by Moira Rogers
Satira disappeared with a muffled curse, her booted footsteps falling so close together Hunter thought she might have actually fled. He hoped she had. It would make killing Archer easier.
Archer grinned, apparently unconcerned by the danger. “What can I say, kid? You don’t hide your secrets very well. Is it the perfume? I admit, it’s some damn intoxicating shit.”
The thought of Archer sinking his nose into Ophelia’s unbound blonde hair curled Hunter’s hands into clawlike fists. “Bite your fucking tongue, or I’ll rip it out.”
“Make me, pretty boy.”
Wilder stomped around the corner. “What the fuck is going on?”
With the older bloodhound’s temper on edge and Satira’s scent lingering in the hallway, a sane man might have retreated.
Hunter snarled. “I’m working up to killing Archer.”
“Any particular reason?”
Archer shrugged. “Kid’s a little touchy today.”
Hunter’s fingers prickled, and he wondered if he could actually sprout monstrous claws, even with the full moon weeks away. “Because that ugly bastard won’t stop poking at me.”
Wilder glowered at them both. “Satira and I are leaving. Can you two get through dinner without making asses of yourselves, or do you need to leave now too?”
The last thing he wanted to do was head to the brothel, where he’d have to endure awkward small talk with Ophelia’s friend while waiting for madness to overtake him. “I’m going out back to train.”
“Whatever you two do, behave yourselves.” Wilder grumbled under his breath as he stalked away.
“Dinner,” Archer mused aloud. “May as well sit down for a nice meal before I go.”
Alone. With Ophelia.
The bastard was trying to get a rise out of him, and Hunter needed to be too controlled to let it happen. Too superior, too confident, too human.
He repeated those virtues to himself more than once as he lunged toward Archer, ready to drive a fist into—through—his jaw.
Archer took the hit with a laugh and launched a counterattack, a single, hard punch to Hunter’s midsection, hard enough to drive the air from him. Even so, bitter satisfaction came with the pain. It felt good to fight, as if the sheer release of violence served some higher purpose far beyond his rage.
This was what he was reborn to be. A fighter. Snarling, Hunter weaved out of the way of Archer’s next swing and came up underneath it, catching the other hound’s wrist in a bruising grip as he twisted his hand.
Archer’s laughter vanished, and he cursed bitterly and snatched at Hunter’s head. As he closed his fist in his hair, cold water splashed over them. Archer stumbled back, sputtering.
Ophelia lowered the bucket. “Are you finished?”
Icy water dripped down the back of Hunter’s neck, cutting a chilling path between his shoulders. It should have doused the heat of his anger, but Ophelia’s presence twisted the world until every breath rattled in his chest.
At least she wasn’t looking at Archer with particular fondness, and that made it possible to speak. “Yes.”
She avoided his gaze. “Dinner is on the table, but I think both of you should consider going to Sylvie’s. Now.”
Hunter shifted his attention to Archer, his hands clenching into fists. Most of the time the older hound treated him with a gruff sort of friendliness, offering advice and assistance as often as sharp words or laughter.
Now, he licked his lower lip as he backed away. “Yeah, I think I’ll head on over. Not hungry, really, and there’s nothing much to do here. May as well.”
Tension rooted Hunter in place until Archer disappeared into the back of the house. A deep breath dragged in the scent of Ophelia’s perfume—and it was intoxicating, an exotic flower with a hint of something earthy beneath it—and now he wanted to bury his face in her hair. Or anywhere else she’d let him.
Instead he tried to apologize. “I can fetch some rags and clean up in here.”
She sighed. “The longer you stay, the more riled up you’re going to be when you get to Sylvie’s. Are you trying to frighten yourself, Hunter?”
“No.” And it was true. With Archer gone, the blistering rage had mellowed to a warm throb that held more heat than hatred. “It’s not so bad when the other bloodhounds aren’t around.”
Ophelia swallowed hard and looked away. “Have you thought about why that might be?”
