The Hunter's Affection (Bloodwite Book 3)

by Cecelia Mecca

  “The place is looking good,” Garrett said.

  Torr agreed.

  He and his siblings had once spent a fair amount of time in Le Meurice, an elegant 5-star hotel in Paris, and even though Toni had been the driving force behind the bar’s decor, he could tell from the start his brother had been inspired by Le Meurice’s iconic Bar 228. Looking at it now, nearly finished, there was no doubt.

  Decorated with shades of brown, deep green, and muted gold, it had a warm but undoubtedly sophisticated air, elevated by the low lighting. The large circular bar in the center of the room with vaulted ceilings was a nod to the building’s banking heritage. The Vault was a singularly unique taphouse that he knew would be a hit.

  If Lawrence stayed in Stone Haven long enough to enjoy it.

  “I stepped into something here,” Garrett said.

  “No,” he started. Then, realizing who he was talking to, “Well, that’s damn annoying.”

  Garrett seemed to be settling into his abilities quite nicely. The ability to sense a lie would seem to come in handy.

  “So I’m going to head to Long Branch in a night or two to see what else I can track down.”

  Garrett’s search for information had led him to Rochester, where his father had grown up with his adopted family. He’d been able to discover that Long Branch, New Jersey, was not only where his father died, his empty kayak washed ashore, but also where his birth parents were from.

  “You’re welcome to come with Laria and me. There was mention of the Sect being connected to Lindisfarne in the journal. It may be nothing.” But tracking was in his blood, and he’d prefer to rule out the possibility of a Sect safe haven.

  He hadn’t planned on making the offer. Hadn’t even run it past his sister. But it felt like the right thing to do. Alessandra’s brother seemed a bit lost, as if he was no longer sure of his purpose in life now that he knew he was a Cheld.

  Yeah, and you really seem to have that figured out.

  He did. Torr’s purpose was to protect his brother’s bloodline. Period. End of story.

  And Lawrence and Laria.

  And Toni now too.

  And he supposed even Garrett and Alessandra.

  Although certainly not him . . .

  Garrett followed his gaze to Kenton, who was making himself useful helping Lawrence behind the bar.

  “I’ll keep your offer in mind. And Torr,” he said, still looking at Kenton, “he’s not a bad guy.”

  He glared at Garrett, who turned to meet his gaze.

  “I thought you were sworn to tell the truth,” he grumbled.

  “I detect it. Don’t have to tell it. But in this case—”

  Torr’s look shut him up, for now. In that silence, a pernicious voice in his mind whispered: Charlotte. You didn’t add Charlotte to your list.

  Charlotte.

  The one who didn’t want his protection because she’d rather do it herself.

  The one who mattered most of all.

  Chapter 23

  Charlotte half-expected her car to break down again, as if some cosmic event had brought her to this moment in time for history to repeat itself. Instead, the light turned green and she sped past the stoplight, no problems. She glanced in her rearview mirror to the side of the road where the nice stranger had helped push her car.

  If she were a vampire . . .

  Charlotte pushed aside the thought. That wasn’t going to happen.

  Torr had been abundantly clear about that on Sunday morning. And to punctuate his decision, he hadn’t called, texted, or otherwise tried to contact her in three days. Breaking down Tuesday after work, she’d walked to The Vault, expecting him to be there.

  But he wasn’t.

  She stayed to help, but Toni teased that she was so focused on the door it was a miracle she didn’t trip over her own feet. Eventually, her friend had shooed her home, begging her to get some rest.

  “You look terrible” were her exact words. Great.

  Finally, after two more days of torture, Charlotte had decided she couldn’t take it anymore. She’d taken another day off, packed her bags, and drove to her parents’ house.

  She would, of course, never miss the opening night of the bar and had promised Toni she’d be back Saturday for the soft opening, a Halloween eve costume party. Charlotte figured she’d worry about the actual costume later.

  As she pulled up her parents’ drive, she seriously contemplated turning back around to return to Stone Haven. It wasn’t as if she would find the kind of comfort she needed here. Her mother had never really been that kind of mother. But she didn’t have anywhere else to go. Besides, it was bear archery season, and her stepfather wouldn’t be around much. Which usually meant her mother was slightly less high-strung than usual.

  Thank God for small favors.

  This time, no attendant took her car. Parking it at the end of the circular driveway, Charlotte grabbed her bag and took a deep breath.

  “Well, this is a surprise.”

  As usual, her mother greeted her just inside the door. She never missed a beat. Charlotte would give her that.

  “I heard a car—”

  “Evening, Mother,” she said. “Where’s Marc?”

  If her mother’s pursed lips were any indication, he still hadn’t come home from work.

  “He’s meeting with a potential client—”

  “Client? Since when does he have clients?”

  Tossing her bag in the foyer, Charlotte followed her mother into the kitchen.

  “There’s a new piece of software he’s working on . . .”

  She waited, but her mother never finished. Like her father, Marc never stopped trying to “hit the big time.” Why couldn’t “comfortable” just be enough?

  “Did you eat supper?”

