Hunter's Need

by Shiloh Walker

  “Why?” she whispered against his mouth. Then she jerked her head away and glared at him. “And give me a straight answer, damn it.”

  “I already gave you a straight answer.” Duke combed her hair back from her face. “But you told me people said stupid things all the time, stupid things they didn’t mean. So I figured maybe I should show you that I did mean it.”

  I did mean it—Ana wanted to believe that. She blinked furiously, trying to hold back the tears blinding her. “You meant it. You really meant it?”

  He linked his arms around her waist, locking them at the small of her back. “Yeah, I meant it. I don’t much waste time saying things I don’t mean. I don’t see the point in it.” He skimmed his lips over her cheek, then along her jaw-line, down her neck. There, he brushed the neckline of her shirt aside and raked her neck with his teeth.

  A shudder wracked her body, from head to toe and back up again. Heat flashed through her, but for once, it didn’t threaten to overwhelm her, consume her. “You meant it,” she repeated dumbly. Maybe she hadn’t heard him right. Were they talking about the same thing?

  Duke chuckled and reached between them, toying with the buttons of her shirt. “I love you. I was born to love you. And you feel the same way, don’t you?”

  Cool air kissed her flesh. Startled, she glanced down and realized he had gotten her shirt completely unbuttoned. She hadn’t put a bra on—blood rushed to her cheeks as she stared down at her braless breasts and then shot a look back at the house.

  “Nobody’s there,” Duke whispered, tracing her collar-bone with his fingertips. “Nobody has been out here in a day or two. And it’s the only house down this road . . . lots of land. Plenty of privacy.”

  “You . . . uh . . . I guess you’d do better having a lot of privacy.” She licked her lips and looked at him from under her lashes.

  He was still watching her. Patiently. Expectantly. “You do better with privacy, too. Figure it’s the best for both of us.” He reached up and pushed her shirt back off her shoulders.

  It fell and caught at her elbows. She reached up and pressed her hands against his chest, flexed her fingers. “Privacy’s good.”

  “So are answers.” He pressed his brow to hers. “I gave you your answer, Ana. Can’t you answer mine?”

  I love you. She wanted to tell him, wanted to throw her arms around his neck and tell him, over and over. But she held back. This wasn’t right. Wasn’t good, not for him. Even back when she let herself daydream about having Duke in her life, she’d known it wasn’t right. Duke deserved better than her. He deserved so much more.

  “This isn’t good for you.” She blurted the words out before she lost her nerve. Pulling away from him, she jerked her shirt back up but her hands shook too much to button it. Instead, she just held it closed between her breasts. “This is bad for you. I’m bad for you. You’ve got to know that. Even if you . . . even if you think you feel how you’re saying, you have to know I’m bad for you. I’m not the kind of woman you need in your life, Duke. I’m not strong enough. You need somebody strong. Somebody more like you—”

  Duke reached out and hooked his hand in the front of her jeans, gently. She resisted. He jerked harder and she crashed into his chest with a startled “Ooommph.”

  “I know what I need,” he growled. When she would have argued, he covered her lips with his finger. “I know what I want, what I need. And it’s you, Ana. If I wanted somebody like me, I would have gone chasing after Kendall or half a dozen other women that I’ve met. I didn’t go after them, because I was too hung up on you and I have been, from the first damn time I laid eyes on you. I love you. I want you. I need you.”

  “But—”

  He cut her words off with a hard, short kiss. “Don’t want to hear it,” he snarled. “I love you. You don’t have the right to tell me what I need, or what I deserve. That’s my call, princess. Now give me an answer—do you love me?”

  Old doubts—so many of them—swarmed up, swamping her, pulling her down, destroying her. Staring into Duke’s stormy gray eyes, she gulped. Her hands were damp, cold with sweat, and her heart raced. Her breathing hitched in her throat. Tearing her gaze away from his, she stared at his chest. Couldn’t do this, not while he was looking at her like that. Like he really did love her. Like he really did need her.