He couldn’t stop watching her pale, smooth throat. He wanted to nuzzle it. Taste it. Bite it. “No.”
The bucket rattled in her hand. When she met his gaze, her eyes were filled with anger—and hurt. “She’s waiting for you.”
Words were more impossible than usual. Somewhere inside him, what was left of Matthew Underwood railed at this tongue-tied stupidity. He should know how to make this right, how to coax her to speak, how to wrap her in charm and care and soothe whatever hurt her.
She was sending him away. To another woman’s bed, where he would do unspeakable things, carnal acts that might have heated his blood if he believed he’d have the sense to enjoy them or the memory of experiencing them.
A stumbling apology would only prolong the agony. So he turned blindly, unconcerned that the path he’d chosen led deeper into the house. The bloodhound manor was a labyrinth of additions and passages. Eventually he’d find his way to an exit.
He’d endure this new moon as he had to—and be better prepared for the next.
Chapter Four
Sylvie’s message had been cryptic and terse, quickly delivered words that had raised more questions than they answered.
If you don’t wish to owe me money by the end of the evening, ride your retired little ass over here, sweetheart.
Ophelia urged her mount faster, riding through the twilight toward Sylvie’s house on the edge of town. Red and amber lights came into view first, glittering in the distance, and slowly the stark outline of the rambling house began to take shape against the darkening sky.
She slid off her horse as the groom ran forward to snatch up the reins. “Where is she, Fremont?”
“In her suite, Miss Ophelia.” The usually steel-nerved young man was pale enough that his freckles stood out in the light from the flickering, old-fashioned lantern. “She asked if you might take the outside stairs to her balcony to avoid alarming the other patrons. But hurry, ma’am. It ain’t a pretty sight, to be sure.”
“What happened?” she demanded as she stripped off her riding gloves. The question was mostly rhetorical, since Sylvie was a smart enough businesswoman to keep any real problems under wraps, but Ophelia’s fear was getting the best of her.
When she reached the balcony, she rapped on the French doors leading inside. They opened a heartbeat later, revealing a disheveled Sylvie dressed in a rumpled but expensive gown. “You lied to me, love. I’m very cross with you.”
“I did not lie, but I admit I suspect he did.” She stepped in and pushed up each ruffled sleeve of her friend’s robe in turn, looking for bruises. “Did he hurt you?”
Sylvie jerked her hands away with an impatient noise. “Of course not. I know my work. But he’s locked himself in my bathroom, and I paid a fortune for one of those fancy New York inventors to fix it up with plumbing and electricity. If he rips the pipes off the wall, I’ll be furious.”
The flippant words masked real anxiety, though not for herself. Ophelia squared her shoulders. “I can handle him, I know I can. If you can do me a favor.”
“If your next words are lend me your bedroom, I do hope you’re going to follow them up with, and I’ll buy you new bedding.” Sylvie arched both eyebrows. “Italian silk.”
If nothing else, they could bill it to the Guild. “Done. Now get out so I can save your washroom.”
Sylvie raised a hand to cup Ophelia’s cheek. “Be careful. I won’t say I’ve never seen bloodhounds acting this wild. I have, and I’ve handled them. But I’ve never seen one worse off. Not one who could come back.”
The words would
chill her if she let them, so she shook her head. “He’s still there. Wilder and Archer got him through the full moon, and I’ll get him through the new.”
“If you’re sure.” Sylvie turned to her desk and swept up a small stack of leather-bound books. “I’ve cleared the other two suites in this wing. I’ll be in the one closest to the main stairs. Do you know how to operate the speaker? It connects directly to the kitchen, and they’ll send up anything you need.”
It hadn’t been so terribly long since she’d been in a place like this. “I’ll manage.”
When Sylvie had gone, Ophelia approached the full-length mirror beside the bed. Her hair was a mess, so she pulled the pins and shook it free. For a moment, she considered undressing and slipping into one of the extra gowns from the wardrobe. But they bore Sylvie’s scent, not her own, and there was no way to know how Hunter would react.
