The Hunt: Complete Edition

by Anne Marsh

  He growled, tossing a steel shortknife through the air to pierce the ground between them.

  “Use it,” he snapped, “on the death spirit if it charges. Eyes. Mouth. Heart. Twist hard.”

  The blade quivered between them, shivering from the force of Jafar’s throw. A good two inches of the steel were buried in the ground. Now at least she’d have a weapon to defend herself if necessary. Something told him she knew precisely how to use the weapon. Reassured, he snapped his eyes up, searching for his opponent. He didn’t have far to look.

  The death spirit floated lazily on the ceiling, all loose, lanky streamers that rippled with rot and decay. One of the younger spirits and a hothead to boot, it had plagued the Guardians a dozen times or more in the last two months alone. Usually, Jafar preferred to simply remove the death spirits to the most remote regions of the temple, but now he didn’t have a choice. There was no containing this spirit; bloodlust had consumed it. In his left hand, Jafar idly tossed a second blade up and down, catching and spinning the knife by the haft when it landed. Wait for it. Force the spirit to commit to a path.

  Jafar slid one foot into a fighting stance. Had the spirit recognized a Cat—or had it simply scented prey, and easy, female prey at that?

  “You don’t want to do this.” Jafar deliberately met and held the eyes of the spirit, making one last attempt to reason with it.

  The spirit’s eyes glowed in the soft twilight of the passageway. “Yes. Yes. Yes,” it hissed. “Die.” So much for reason. Jafar leapt lightly to the far side of the tunnel, drawing the spirit away from his companion. The spirit dove tauntingly near his head, coming close but not within striking distance.

  “Fight me,” it hissed. “Or shall I take her?”

  Over his dead body. Tightening his right hand firmly around the hilt of his shortknife, he deliberately relaxed his wrist. His eyes tracked his opponent, waiting for an opportunity. The death spirit would give him one. Spirits always did. Too simple in their thinking, they did not understand the need to wait. To plot. And then to strike. The spirit’s eyes flickered and Jafar’s knees flexed, his inside arm rising to protect his vulnerable chest.

  Come and get me.

  Surprisingly, his companion didn’t look shocked by the appearance of the death spirit. No. She looked calculating. Most of the tomb robbers he’d met would have been frightened. A typical Hunt virgin would be shrieking by now. Her calm confused the spirit even more. Clearly, it wasn’t used to being met by silence.

  “Will you win?” she asked. Running her fingers lightly over his blade, she stared around the tunnel, as though committing her escape route to memory. What was she planning?

  “Yes,” he bit out. “If you can manage to be quiet for a minute.”

  She actually laughed.

  Perched upside down on the ceiling now, the death spirit growled again. It didn’t like the shift in focus. Or the lack of fear on their part. Fortunately, his companion didn’t appear to understand the consequences of a loss here. In the unlikely event that the death spirit won, it would rip out her throat without hesitation— unless it was in the market for a human bride, in which case it would settle for planting its razor-sharp claws in her flesh and dragging her off to its lair. There, it would alternate between mating and tearing at her until she was dead.

  “Carry on,” she said, settling herself back on her rocky seat.

  With an earsplitting shriek, the death spirit launched itself from the ceiling, slashing its beak downward with a sharp cry.

  Jafar met the descending weapon with his own. Sparks flew as beak and blade met and clashed. Pushing the spirit backward with the force of his own counterthrust, Jafar held the knife close to his own body as he circled. The blade flashed almost invisibly as it streaked along its trajectory.

  First one thin dark scratch blossomed on the spirit’s torso and then another. Already dead, it could not bleed blood. Instead, it lost psychic energy. With each slash, the outline of the spirit faded a little bit more. Jafar knew his face radiated a feral intensity that was not quite human, but that couldn’t be helped. His companion would eventually understand who he was. What he was.

  “Mine,” he growled.

  The spirit responded with a pithy curse.

  Going on the offensive, Jafar drove the spirit toward the wall, delivering another series of brutal blows. Jamming the point of his knife between two ribs, he probed. Twisted. Beneath the seeking point, the spirit’s small ember of life popped.

  With a sharp crack, the spirit disappeared.

  Whirling, Jafar advanced on the second order of business: his femi.

  ***

  One large, hot, aggressive male backed her against the wall. His right hand pinned her shoulder to the wall, forcing her to drop the shortknife, while the other traced the curve of her jaw. She wanted to push him away. Redraw the boundaries between them. They were flirting with something dangerous and she needed to retreat. Establish her authority.

