in a muted brown plaid Hugo Boss suit sauntered in, his gait as smooth as his medium-brown hair. If this was the missing client, David would bet his entire collection of Star Wars memorabilia that the lateness was deliberate. Passive-aggressive macho posturing much?
From the corner of his eye, David studied the client, who took a detour to the coffee service without bothering to acknowledge that there was anyone else in the room. David never trusted guys who were that . . . smooth. He liked his men—when he could get one—a little rougher around the edges. Perfection was a skosh too intimidating for someone so . . . well . . . he refused to cop to awkward. Alternative. Idiosyncratic. Somewhere on the sliding scale between GQ and nerd-tastic. But with great hair.
Unlike Mr.—he checked the schedule on his monitor—Hoffenberg, whose slicked-back do sported a tad too much product. David found it difficult to trust a man who couldn’t conquer his own personal grooming supplies.
Still, he shouldn’t make any judgments. If the man was here, he had already admitted that he needed help with some knotty life issue, and David had only the highest respect for that kind of self-awareness.
He donned his best smile. “Mr. Hoffenberg? Shall I tell Dr. Kendrick you’re here?”
Hoffenberg eyed him, swirling his coffee with a slow figure eight of the red plastic stir stick. “Where’s Vanessa?”
“The regular office manager? She’s on maternity leave.”
Something flared in the back of Hoffenberg’s frost-gray eyes, a glint of red. David’s smile slipped and throat constricted, his hand creeping to his pocket to rub his thumb across the smooth surface of his worry stone. Did I really see that? Sure, his tie has red flecks, but his eyes? Maybe it was a freak reflection off David’s flame-colored candy dish, but whatever it was, it was damned eerie. And he must be imagining the shock wave of fury that rolled over him from that red-speckled glare.
Surely Dr. Kendrick didn’t treat any violent clients. Maybe he needed to rethink this assignment after all. Getting murdered in the workplace? Not part of his master plan.
He clenched his fist around his worry stone once and released it. Man up, Evans. He’d nail this job, damn it, despite the dreary decor and curmudgeonly boss and possibly homicidal clients. For Aunt Cassie’s sake as well as his own.
He cleared his throat before lifting the phone, his finger shaking as he pressed the intercom button. “Dr. Kendrick, Mr. Hoffenberg is here.”
“Shite.” The doctor’s response was a barely audible growl.
Hmmm. Good to know David wasn’t the only one with that reaction to Hoffenberg.
He placed the handset back in the cradle and smiled. “Dr. Kendrick will be—” The door to the office flew open, and the doctor loomed just inside the threshold, his face in shadow again. “Why, here he is now.”
“Good afternoon, Jackson.”
“Alun.” Hoffenberg pivoted toward the door, thrusting his nearly full cup at David, who fumbled the unexpected handoff. The still-hot coffee soaked the sleeve of his jacket and spattered into a steaming puddle on the desktop.
Hissing through gritted teeth, he shook coffee off his hand as Dr. Kendrick surged out of his office and crowded behind the desk.
“Take off your jacket. Hurry. The fabric will hold the heat in.”
“I’m all right. Really. I can take care of it myself.”
“Like bloody hells you can. Jacket off. Run your hand under cold water. Now.” He grasped the lapels of David’s blazer as if he were about to forcibly assist in its removal, like some kind of goblin valet.
“Can we start my session?” Hoffenberg straddled the office threshold. “I have an appointment downtown at three thirty.”
Dr. Kendrick shot him a lethal glare. Lord. The client must be made of stern stuff if he could withstand that with nothing more than a lift of one eyebrow. “This doesn’t speak well for your progress, Jackson.”
Hoffenberg scarcely glanced at David. “I’ll wait for you inside.”
David closed his hands over Dr. Kendrick’s and removed them from his jacket, swallowing against the pain. The doctor’s eyes widened at the contact, and David noticed they were a beautiful gold-flecked hazel, as incongruous in the disfigured face as the sensitive lips.
“I’ll be fine. The client should be your first priority.” He shooed the doctor toward the open door and forced a smile. “The sooner you go, the sooner I’ll be able to treat my poor wounded paw.”
Dr. Kendrick went, but his over-the-shoulder glance at the office threshold made David’s breath hitch in his chest. God. Who’d have thought that Dr. Dementor could ever look that caring?
Alun closed the door, flattening one palm against it, his vision tinged with red, the muscles in his neck tight from fighting the urge to slam his client against the wall—not accepted clinical practice, even among supes. But Goddess, David’s pinched lips, his uneven breath, made Alun want to roar. He inhaled, chest expanding, eyes closed. Exhaling slowly, his fury once more in check, he turned to his client.
Jackson Hoffenberg, eldest son of the alpha of the Clackamas wolf pack—handsome, rich, educated, and angry as all the hells because despite his pedigree, his shifter gene was dormant. Effectively human, he was ineligible to assume pack leadership when his father stepped down.
“I believe you owe David an apology.”
Jackson sat in the precise center of the love seat and rested his arms along its back, a pretense of openness that Alun saw through as easily as if the man’s skull were made of glass.
“Why? He’s just a human. Surely it’s beneath you to employ one.” Jackson crossed his legs and smoothed the line of his trousers over his knee. “It’s certainly beneath me to apologize to one.”
Alun settled himself in the wingback chair, his elbows on the padded arms, his fingers laced loosely in front of him. He didn’t need to take notes because his recall was perfect—unfortunate when it came to eluding his past, highly advantageous in his current occupation.
“You could have seriously injured him.”
“He’s fine. He said so himself. Now. I’d like to discuss terminating this farce.”
Alun leaned back, perversely glad of his curse because he knew that desp
ite Jackson’s attempts at indifference, he was one of the few clients who found Alun’s appearance unsettling. “Your alpha reported the incident at the last council meeting.”
Nostrils flaring at the mention of his father, Jackson shrugged without lifting his arms from the back of the love seat. “Trivial.”
“He felt it significant enough to inform me of it. And what about your behavior to David just now? A week ago you wouldn’t have been so cavalier about injuring my office manager.”
Jackson’s eyes turned flinty, pinpricks of red flashing in the pale gray of his irises. “A week ago your office manager was Vanessa.”
Ah. As he’d suspected, Jackson still harbored resentment because Vanessa had mated a were from the Multnomah pack. Setting aside that Vanessa was ears over tail in love with her husband, Jackson’s inactive status barred him from mating anyone. Chalk up another grievance in the tale of Jackson Hoffenberg versus the Unfair World.
“Despite your claims to have overcome your anger-management issues, I don’t believe you’ve progressed enough to justify an end to our sessions. In fact, we may need to increase the frequency of your visits.”
Jackson’s brows lowered, and his lip lifted in a sneer. “I don’t have to listen to you.”
“Perhaps not. However, as long as you’re in pack-mandated treatment, I must listen to you. Let’s begin with the incident at the council meeting.”
“I have important pack business at the courthouse this afternoon.” He crossed his arms and lost his last shred of affability. “I don’t have time to waste with this nonsense.”
“Then I suggest you start talking.”
David waited until the door closed behind doctor and client, then stripped off his jacket.
“Ow ow ow, damn it, ow.” Now that Dr. Stoic wasn’t watching him, he could be a big baby and give in to the pain. The left sleeve of his blazer was completely soaked. It might never recover unless Aunt Cassie had a special stain remover in her bag of herbal tricks.
Cutie and the Beast Page 4
