by Mel Teshco
Seducing the Huntress
Mel Teshco
Book 3 in the Nightmix series.
She wants to kill him. He wants to possess her body and give her ultimate pleasure.
Isabella suffered an unimaginable loss at the teeth and claws of a vicious nightmix. She grew up wanting nothing more than to hunt and kill every last shape-shifting black panther in the kingdom.
What she doesn’t expect is to go from hunter to hunted. Never expects to be captured by the nightmix monster, Reuben, and taken to his cabin, where he plays her body like a finely tuned instrument. Their erotic connection is explosive, but Reuben is the enemy.
Or is he…
A Romantica® fantasy erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
Seducing the Huntress
Mel Teshco
Chapter One
Isabella Daycroft shivered with excitement and not a small amount of fear as her father and his comrades thundered past on their mounts before disappearing into the pine forest. Didn’t her fellow hunters realize the bloodhounds had picked up a false trail and that the shape-shifting, monstrous black panther—nightmix—had been shadowing them the last few minutes?
Obviously not. Hoofbeats and baying dogs faded quickly into the distance when her wild-eyed gray mare pranced and tossed her head with a snort. Isabella ignored the mare’s skittish behavior and pulled the red hood of her shirt forward. She needed to ensure it concealed her face and freshly cut blonde hair.
It was for her own safety that her father had only recently allowed her on these hunts if she was disguised as a boy. To be attacked and killed by a nightmix was bad enough, but to be first raped by the thing if it turned human…?
Her mouth dried. She’d kill herself before allowing a filthy nightmix near her body.
Eyes narrowing, she searched for any movement through the trees. Despite her small stature, she could more than take care of herself. Her archery skill was unrivaled by all her peers, male and female. And that was despite the fact she hated killing wild animals and mostly practiced on clay targets.
Little wonder her father thought she was soft. But deep down she knew he wanted only to protect his last surviving kin, after a nightmix—a rare human and panthershape shifter offspring, cursed with an unnatural appetite for killing people—had murdered her twin brother fifteen years ago.
But her father had finally come to realize that nothing would stand in her way of destroying at least one of the beasts who took pleasure in killing humans.
Her hands clenched the reins, hatred for the thing they hunted burning through her body. The mare tossed her head with a snort, and Isabella leaned forward, stroking Millie’s silky soft neck in an attempt to settle her.
Swiping the sweat from her palm onto her pants, she turned the mare away from the direction of her group, who’d long since disappeared amongst the huge pine trees that made up the Scantia forest. Her comrades’ sole objective right then was to destroy the hated shape shifter.
Thankfully, Isabella was the least of their concern.
Good. She wanted no one’s help. This kill was hers alone.
She’d prove her worth. And though eradicating the nightmix monster mightn’t end the torment she carried within, it’d sure as hell ease the pain for a short while. Her father was the only other person who understood the need for vengeance that was burned into her psyche.
Her face went hot. Yes, destroying the nightmix would come all too easy.
She twitched at the hood of her shirt once again, resenting the distinct clothing of the nightmix dissenters. It was the same attire that’d once been worn by larakyte dissenters—humans who despised those who could shape-shift into silver panthers. But the bright color was little more than a beacon to their enemies. Surely it was beyond time they ditched the old ways and wore clothes that blended with their surrounds?
No, her people were zealous with tradition and venerated the dissenters of old. Nothing would persuade them to change their ways.
A twig snapped perhaps a hundred yards ahead. A grin twisted her lips, adrenaline for the hunt making her hands unsteady as she reached behind her back to draw an arrow from her quiver.
It was time.
Her mind emptied of all but her goal as she looped Millie’s reins over the pommel of her saddle and allowed the mare to surge back into a gallop. Using the pressure of her legs to steer her mare, she braced her bow and elevated it to the mark ahead, where she knew the bastard was hiding.
Waiting for her?
She frowned, her pulse thudding. She’d waited fifteen long years for this. Her father had already killed his share of nightmixes. It was her turn now. This was her chase. Her kill. She wouldn’t allow the beast to turn it around on her.
The huge nightmix bounded into plain sight. Millie didn’t slow. But Isabella’s aim wavered when the beast eyeballed her for perhaps a second or two before he swung around and backtracked, zigzagging in and out of the tree trunks ahead. Keeping just out of range.
Isabella’s breaths came short and fast. Damn it! She should have let her arrow loose while she’d had the chance! Her hands shook with the effort not to shoot and make up for her hesitation. But although her aim was nearly always true, she needed a clean shot.
She bit into her bottom lip, tasting blood. But the pain that lanced through her wasn’t physical, not in the least. A sob built in the base of her throat as memories—brutal and horrific—threatened to consume her. She choked them back. She’d give in to her emotions later if need be. First she’d avenge the death of her brother, Benjamin. Her murdered kin deserved that much at least.
The nightmix abruptly stopped and looked back, as if waiting, beckoning for her to follow him. Even from a distance she could make out its wide, distinct red eyes that stared at her with unblinking intelligence.