  “Where were we?” he asked, his voice a low, hot rasp of sound. His legs pinioned hers. One nudge and her thighs would part around his. He felt so good pressed against her. Demanding. Hard.

  She licked her lips. “Discussing your employment.” Which suddenly seemed like a useful idea.

  “Yes. My employment.” His lip curled, his teeth gleaming in the semitwilight of the tunnel. “Care to reconsider my offer?”

  “Why, yes.” A small, sinfully sweet smile curled her lips. “I do. Price,” she said decisively.

  His eyes snapped to her face. “Excuse me?” You could bottle the arrogance in that voice. Apparently Mr. High-and-Mighty didn’t like having a price tag attached to his ass, so she figured she should savor the moment. Keeping his arrogance in check was going to be a full-time job.

  “What do you charge for this protection?”

  His eyes dipped to the shadow of her collarbone but his hands didn’t move from where they gripped her. Hard, but not hurting her. She didn’t know whether to applaud his discipline—or bemoan it.

  “You want to pay me,” he said flatly. The heated warmth in his eyes dimmed, and he reached up to capture her face between his hands.

  “It’s customary,” she agreed. “And before you say it, think again. I don’t trade sexplay.” Although he certainly tempted her to make an exception.

  “Money.” The hands in her hair tightened, drawing her head backward. “I’m not here for your money.”

  No money. No sexplay. So why was he really here?

  “Consider me bought and paid for.” An unreadable look flashed through his eyes. “I’m here to watch after you.” His gaze hardened. “That would be the nonnegotiable part of this deal.”

  Her instincts were flashing a great big “Caution— danger ahead!” warning. Of course, she reflected, that could also be her hormones kicking into overdrive. Something about the big male made her want to take him to the ground in a lip-lock of epic proportions. What would it be like to make him lose control, have all that raw power unleashed on her?

  Trading him sexplay for muscle wouldn’t be bad at all if a girl didn’t mind being dominated in bed. The man bracing her against the wall wouldn’t take anyone’s orders—least of all in the bedroom. She’d be at his mercy in every way, and she wouldn’t enjoy that.

  Would she?

  Snap out of it, she warned herself. Focus on the job. Not on the unmistakable outline of his cock pressing against her hip. “You’re a prepaid present. No financial outlay and I don’t owe you anything at all when this little journey of ours wraps up. Right.” She let the skepticism flood her voice. “I’m not that gullible. Who sent you? The Master?”

  Instead of answering, he looked deep into her eyes. “I swear you will reach your destination alive.”

  She remembered the effortless ease with which he’d gutted the death spirit. He’d turn all that leashed violence on anyone—or anything—that stood between her and the necklace. With his help, she’d get out of here more quickly. Be on her way bac
k to ransom Lore before too much damage had been done to her sister. She couldn’t afford to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.

  “Consider yourself hired.”

  He nodded curtly. “Tell me your name.”

  Shaking her head, she shoved free of him. “Unnecessary.”

  She realized her mistake instantly. Eyes glowing, he

  lowered the full weight of his body onto hers, spreading her ruthlessly open against the wall before she could so much as blink.

  ***

  “It’s very necessary,” he growled, using his thighs to part her legs. Her body was deliciously soft, even as she squirmed angrily. Channeling his aggression into a hot, hard kiss, he threaded his hands through her hair, holding her head still.

  “Wait,” she gasped, her voice smoky with emotion. Good.

  “I’m waiting for your name,” he bit out. She might have tried to shake her head, but his hands held her still. Her tongue shot out and licked the pink skin of her upper lip, but she did not speak.

  His eyes held hers as his mouth descended. Deliberately, he licked a damp path along her upper lip, pressing a firm, sensual stroke against her skin. Demanding an entry. She tasted hotter, sweeter than he’d imagined. The soft skin of her upper lip brushed his, her lips parting on a small, needy breath, and he swallowed the exhalation.

  His.

  With a masculine growl of satisfaction, he increased the pressure of his lips. Not hurting her, but allowing his larger body to dominate hers. Surrounding her in a heated cage of his flesh. His tongue traced the seam of her lips again and this time he let his teeth nip delicately at her softer skin. He’d take from her the way she’d sought to take from him. She’d come down to his temple looking for something, and now she’d get what she had coming to her. He could snap her neck now, end it all, but he wanted more from her.