She exhaled a curse along with her sigh. She never should have let him leave the house, not after the violent way he’d reacted to Archer speaking of her. If Hunter had hurt Sylvie, it would have been Ophelia’s fault for not pressing him to face the truth.
Like it or not, he wanted her.
She laid her hand against the bathroom door, then knocked softly. “Hunter? It’s me.”
The sound of pacing footsteps gave way to harsh breaths, each one a seeming effort. “Ophelia?”
She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the wood. “Open the door, honey.”
Something thumped against the wall to her right. A fist, maybe, or Hunter’s body. His snarl was low and rough. “I don’t want her. I won’t take her.”
“She’s gone. It’s just us now.”
Hesitation. She could almost taste his suspicion in the heavy silence between them. Then the lock clicked and the door edged open, revealing a glimpse of his bare chest and wild hair hanging over stormy blue eyes. “Just us?”
She could give him words, gentle and reassuring. Instead, she reached through the open door and trailed her hand down the center of his chest. “Come out, Hunter.”
The door vanished, thrown open with such force it bounced against the inside wall. But he was already there, falling on her like a bird streaking from the sky. He gripped the back of her neck, his fingers digging into her hair as he forced her body over his other arm in a vulnerable arc.
For an endless moment he only stared at her, breath whistling through his teeth as the heat of him wrapped around her. “Say yes.” Not a command. A shaking plea.
It didn’t matter that she already had. All that mattered was this moment, and him knowing he wasn’t demanding something she didn’t want to give. “Yes.”
He swallowed the word with a rough kiss that laid claim to more than her body, and for more than the new moon. His teeth closed on her lip with a growl, only to be replaced by his tongue, stroking in an imperious demand for entry.
She opened her mouth with a shudder, her head spinning. It was only a kiss, full of more hunger than skill, but her body responded with a shaky need she hadn’t anticipated.
That was when she knew. Hunter had been lying to himself, but so had she.
Her ready obedience seemed to soothe some of his madness. The fist in her hair relaxed enough to cradle the back of her head, and he eased her closer, until her body was pressed tight to his chest.
But the kiss went on and on, the kiss of a starving man grasping at sustenance he’d denied himself too long. She smoothed her fingers through his hair and down to his shoulders, testing the strength beneath his heated skin.
Tension hardened the muscles, and a warning growl vibrated against her lips.
Still fighting for control, even now, when no such thing existed for either of them. Ophelia worked her hands between them and tugged at the buttons securing her bodice.
This time he drew back and nipped at her jaw as he released her hair and wrapped his fingers around her wrist. “I won’t be managed. Don’t say yes if you want to manage me.”
“I’m not. I don’t want to.” She twisted far enough to lick his earlobe. “I need you.”
He shook. “Put your hands behind your back.”
She closed her eyes and obeyed. “Am I not allowed to touch you?”
“Not yet.” The arm around her waist moved to trap her wrists, and he smiled against her cheek. “Give your body to me, pretty Ophelia. I’ll do wonderful things to you.”
She didn’t want to lie passively as he pleasured her. She wanted to share it with him, give him back the same pleasure in turn—but only one thing was really important right now. “What do you need from me?”
“Open your eyes.”
His voice had turned to a growl, more untamed beast than man. Ophelia looked up, met his gaze.
Dark, dark blue, like a frozen pond, except there was nothing cold about him. His mouth burned as he brushed his lips over hers. “Come to bed with me.”
He still had her hands trapped behind her back. She stretched up, chasing his mouth, and shivered when her tongue touched his. “Anything, Hunter.”
His teeth caught the tip of her tongue in a playful nip, only to release as he laughed, dark and hungry, and swept her off the floor. “Anything?”
She’d never made such a promise before, and wouldn’t have done it lightly. “Anything.”
Instead of tumbling her to the bed, he sank to the edge and let her body slide to the floor between his knees. “Undress.”