Every one of her muscles tensed. Did the beast think she wouldn’t have the nerve to hunt it down? Did it think she’d have second thoughts? She whooped loudly, urging the mare faster still before she released the arrow—simultaneously to her horse abruptly pitching forward.
Oh shit.
She hit the ground hard. A cry burst from her lips. Then she lay dazed and winded for long moments, unable to move. To breathe. And so angry at herself for a moment it hurt even more than her physical injuries.
The nightmix had deliberately led her toward the treacherous bog. And she’d fallen for it. Literally.
The bitter rage she kept just beneath the surface threatened to bubble over. With great effort she repressed the emotion. She needed her wits. She needed to assess the situation. But most of all, she needed to get back into the saddle.
She thrust the shirt’s hood off her head, ensuring nothing would obstruct her vision as she slowly scanned the area. Thank the goddess, the nightmix wasn’t anywhere in sight. She focused on Millie. The mare had managed to pull clear of the bog and stood still as she’d been trained to do, but the horse quivered with fright, ready to gallop home at the slightest provocation.
“Easy, Millie.” Isabella sat gingerly, taking in slow and steady, pine-scented breaths to fill her starved lungs. She squeezed her hands experimentally, relieved to find full range of movement. A slow smile spread across her face at the familiar weight of her smooth, hardwood bow. It would take more than a nasty fall for her to surrender her weapon.
She touched her brow, where a good-size lump had already formed. But it was the blood she could see pulsing through her pants from a deep gash on her thigh that worried her most.
She released a pained breath as she tried, without success, to lurch to her feet and take hold of the nearby reins dragging on the ground. Without Millie, survival wasn’t likely. Dizziness rushed at her before she crumpled onto her ass with a curse. Knees b
ent, she clutched at her wound to try to stem its flow.
Fighting for consciousness, she repressed a groan. She was such an idiot to deliberately go off on her own. Even if her people were to somehow stumble across her, she’d probably be long bled out. She wouldn’t last more than two or three hours at most.
Hands sticky with blood, she removed her quiver of arrows and pulled off her shirt. She used the material to bandage her thigh. But dread tightened her throat as crimson washed right through the already red material. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to gather her panicked thoughts.
She was in desperate need of the wort moss that thrived in moist areas of the Scantia forest, where it grew on the lower trunks of pines. When pressed onto a wound, the moss adhered and helped stop blood loss. But it was its naturally occurring coagulating agents that could well save her life.
She scanned the closest pine trees. Her belly roiled. Bloody hell, was there any moss growing in this part of the forest?
Millie let loose a nervous snort. All thought receded as the hairs on Isabella’s nape prickled to attention. Goddess help her, the nightmix was behind her. Ignoring sudden nausea, she slowly reached for an arrow from her quiver on the ground before raising and drawing her bow.
She turned, fighting off a fresh wave of giddiness thanks to her blood loss.
The black monster, easily twice the size of a normal panther, looked almost as bad as she felt. He staggered down a small incline with an arrow—her arrow—embedded deep in his chest. Her aim wavered. Odd, his brilliant eyes that were fixated on her weren’t aggressive or hate filled.
Quite the contrary. His stare appeared…gentle.
He could easily have attacked her. Instead he lay carefully on his side, panting and ever watchful.
Her vision blurred. Doubts suddenly accosted her. Was she really ready to kill this creature? She screwed her eyes shut for a millisecond before refocusing. She’d lost too much blood, it’d made her gullible. The beast was a nightmix. It didn’t have one good bone in its body!
Sweat dripped into her eyes even as she shivered with cold. Damn it, she wasn’t going to last much longer at this rate. The creature was obviously playing the waiting game. Then he’d eat her piece by leisurely piece as she lay unconscious on the ground.
He growled and shuddered, his bones grating and skin shrinking.
Fuck. While she’d drifted into indecision he’d already begun to shift.
Destroy it now, before it becomes like you!
She gritted her teeth and took aim. It was kill or be killed. She knew how much harder it’d be to send an arrow into something that appeared human.
Too late.
Her scant few seconds of weakness gave the beast enough time to fully shift shape.
Her muscles burned from holding point position. But she could no longer destroy the…man. Her breath ceased right along with thought as she stared and stared at every woman’s fantasy come to life.
If one discounted the arrow lodged low and deep in his shoulder, the male was stark naked, masculine perfection. From the top of his disheveled dark hair tipped with blond, to the wide shoulders, strong abs and long, muscled legs.
Her toes curled as inexplicable longing pulled at her.
She grimaced, shaking off her delusions. His angelic form carried a devil inside.
He chose that moment to look up. Her breath hissed. His eyes were no longer red. They were the brilliant blue of a darkening sky, filled with intelligence and…humanness. His stare holding hers, in one quick motion he grasped the arrow embedded in his shoulder and wrenched it free.
As his anguished cry pierced the air, she clenched her jaw and turned a deaf ear. If not for a nightmix attack, her brother would have turned twenty-three this year too, sharing a birthday with her. Spots filled her vision as she fought off another wave of dizziness. She swallowed. She’d die of blood loss soon and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. Didn’t mean she had to die alone. She squared her shoulders and re-sighted her target, aiming for his heart.