  Like she mattered.

  “How?” she asked. “How can you love me?”

  “How?” He kissed her temple and stroked her hair. “Hell, Ana. How can I not? You’re stronger than you think. You’re better than you think. You . . . ”

  Blinking away the tears, she looked up at him. “I’m what?”

  “You’re everything.” Gray eyes, warm as a summer rain, gazed down at her.

  Her heart stuttered inside her chest, then melted as he kissed her. Soft. Slow.

  “Everything, Ana.” He cupped her cheek in his hand and whispered, “Let me in, princess. Give me a chance . . . give us a chance.”

  Hesitantly, she started to lower her shields. Complete and utter shock had her letting go of them altogether. Love. Desire. Need. She felt it welling inside Duke. Spilling out into her as she dropped her shields. It swarmed in. Swamped her. Pulled her under . . . and remade her.

  Swaying against him, she felt something inside her crumble—a wall of self-doubt and anger. Crumbling down into dust under the weight of the need she sensed inside him. Need . . . for her.

  He wanted her.

  He loved her.

  He needed her. Abruptly, she started to laugh, a giddy, elated laugh that felt altogether too foreign, and altogether too good. Throwing her arms around him, she covered his mouth with hers, even though she couldn’t quite manage to stop the giggles.

  Duke lifted her off the ground and spun her around. The world blurred around her, and then faded away, along with her laughter, as he slowed to a stop. They ended up by the Jeep, and he leaned back against it, holding her close as he kissed her.

  He kept his eyes open, watching her—as he took the kiss from gentle and light to deep and hard, he watched her. He eased back and reached up, once more taking the edges of her shirt and tugging them apart, pushing it down until it caught at her elbows again. They turned, until she had her back resting against the Jeep, trapped between a warm, hot body, and a warm, hard machine. Through her jeans, she could feel the warmth radiating through from the engine.

  “You still haven’t answered me,” he said, cupping her hips in his hands.

  “About what?” She groaned as he leaned forward and caught one nipple in his mouth and suckled deep, teasing the hardened tip with his tongue.

  “About whether or not you feel the same way.”

  From under her lashes, she looked at him. A smile teased her lips and she said, “You kept me waiting while we went on this little field trip.”

  Duke pulled away and groaned. “Damn it, Ana . . . ”

  “Shhh.” She caught him, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. Through the thick layers of denim, she could feel him, hard, thick, full—her belly clenched demandingly while a sweet, painful ache settled between her thighs. She draped her arms over his shoulders and pressed her brow to his, staring into his eyes. Lost in them. Lost in him. “I love you, Duke. I think I’ve always loved you.”

  He shuddered. His lids drooped low, shielding those enigmatic gray eyes. Then he looked at her, relief, delight, lust, love, all of it swirling in his eyes. “What . . . no teasing me? You’re not going to draw it out?”

  “Maybe we’ve both waited long enough.”

  He grinned. Against her lips, he muttered, “Damned straight.”

  Turn the page for a preview of

  VEIL OF SHADOWS

  BY SHILOH WALKER

  Coming Fall 2010 from Berkley Sensation!

  THE first time she saw the man, Laisyn Caar knew he was going to be trouble.

  Syn really, really didn’t have the time for it or the inclination to deal with it. Not that fate obviously gave a damn.

&n
bsp; Like a lot of the refugees they’d taken in over the years, he wore threadbare clothes and he carried little in the way of material goods. A lot of the refugees arrived on the base-camp on solar-powered glide-carts or riding a baern. The big pack beasts could carry two people easy, and they were somewhat protective of their owners and proved to be very handy guard animals.

  This man was on foot. He had a pack strapped to his back and enough weaponry to have her eyebrows going up.

  All those weapons, it was the first thing that set him apart.

  Even though he was surrounded by other refugees, he looked to be traveling alone—that was the second thing that set him apart.