  “I did.” Her mother hated to cook, so she’d assumed it would be better to grab something on the way.

  “Good. Your stepfather is supposed to bring something back for me, but I don’t know what time he’ll be home.”

  Charlotte sat at the counter as her mother grabbed them each some lemon water from the fridge. It was all she drank, something about her gut health. Charlotte briefly considered asking for a diet soda but stopped herself. She was here for some peace and quiet. That goal would not be achievable if she admitted to drinking soda.

  Imagine if her mother knew even a fraction of the truth about Torr.

  “So, are you going to explain what you’re doing here on a Thursday night?”

  “Taking tomorrow off.”

  If it seemed an odd thing to do, her mother took the news in stride. At least, Charlotte thought so until she blurted, “A boy, then?”

  How astute. She was sort of right . . .

  “The one you brought here for the fundraiser?”

  Charlotte took a sip of water and nodded.

  “He seemed . . . awful protective of you.”

  “I thought you were going to say he seemed awful.”

  Torr hadn’t exactly been a pillar of politeness, but in his defense, he’d stuck up for her—something she hadn’t experienced a lot of with her parents.

  Her mother didn’t comment on that.

  “You broke up?”

  Like a doctor trying to get to the bottom of a patient’s symptoms rather than a mother hoping to understand the cause of her pain, her mother watched her face for clues.

  “Maybe we can talk about it tomorrow,” Charlotte said.

  A set of perfectly groomed eyebrows raised, but Charlotte would not budge. Not even under that stare.

  “Very well.”

  With that, her mother walked out of the kitchen. Charlotte sat with her water, thinking of the last time she’d been in this house. With Torr. The fateful night when two weeks of pure bliss had begun to go downhill.

  All because she’d asked for him to turn her.

  She understood his concerns, but the thought of being with him, unable to hold her own, was too much to ask. If his cause were to becom
e her own—a worthy one, to protect Cheld like Alessandra—then she would need the skills to protect herself. Without relying solely on Torr.

  She couldn’t even move her own car to the side of the road, and Charlotte hated that.

  “Sorry.” Her mother came back into the kitchen. “I thought I heard a car.”

  Always waiting. She’d tried so hard to get her mother to find her own way. Hobbies, more friends . . . anything that would give her another sense of purpose and enjoyment.

  “Do you ever get tired of waiting for him? On him?”

  Charlotte clasped her hand over her mouth. She hadn’t intended to say that out loud.

  Half-expecting her mother to walk up to her and slap her across the face for her insolence, she was shocked when her mother sat down beside her instead.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” her mother replied tightly. “Not really.”

  The hairs on her arms stood up straight.

  “But how could you not? Your whole life—”

  “Revolves around his,” her mother finished.

  Charlotte’s jaw dropped.

  “You think that’s news to me? Charlotte, I chose this life. I chose your father. And your stepfather. And though you may not agree with it—”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  Charlotte clamped her mouth shut.

  “We are very different, you and I,” her mother continued. Certainly she wouldn’t argue with that. “You don’t remember her, but you are like a carbon copy of my mother.”

  She never, ever spoke of her mother, who had died when Charlotte was six. There had to be something in that water—

  “Strong. Independent. Just like you.”

  Charlotte didn’t know what to say, so she listened instead.

  “I chose a different life,” her mother continued. “But there is power in that choice.”

  She blinked, figuring there was no better time than the present to speak her mind. “But things aren’t as they once were, Mother.”

  “You think I don’t know that? I do. But I have to believe we’ll get it all back.”

  Here was the delusional mother she knew and loved.

  “And if you don’t?”

  “Then your stepfather and I will have spent a lifetime with a spark of hope for our future. There are worse things in the world.”

  Yes, they were very, very different. And it struck her that she had judged her mother for that. For not wanting what she did. Not acting the way she acted. Not valuing the things she did.

  For leaving South Carolina, leaving her father. But that was wholly unfair. He’d made the decisions that had landed him in jail. Decisions her mother never knew about.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. She was about to say more, but before she could say another syllable, her mother stood up.

  And hugged her.

  Well, I’ll be.

  * * *

  “It’s looking good, Derrickson,” Kenton said. The group of them were arranged around the circular bar in now-familiar positions. Lawrence, of course, was behind it. Garrett had just left, his quick visit apparently a new norm for him. He’d not be coming with them after all, but instead was on his way to Long Branch, New Jersey. They’d tried to get him to stay for the opening, but he’d declined, saying he would be back before long.

  Torr couldn’t shake the feeling that it was the calm before the storm.

  Tomorrow, less than a hundred people would come to an invite-only masquerade party on the eve of Halloween at the newly opened The Vault Taphouse.

  Standing beside Lawrence, her arm draped around his shoulder, Toni beamed with excitement. It had been their vision, this bar, and together they’d worked night and day to turn it into a reality. He was both proud and excited for them both.

  Taking his drink to the actual vault, now an intimate space for two, he stared at the massive door, which now stood permanently open, and wondered how Lawrence had seen this bank and immediately thought it would be perfect for a bar.