Her hands shook on the buttons of her dress. She’d never been so clumsy, so undone by the heat in a man’s gaze that she’d fumbled this badly. The world faded as Hunter watched her, leaving her starving and impatient.
She shrugged out of the sleeves and her dress fell to her hips, baring the skimpy French silk basque she wore beneath.
He touched her. Gently enough, though the roughened tips of his fingers abraded her skin as he traced the swell of her breast. “You’re beautiful on your knees.”
“Thank you.” Ophelia pushed off her shoes and rose, letting the dress drop to the floor. She brushed the pile of linen and leather aside and knelt before him again.
“Beautiful,” he echoed, and for a moment, he almost sounded like himself. Calmer, at least, for all the heat in his roving gaze. Then he stood. “Undress me.”
His chest was already bare, so she licked her lips and reached for his trousers. “Just undress you?”
He stroked her hair, ran his fingers through the loose strands before sinking deep to wrap the length around one fist. “For now.”
Ophelia rubbed her head against his hand, relishing the firm tug of his fingers in her hair as she left his trousers hanging open and pulled off his boots, one after the other. Then she returned to his pants, easing them down, drawing her fingertips slowly over hot skin and hard muscle.
Arousal threatened to cut off her breath. “I don’t know how long I can do this.”
He pulled her head back until her eyes met his. “Which game do you wish to play, Ophelia? Sweet submission, or wild domination?”
Both. Neither. “I want you. That isn’t a game to me.”
Helpless laughter rattled from his chest, dark and dangerous. “It has to be a game. Because the only thing that makes me hotter than watching you on your knees is the idea of letting you loose so I can catch you and put you there again.”
She could sense the fear beneath his words. “Then do it, Hunter. Chase me, hold me, whatever you need. Don’t play or try to think. Feel me. Let go.”
He did, literally, releasing her hair as he sank to the bed again. “Touch me.” Barely words, almost a snarled command. “Touch me until I make you stop.”
He could, at any moment, and there were so many things she longed to do. Ophelia rubbed her cheek up his thigh, then followed the same path with her tongue. His cock jumped, and she wrapped her hand around the base of his shaft to hold him still for a single, slow lick.
That brought his hands back, both of them twisting in her hair as he groaned. “Again.”
T
he more he gave in, the more she wanted to push him. She licked her lips again and slipped them, tight and wet, down around the head of his cock.
“Is this what you want to do?” he rasped, even as his cock hardened further under her attentions.
In the secret dreams she’d shared with no one, she’d done so much more. Ophelia leaned up, licked his stomach and nipped at his chest before climbing into his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled everything she could reach—his cheek, his shoulder. The curve of his neck.
He let her, doing little more than rumbling his approval as she rubbed against him. When she brushed her lips over his ear, he bent to close his teeth on the silk strap lying across her shoulder. One jerk tugged it free, and the next time he closed his teeth on her skin.
She would bruise. She wanted to, to have something to remind both of them of this when his sense returned. “Harder.”
His touch vanished. Returned, but as strong hands around her waist. He upended her in a surge of flexing muscles, twisting to throw her onto her stomach. The mattress was plush enough to soften her impact, but in a heartbeat he was over her, straddling her thighs before bending to bite the back of her bared shoulder.
Trapped. At his mercy. Ophelia closed her eyes with a moan. “Yes.”
The next nip focused on the curve where her shoulder met her neck. He twisted her hair out of the way with one hand, the other braced on the bed next to her. “You can use that pretty mouth again later.” He licked her spine. “After I taste you.”
She arched under him. The teasing was inescapable, part of the way bloodhounds fed the beasts inside. Only her pleasure, intense and hard-won, would satisfy him.
He worked his way down her body, tracing her spine with rough bites soothed by the rasp of his tongue. When his lower body shifted off her legs, he growled and slipped a hand to her waist. “Lift your hips for me.”
She did, and he urged her up until she was on her knees. She moaned and turned her face to the mattress as he smoothed those rough fingers up to cup her breast, tugging at her nipple with a rumble of pleasure.