  It wasn’t wise to go anywhere alone. Not here. Not even now that the Gate was out of commission. They no longer had to worry about raids from Anqar, but it was far from safe in their devastated pocket of the world. Demons ran amok in the heavy forests covering the valleys at the base of the Roinan Mountains. There were still Warlords, as well, those who had been in Ishtan when the Gate collapsed. Syn suspected those Warlords weren’t too damn happy about being trapped in a primitive, inferior world, good only for the slaves it provided for them.

  Going anywhere alone was a bad, bad idea.

  But there he was—a lone, rather wild looking wolf amid a bunch of scared and nervous sheep.

  His hair was black, as black as her own, but it didn’t have her blue-black hue to it. It was dense and dark, no hints of blue, red or brown. He wore it pulled back in a stubby tail that left his rough features unframed. He had high cheekbones, a broad forehead, and his mouth looked as though he never smiled. Broad shoulders stretched the worn cloth of his tunic. If it had ever had sleeves, he’d long since ripped or cut them off. His arms were long, tanned and roped with muscles. He had thick wrists and she had suspected part of the reason for those rather impressive arms was the blade she saw sticking over his shoulder.

  It wasn’t a sword. She didn’t need to see it to know that—long swords weren’t exactly the weapon of choice. Pulsars were—handheld weapons that delivered a pulsating blast that could either disable or kill. But all of her soldiers carried blades and they could use them if they had to.

  Somehow, Syn suspected this man would prefer the blade over the pulsar he had strapped to his thigh.

  The most arresting feature about this man wasn’t his weapons, or his face, or the way he seemed to take in everything with one quick, trained glance.

  It was the patch he wore over his left eye.

  She would bet the lack of vision on one side didn’t slow him down one bit. He kept to the back of the group and if she didn’t know better, she might have mistaken him for one of her own. Except for the threadbare clothes and noted lack of cavinir, the flexible body armor most of the rebels wore, he blended in perfectly with her troops. Ready and aware, fully prepared for danger even this close to the camp.

  It made her wonder how rough the journey from Sacril had been. It also reminded her that she had a job to do, and she forced herself to look away. It may be great fun to briefly ogle one of the more interesting men to enter through their gates. But doing so didn’t get the job done.

  Right now, she needed to get ready to speak with the commander, she needed to speak with men who’d accompanied the refugees and then, she had to speak with the refugees themselves. And that was going to be such fun.

  Sighing, she flicked a hand through her short, dark hair. “At least this is the last time.”

  She hoped.

  The Roinan territory was just too dangerous now. The refugee camps had been decimated over the past few weeks. Most of the refugees entering through the main gate didn’t realize it, but within a few days, they were going to be on an eastbound convoy. Kalen was evacuating the territory. Civilians wouldn’t be forced to leave, but they couldn’t remain in the camp and the only people getting an escort were those on the convoy.

  If they didn’t join the convoy, they were on their own.

  Once these refugees were out of here, the rebel army would focus on the demon infestation and only on the demon infestation. Splitting their time and energy between helping the refugees and culling the demons had proven too dangerous. They were losing lives, they were loosing ground, and losing both too fast.

  It had to stop. Considering their limited resources, they had to focus on the threat presented by the demons. It was the only logical choice.

  But somehow, Syn suspected these men and women weren’t going to be pleased with logic.

  IT was organized chaos.

  There was no other way to describe it. Xan stood on the sidelines, watching as the soldiers herded every last refugee into a long, low-ceilinged building.

  Two men stood at the door, questioning each person that entered.

  “Any combat experience? No? Sit on the right. Yes? Sit on the left. That’s all you need to do for now.”

  Any and all questions were ignored. But that didn’t keep the refugees from asking. The line moved interminably slow. Xan kept a light hand on one of the straps that held his pack in place, the other on the shorter blade at his waist. He had dealt with enough thieves over the past few months to know that none of them were above robbing people blind right under the noses of the only law this part of the world had.