  “Trying not to spoil the mood?”

  He watched Kenton approach.

  A tentative truce had sprung up between them over the past few days as they’d worked side by side to prepare the bar for its grand opening.

  “Good guess.”

  Having looked his fill at the vault, Torr slowly made his way to the front window. Kenton followed, and together they watched the busy Main Street. More than one curious glance was thrown their way. Thanks to an article in the local paper and a TV segment earlier in the week, most locals knew about The Vault by now. But it was the tourists who would sustain the business, and thanks to Halloween, this weekend would be busier than most. By Sunday evening, the streets had usually cleared out quite a bit, but that wouldn’t be the case on Halloween, a holiday that was always busy in Stone Haven owing to its interest in all things witchy.

  And the soft opening of the bar.

  “Not a guess,” Kenton said. “I’ve been there. And so has your brother.”

  Working with the man was one thing. Talking relationships with him very much another.

  “I appreciate what you—”

  “Do you want my advice?”

  He’d just been about to say that he did not, and Kenton’s laugh confirmed the Englishman knew it. Something told Torr he was about to get it anyway.

  “Turn her.”

  His hand froze midway to his mouth.

  “What did you just say?”

  “Turn her, Torr. There’s no good reason not to, especially if you’re going to mope around—”

  “I don’t mope.” He took a deep sip of his drink, grateful Garrett wasn’t with them to laugh at his blatant lie. All week, he’d been doing just that—moping about like some lovesick schoolboy.

  She’d come into his life and lit a fire under his ass. And just like that, it had been extinguished. He was madly, deeply in love with Charlotte Harris. That would never be extinguished.

  “Whatever you say.”

  “I must say, this is strange advice from the man who refuses to turn his fiancée.”

  “I don’t think so, Derrickson. We weren’t talking about me.”

  “It’s a fair observation.”

  “And a completely different situation. As yet we’ve found no evidence a Cheld can be turned. But Charlotte is human. And humans can be turned quite safely.”

  Logically, he knew that. But his concerns were not logical, and he knew it.

  “But it’s not her turning you truly fear, is it?”

  His hand tightened around his tumbler.

  “Do you remember your first tournament?” Kenton asked.

  Humoring him, for the sake of their tentative truce, Torr thought back to the very first time he’d accompanied his father and brothers to the Tournament of the North. The weeklong event had been intended to bring the border lords together, English and Scottish fighting in a controlled environment, once a year. Eventually, it had grown large enough to be attended by both kings.

  Participation in that particular tournament was something he’d dreamed of from the day he’d been old enough to wield a real sword.

  “Hard to forget the first time you’re knocked on your ass by your enemy,” he said.

  After watching both of his brothers advance to the second round of jousting, Torr had climbed his mount, staring straight ahead, terrified as hell. He could still remember the destrier’s heavy breathing under him and his brother’s squire shouting last-minute commands. He’d drawn the most skilled jouster on the field, but as his brother had reminded him, meeting Drake Morley in a contest of skill could easily be a precursor to facing him on the field of battle. And there, contestants weren’t matched by age or size. It would be a fight to the death, and the whole purpose of the tournament was to hone the skills they would need when it mattered.

  Though only one year his senior, Drake had been knighted at a young age and had attended three tournaments to his one. An
d he’d knocked Torr flat on his back in one pass.

  “You honed another skill instead,” Kenton said. “It didn’t take long for tales of ‘the Hunter’ to make their way across the border. A tracker like none other, a man who could find anything, or anyone. Which came in handy from time to time, if the rumors were true. Like the English reivers who stole old MacDuff’s cows.”

  “And his daughter.”

  “Nasty business, that. But you recovered both without starting a war.”

  “I assume you have a point, Morley?”

  Instead of taking offense at his tone, Kenton chuckled. “And here I thought your brother stubborn.”

  He motioned for the man to continue.

  “You learned a valuable lesson that day and turned your weakness into a strength. You adapted.”

  “Those were different times.”

  “In some ways, yes. In others, not so much. We still fight to survive every day. The risk of discovery, the Sect—”

  “Your own brothers.”

  “Even them.”

  Torr thought of his younger self, lying on the ground, winded, listening as cheers went up for his opponent. He’d been embarrassed. Ashamed. But more than anything, angry. At first he’d vowed never to lose another joust in his life. But he’d come to realize such a vow would be foolish—he’d only be setting himself up for failure.

  Instead, he had decided he’d never let the enemy get close enough to put a sword to his throat. He would forever be on the offense, never taken unaware. Seek. Disarm. Destroy. Or, in the case of the Cheld, protect.

  But he’d not been on the offensive this time. Charlotte had stripped away his armor nearly overnight, and it made him more than a little uneasy.

  He was so wrapped up in thought, he didn’t even notice when Kenton left his side. Hadn’t even noticed Kenton was no longer by his side

  Torr was lost in thought, in memory, and in speculation of a future he hadn’t sought—but one that had found him nonetheless. The question was, would he embrace it or lie on the ground, defeated?

  As if that were really a question . . .