Mallory's Hunt

by Jory Strong

  Dark nipples capped gorgeous breasts. Flat stomach led down to a small black triangle. Long legs that went on forever and felt just right around his waist.

  "Christ, you're beautiful."

  Model beautiful. Actress beautiful. Centerfold beautiful.

  Any other woman would have a hard time making it into his fantasies.

  Mallory's body hummed. It felt right with Matthew. Better than it ever had before.

  She closed the distance between their lower bodies, rubbed her foot along his calf, brushed a finger over the earring and promised herself she'd do the same with her mouth and tongue, smiled when a stroke there had his breath quickening and his cock lengthening against her stomach.

  "I bet you get your fair share of compliments."

  His lips kicked up at the corners, the same quick humor that had made her see past the fact he'd been in a titty bar and playing pool with Hayden the first time she saw him.

  "I'm all ears if you want to lay some on me," he said.

  "And swell your head."

  He glanced down, where his cock pressed against her. "That wouldn't be the only thing you're responsible for swelling."

  She laughed and leaned in, touched her mouth to his, repeated what she'd said before the tumble to the bed. "Is that a complaint?"

  He gave her the same answer as before. "Fuck no."

  Urgent need should have been tempered by satisfaction, allowing for simmer and build, the wet slide of lips against lips and quick, teasing forays of tongue.

  But the first kiss revived the hunger.

  She inhaled him. Pushed him onto his back so she could devour him.

  She took the earlobe with the stud into her mouth. Stroked it with her tongue. Sucked it.

  Her pelvis ground against his, the press and rub of her clitoris to his cock sending streaks of pleasure down her legs and upward to her breasts.

  Her toes curled. A throaty moan escaped when his hands cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples, creating a fierce need to have his mouth on them.

  "No fair," she panted.

  "There's no such thing as fair."

  "In that case…" She rose above him, rubbed her nipple against his lips, heat shivering through her to pool between her legs, to slicken and plump and prepare, her wetness lubricating his cock.

  "Jesus, you play dirty."

  "I've been told there's no such thing as fair."

  "True."

  His muscles bunched, a build of masculine strength before he rolled them, putting her beneath him, his heat like the rub of fur, his weight a natural demonstration of dominance.

  Primal need came roaring back. She moved against him. Enticement, not resistance, and thrilled at the look in his eyes, the change in his scent, the possessive claim of his lips when they returned to hers in long, drugging kisses.

  He moved lower, adding teeth and sucking bites.

  Her back arched at the press of his mouth to her throat. She moaned, hands roaming, nails scraping, wild craving erupting from deep inside her, deepened by the mark he left on her neck.

  He moved to her breasts. Latched onto a nipple, his lips delivering ecstasy at the same time they ratcheted up the need for more of it.

  She bucked and writhed, engulfed in flames that only got hotter with the touch of his mouth to her stomach.

  He kissed his way to her mound, lifting his head from her feverish skin and wet need to meet her eyes, holding them as he took in her scent, as his tongue darted, capturing her taste.

  Pleasure rippled through her, deeper than just the physical.

  He ducked his head, intensified that pleasure with carnal kisses that had soft, desperate sounds spilling from her throat with each thrust and swirl of his tongue, that had her hips lifting, driving her clitoris between his lips, that had her careening out of control, crying out as orgasm slammed through her.

  Matthew moved up her body, replaced wicked tongue with thick, hard cock. He filled her, catching her on the way down from bliss and driving her toward it again with frenzied thrusts ending in shuddering ecstasy for both of them.

  He remained on top of her, his weight like an anchor holding them in the moment. His eyes met hers. The corners of his mouth kicked up, pouring sunshine into her soul.

  "Now that took the edge off," he said.

  She laughed, heart swelling, wanting him to stay in her life, needing him.

  His mouth brushed hers.

  "I'm glad you left the dog with Mikhail."

  She smiled against his lips. "The dog has a name."

  "Your brother's."

  What would he say if she told him they were one and the same?

  "Yes."

  His hand went to the brand, palm sliding up and down, replacing remembered horror and pain with comfort and pleasure. "You've got one too."

  "Not by choice."

  "Your father kidnapped you when you were eight. He forced the brand on you. As a condition of leaving?"

  So he'd put it together, because he knew the others had brands, because the news had revived the story of her kidnapping, though he could have just as easily learned about her disappearance by Googling.

  "Yes."

  "He's not out of your life, is he?"

  "No."

  "Tell me about him."

  "He's nightmare and torment and damnation."

  And I'm his only daughter, the only one he'll have for a thousand years.

  Anything less would probably be the blink of an eye to a Reaper Lord.

  He wanted her strong. He'd brought her to Hell and made her live and run with pure Hounds. He'd returned Dane to this world and forced Mikhail into it before allowing her to come back to L.A. He'd manipulated her into becoming alpha so she would wield the gun, and while he might have sent Sabin as a potential mate, she thought he might be satisfied knowing Sabin made the pack—her pack—stronger.