She wouldn’t miss this time. Her strength quickly ebbing, she released the arrow.
A dull thud sounded. Then everything went black.
She came to slowly, her thoughts muddled. The all-too-familiar rocking motion of being on horseback was soothing and pleasant, as was the hard human wall at her back. But when a vague scent of musky cat breached her nostrils, she stiffened.
Goddess help her, she was in the arms and at the mercy of a nightmix in his human form.
Her eyes flicked open wide. Millie’s head bobbed sedately up and down in front of her. This was the mare that wouldn’t let anyone near her, let alone ride her? But Millie’s defection was the least of her concern right then.
She stared straight ahead. A breeze tickled her torso, making her feel all kinds of exposed without her shirt. Guess she should be grateful she’d pulled on a bra top to aid her disguise, and for the practicalities of being on horseback. Not that the gauzy rakkia cloth covered overly much. It was why many of the hot-blooded Zaneean women who lived in the desert kingdom had embraced the “outer” wear.
She swallowed. Had the nightmix examined her half-naked form?
Fury stirred back to life within. The heat of her flushed face made her aware of the contrarily cool, soothing pressure on her thigh. She looked down. Wort moss peeked through the gash in her pants. The nightmix had tended to her?
Her belly sank. Did he plan to keep her alive so he could torture her first? Or worse? Her mouth dried and she fought to keep calm even as weakness threatened to pull her back under. “What do you want from me?” she croaked, staring straight ahead.
“Funny, I was about to ask you the same question.”
Her hands clenched and unclenched. “You already know what I want from you and your kind.”
“Let me take a guess,” he said in a lazily amused voice, “you want to rid the world of all us dangerous nightmix shape shifters.”
Antipathy rose as if bile in her throat, threatening to choke her. But at least the emotion gave her momentary strength. “Is it amusing to know that your life means death to countless humans?”
She sensed his despicable amusement even before amusement shook his shoulders and a deep belly laugh cracked the air. “Do you always make such sweeping accusations?”
Rage boiled over. But this once it wasn’t hot and impulsive. It was cold and analytical. He might have taken away her bow and arrow, but she wasn’t entirely defenseless. She twisted around, seeking the wound on his shoulder. Her breath caught. What should have been a gaping, bloodied wound was a pink and faint outline on his skin that had all but knitted together.
Shape-shifting bastard!
Bringing her elbow forward, she snapped it back. And hit his once-wound with a satisfying thud.
His breath whistled between clenched teeth.
Not quite healed after all. But her triumph didn’t last long. Using one powerful arm, he tugged her snug against him, trapping her arms to her sides and her spine to his front—well clear of his wound.
Her chest heaved as she fought for breath. Goddess help her, she’d aroused the bastard. His cock was thick and hard against her lower back, his nakedness all too apparent. She swallowed. Panic suffused her from the inside out, right along with something…carnal. Something she refused to even think about.
But with weakness already dragging at her body she had no chance against him if he acted on his aroused state. None at all.
“You’ve had your fun,” he growled. “But no more. You’re as weak as a kitten, you don’t need to use the last of your energy fighting me…”
His voice receded as if from a great distance and she somehow knew she was floating in and out of consciousness. She was half-aware of the sudden motion of galloping—or was she flying? Minutes or perhaps hours later, he was laying her on the ground. Her eyelids fluttered before she finally brought him into focus.
She swallowed back fear. He still hadn’t said what
he wanted from her. Had he?
His stare assessed her. Apparently satisfied she wasn’t dying any time soon, he carefully peeled the bloodied moss away from the wound on her thigh. Then placing the moss on Millie’s coat, he rubbed the mare with Isabella’s still-wet blood.
She frowned, uncomprehending. Why would he do that? Was she dreaming?
He stepped back, and then slapped Millie on the rump. “Yah!”
The mare jumped straight into a gallop and Isabella pressed a hand to her mouth, biting back a sob. She definitely wasn’t dreaming. The bastard had just made it plain as day what he wanted. The mare would find its way home covered in Isabella’s blood, where her people would assume she’d died at the hands—teeth and claws—of the nightmix.
He was making damn sure no one would come looking for her.
She would be at his mercy with no hope of rescue.
Chapter Two
“Please don’t,” she croaked. Her voice sounded far away. She sucked in a breath, fighting to stay clearheaded. “It will push my father over the edge if he thinks I was murdered.” And in no less than the same way her brother had been.
The monster in his human form looked impervious to her appeal. His face stayed unreadable and his stare indifferent. Her belly plummeted. But of course it made no sense to plead with a born killer.
His features blurred and a buzzing filled her ears. She opened her mouth, but whatever she was about to say disintegrated as all thought receded. The next thing she knew she was waking to the press of a soft, wet cloth on her brow.
Wood smoke and the faintest scent of soap and clean male tantalized her nostrils. A memory stirred as her eyelids slowly flickered open. “Where am I?”
It wasn’t until she focused on the dark-azure stare of the man—nightmix—crouched over her that everything rushed back into sharp focus.
Fuck.
Her eyes widened and she searched his stare for something…anything. “What have you done?” she bit out.