  From all reports, this forsaken territory had been cut adrift, left to falter or thrive on its own as the rest of the world recovered.

  Well, perhaps the Roinan territory was not completely on its own. The outside still took in refugees. Xan had heard they even had “programs” designed to help the refugees integrate into life outside a war zone. Motivated by guilt, perhaps. It might be the only way they could allay the guilt they carried for allowing these people to fight a war that should have been fought by all.

  At one time, the raids from Anqar had been a worldwide concern, but after the other gates were destroyed, the world outside of the Roinan territory seemed content to pretend that everything was just as fine as could be.

  For some time, only Kalen Brenner and his army of rebels stood between the one remaining Gate and the rest of Ishtan. The rest of Ishtan seemed quite to content to let it remain so.

  But they took in the refugees who couldn’t fight.

  Sometimes, they even sent back supplies.

  When they remembered.

  Xan finally reached the door and met the gaze of the soldier closest to him. The man looked Xan over from head to toe and then a smile of camaraderie lit his face. “I don’t think I need to ask if you have combat experience, do I?”

  Xan just shrugged.

  “You do have combat experience, right?”

  He gave a curt nod and was waved inside. He didn’t sit. He took up a position with his back against the wall. He wasn’t the only one. A handful of others were doing the same, guarding their backs, even now, when they were in the one safehold this territory had. One by one, each of them met his gaze. A quick glance, a nod, and then they all resumed their survey of the crowd.

  Xan settled in beside them and started his own survey. It was a sorry lot of people, that was for certain.

  As more and more people packed in, he gripped his blade tighter.

  What in the hell had he gotten himself into?

  IT was standing room only. Close to three hundred, she figured. Fortunately, a good twenty percent of the number consisted of soldiers who’d made the decision to return east. They’d served at Sacril, one of the rebel outposts, and when Kalen made the decision to call them back, most of them had decided they’d just as soon join the convoy.

  Syn would be glad when this was over. She’d been glad when she could give her troops a clear, direct focus—the demons. She’d be glad when she no longer had to balance and juggle numbers to figure out how to provide the safety the refugees needed without compromising the safety of the camp and without cutting back on the efforts to secure more of their land.

  In short, she’d be glad when this day was over.

  It was hard enough maintaining order in
the post-war chaos, but dealing with a bunch of lost and scared civilians had her wishing for a dark quiet room, a hot bath and a big, bottomless glass of frostwine.

  Later, she could get the dark quiet room, and probably even the hot bath. She needed that hot bath, too. If nothing else, it might ease the raw ache of cold settled inside her. She was always cold these days, always chilled. Nothing helped for long.

  The frostwine would do a decent job of warding the cold off for a while, especially if she could have it with the bath. But that particular luxury was one she didn’t have. One she probably wouldn’t have again for years to come.

  She followed along behind Bron and Kenner, letting them clear the way while she took in the last group of refugees. The last . . . it was hard to even consider that idea. For as long as she’d been here, there had been refugees arriving at the camp. Most had come seeking to serve in the army, but over the past year or so, that number had slowed to a trickle. Too often now, those arriving at the camp had requests for “security” while the refugees tried to rebuild. Or food. Shelter for a few nights. Aid in rebuilding their homes.

  The rebel army’s resources were stretched thin as it was and these people wanted Kalen to give them yet more.

  Those with half a brain had abandoned this area years earlier. It seemed as though the only ones who remained were those in the base-camp—the rebel army. Except that was far from the truth. Every week brought in more refugees, many of them so gaunt and thin, it hurt to even look upon them.

  She didn’t need to ask their stories.

  She already knew.

  They fled to the mountains, fled to the north, to the south. They couldn’t go east—this was their home. Going east, to them, seemed too permanent, some kind of unspoken acknowledgment that they had given up. They had to stay. They wanted to rebuild. They just needed some help . . .

  That was the story.

  In actuality, they needed their heads examined.