  Information would make her stronger yet. So would forming alliances and gaining control of the abilities that would manifest because she was her sire's daughter. But, making Matthew a part of her life, being able to have what her mother had with Phillip, that's what fed her will and determination to be stronger.

  She touched her mouth to Matthew's, traced the seam of his lips with her tongue. Breathed him in. "Does it weigh on you? The killing?"

  "In the warehouse?"

  "There and when you were in the service."

  "No."

  His scent said otherwise.

  "Liar."

  "I've made my peace with what I had to do."

  She nuzzled his shoulder, inhaled. "Truth."

  The smallest shiver went through him, but fear didn't invade his scent.

  If he can accept this, why not the rest?

  He hadn't flinched at the things asked of him. He hadn't turned tail and run.

  Maybe, just maybe…

  "How did you make your peace with killing?"

  He shifted onto his side, a leg over her thighs, his torso angled so he remained above her.

  The dog tag he wore grazed her shoulder. She lifted it, transferring the warmth it'd gained from his skin to hers. The back was smooth. The front held the image of a machine gun standing upright, the stock thrust into a small mound of sand. Dropped onto the muzzle was a helmet, while above and to the sides and beneath was the message: Freedom Does Not Come Free.

  "How did I make peace with the killing? By believing that sacrifices need to be made for the greater good, for the things this country stands for."

  "But there's still guilt." His scent said as much.

  His eyes were dark pools of turmoil as they held hers. "Yeah, there's guilt, and living with it is part of the sacrifice, the same way losing your limbs or your sanity is. I've killed innocent people, civilians caught in the crossfire. I've hurt others."

  His hand surrounded hers on the dog tag. "There was a farmer. I watched him for days, working his farm, laughing with his wife, teaching his children. And when the order came, I dropped him with a sn
iper's bullet right in front of them."

  "What was he guilty of?"

  "Nothing. I found out later the intel was bad." His hand tightened on hers. "Too bad I don't have your sense of smell."

  She ached for him. There were no words she could offer that would lessen his pain and absolve his guilt. She stroked his cheek, offering comfort instead.

  He leaned in, touched his mouth to hers. "I can think of better things to do than relive the past."

  Her hand moved, fingers tangling in his hair. "Give me a hint about what they are."

  * * * * *

  Linden paced the office. He couldn't work. Couldn't remain still. Couldn't think of anything but his need for the girl.

  The stink of rabbit urine burned his nose. His ears ached from their screams.

  Dealing with the kittens had been worse. He'd reached his tolerance for it, leaving the remaining animals in the wire cages that lined the hallway outside the guest room.

  Though he knew the smell of fur and blood and urine no longer clung to his skin, he returned to the bathroom and washed his hands yet again. Unavoidably his thoughts went to the small corpse he'd disposed of. There was no satisfaction in putting the weight belts to good use.

  He'd make sure the sister—he'd think of her as April until he knew her real name—didn't kill herself. He'd stay the night with her, perhaps tranquilize her each time he left to make sure she remained safe.

  He wouldn't be able to keep her for long, maybe no more than a few days, but today's sacrifices would hold him, along with the ones he'd make tomorrow.

  There'd be no time for gaining her trust, for slowly seducing her into yielding. Force was out of the question. He would never resort to that. But drugs…

  Bile rose in his throat at the prospect of resorting to them, like some pervert. But the alternative, of having the need build and build and build—

  Julia's bedroom games wouldn't be enough to appease him, not for long. He'd become too accustomed to having an outlet, a way to keep Aubrey safe.

  Sweat gathered in his armpits.

  Anger flared, as minutes ticked away, getting further and further from when the call from Korotkin should have come.

  This was game playing, the Russian thinking he was the one in a position of power.

  Or he's been arrested.

  Panic flared. His fingerprints would be on the vodka glass.

  They prove nothing. There is no evidence I received the girl. There was no evidence I knew Korotkin dealt in human flesh.

  Linden's stomach cramped. What if the reason that the Russian hadn't called was because he was trying to find a substitute for a package that could no longer be delivered? What if the girls had made a suicide pact?

  His stomach churned. Shivers racked him, hard enough that for an instant he felt the same terror he had at stepping into the house and finding the magic totally drained.

  He knelt, hunching over the toilet bowl, bile turning into the swell and purge of vomit.

  He flushed, terror swirling away and disappearing along with the contents of his stomach. Anger took its place, that he'd been reduced to this. He was a survivor. He was meant for great things.

  After I deal with the remaining animals, I won't spend another day like this one, like some slaughterhouse worker, like some sick, pathetic weakling.

  The only face he could put to the reason for his troubles was the one shown to him on every news station—Mallory Cassel.

  He left the office. Fantasy gripped him, of taking the sister and using her to draw out the bounty hunter, of killing the one and therefore gaining plenty of time to enjoy the other before she too became a sacrifice.

  He had no intention of driving by the house where the girl—Sorcha—lived with her mother, father and brother, but he did.

  It was dark.

  He did not slow. He did not make a second pass.

  He went home, and though he slipped into the house quietly, Aubrey came running, bare feet slapping on hardwood floors, Zeus' toenails clacking as he trotted after her.

  Linden smiled, heart swelling. "What are you doing up so far past your bedtime?"

  "I couldn't sleep. Not until I checked to see if you felt good enough to come to the dog show."

  "I will absolutely, positively be there." He enfolded her in his arms, his love protecting her until she snuggled closer, trustingly pressing her body to his, stirring feelings he didn't want, needs denied for too many days now, first because one girl's actions goaded him into killing her, and then by another's self-serving suicide.

  "Go to bed," he said, slamming mental doors so that he didn't follow her there even in his thoughts.

  He couldn't go on like this. He needed an outlet, even a temporary one.

  Tomorrow he'd find one. He'd get to the house early, empty the cages, except perhaps for a kitten, something to keep the next girl company, something she'd love and wish to protect, something that could be used to ensure she had reason to remain alive and find ways of pleasing him.

  His footsteps slowed. Some of the tightness in his chest eased. Maybe he wouldn't need to mar his enjoyment by drugging the next girl.

  Julia watched a movie in the entertainment room. He dropped onto the couch next to her and immediately her hands were on his shoulders, massaging, reducing the tension.

  "Trying day?"

  "You have no idea."

  "You look better than you did this morning. I'm glad. Aubrey has tried to put on a brave front, but I know she's been worried you won't see all the things she's taught Zeus."

  "Nothing will keep me away."

  Julia laughed, arms sliding around him, breasts pressed against his back, her cheek rubbing his. "You're a good father. This town is full of men who only remember they have children when the police show up at the door or when they need to parade them out for a photo op. Speaking of which, I got an advance copy of the program. The camera loves Aubrey."

  Julia disengaged long enough to retrieve it from where it'd slipped into the space between cushion and couch end. She flipped it open to a picture of Aubrey sending the Old English Sheepdog over a white picket fence.

  Warmth flooded him, nearly able to make him forget everything else about his day. He took the program, flipped through it, mouth going suddenly dry, heart thundering at seeing the blonde girl working her mongrel terror. Grace North and Turbo.

  No! Too risky. Too closely associated.

  But desperation weakened the arguments he'd used numerous times before, even as he stood in Aubrey's room, looking at the class roster and knowing that if he wanted to, if he were willing to take a chance, to use enough magic, he could acquire this girl.

  Desperation provided clarity of thought, survival instinct kicking in. If a black man was seen taking her, he wouldn't be a suspect. He'd be a parent to be questioned about strangers he might have noticed, a man warned to remain on guard to keep his daughter safe.

  And he would. He would keep Aubrey safe.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 31

  Caleb's hands roamed Mallory's back beneath the silky fall of hair as they lay in her bed. Their breaths were synchronized, their heartbeats synchronized He wanted to keep pretending their lives could be synchronized.

  "You can't stick with me today," she said.

  He'd been expecting it. "Cutting me out now?"

  "For your own good. Stay away from us today, Matthew."

  His pulse sped, breaking the synchronization.

  Today was the day they'd identify their target. Today was the day they'd make their move and capture the man they intended to hunt.

  She rose, straddling him for a second time in the morning light, taking heat away from one place while the press of her sex to his cock intensified it in another.

  He snagged her wrist, holding her long enough to sit. He removed the tracker he wore and put it on her.

  The tag rested above the swell of her breasts, making it impossible not to claim her lips, then kiss downward, worshipping feminin
e curves and hardened nipples before returning to her mouth.

  Tender kisses grew rougher and rougher to match the fury in his chest, at himself, at her, at fate. "You don't have to go it alone," he said, words wrenched from his soul.

  "Today I do."

  "Talk to me, Mallory."

  And his heart beat harder as if they stood on a precipice—but it wasn't the job he thought about, it was his gut saying things weren't as they appeared, reminding him of all the times some deep primal instinct had urged him to flee.

  He stared into her eyes.

  What did she see when she stared back into his?

  "Look up Hellhounds," she finally said.

  He freed the hair tangled in his fingers, covered the scarring on her upper arm. "The brand?"

  "My sire's. He pressed the iron to my arm himself before letting me return."

  The phrasing sent a shudder through him before he could stop it.

  She pushed away.

  "I need to leave. Stay in bed if you want."

  He let her escape though he craved what he heard in her husky voice, what he saw in her eyes, that she liked thinking of him being there.

  She disappeared into the bathroom, emerged a short time later fresh from a shower.

  He wanted to forget everything and entice her back to bed.

  She headed toward the door. Stopped and came to him.

  One kiss became another and another, and they all tasted like desperation, but he couldn't tell if it was hers or his.

  "Let me go with you."

  "No." She separated herself from him.

  At the doorway she turned, eyes traveling over him, and his heart sped at the sensation she was committing the moment to memory, that the next time they were together, something would be irrevocably changed.

  "Help yourself to the coffee and whatever you can find to eat," she said, and left.

  He gave her enough time to drive away before he got out of bed. He retrieved his cell and launched the app to start tracking her movements.

  He ate a breakfast of eggs and toast, had a cup of coffee, then a second cup.

  He roamed her apartment. There wasn't any point in searching. His being left there alone said she didn't have anything to hide.