  He wanted satisfaction.

  He wanted her.

  He wasn’t good at coaxing. Hell, Amun Ra should

  have sent Sanur—that Cat was a silver-tongued bastard and his females drove the rest of them crazy, coming back and mooning over the dark-haired Guardian. Sanur would have had the secret out of her in minutes—and never mind that Jafar’s Cat growled warningly at the mental image of Sanur wrapping his arms around this female.

  “Open up,” he demanded, inhaling her scent, drawing her taste deep inside him as she gasped in reaction. Her lips parted, let him invade her hot sweetness and he was lost, his Cat purring with a sensual recognition he’d never found before. His femi wanted him, even if she wouldn’t admit it.

  He could live with that.

  For now.

  Later, later he could teach her to revel in his sensual dominance. Hear the whispered pleas she’d give him for her own sensual satisfaction. In time, she’d give him that. Right now, he wanted just one word.

  “Give me your name,” he repeated, letting her retreat a little.

  Her breath huffed out in a small sigh. “There are conventions to be adhered to here. Name telling—not one of them.” She shook her head. Hell, she wouldn’t give an inch, would she? No, she had to make this deliciously hard.

  “I’ll tell you my name. It’s Jafar,” he offered, switching tactics and making her a present of his name.

  She was unappreciative. “Still no.”

  “You will tell me,” he warned.

  “Make me,” she dared, holding her breath.

  Did she think he would not? What were the males like where she came from? His leg pushed hers farther apart. He was bigger, stronger, and wouldn’t hesitate to use his body to dominate hers.

  “Do as I say, little femi,” he growled.

  She shot him a look that seemed to say she would pick her battles.

  “You may call me Miu,” she capitulated, but there was no surrender in her bold gaze.

  Miu. He drew her scent deeper into his lungs, then, responding to the challenge in her eyes, lowered his lips to hers again.

  She was a thief, but she tasted so very right. She moaned into his mouth and his cock thickened further with each feminine whimper. She’d lied to Amun Ra and she hadn’t been honest with him, but here, in his arms, her body was brutally honest. He could smell the spicy musk of her arousal.

  Pressing a last, hard kiss against her mouth, he let her go. She didn’t acknowledge his sensual dominance—but her breasts rose and fell more quickly beneath their filmy covering of silk.

  His femi had enjoyed being dominated.

  Or she’d simply enjoyed him.

  Without pausing, Miu bent and scooped up her pack from the ground—his eyes followed the delicious curve of her ass, selecting his next point of attack— and shot him a triumphant look before sliding her legs over the edge of the opening in the floor. “Follow me, merck,” she ordered, and then jumped down into the darkness.

  “Right,” he gritted out, lowering himself after her.

  She hadn’t won their battle of wills yet.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  She just couldn’t win.

  Dropping down through the hole, Miu discovered another series of bewildering passageways, but none of them could take her mind off what had almost happened. The hottest kiss she’d ever been on the receiving end of.

  She needed to get her libido under control. The merck—Jafar—was a convenient bodyguard. He couldn’t possibly be anything more.

  Striding down the passageway, she noted fewer exit points. The few shafts she spotted merely cut up toward other corridors, circulating the already stale, warm air through the lower depths. Most were too small to allow anything other than currents of air— and assorted creepy crawlies—to circulate, but you never knew. Maybe one could be large enough to accommodate a female body in need of a hasty exit. Mark your exits. Rule number one.

  Her thoughts kept returning to that damn kiss.

  The kiss that had left her head—and her body—at sixes and sevens.

  Her head knew she needed his protection, but her body wanted much more. And that could be just as dangerous to her well-being as any death spirit lurking in the temple.

  When his hand closed over her shoulder, she stared down at it silently, willing him to remove it, willing herself to ignore the thrill of pleasure she felt as he rubbed slow circles over her collarbone. Even as she stared at the offending digit, the large hand whipped away and clapped itself over her mouth. His other hand looped around her waist and pulled her quickly and efficiently into one of the many small storerooms that led off of the main corridor on this level.

  “Shhh,” the now-familiar voice growled in her ear. Jafar slid the door closed, leaving only a thin crack. “Company,” he explained tersely. His hands tightened on her waist as if he didn’t want to let her go.

  Fine. Her nerves prickled, making his large body a welcome warmth at her back. In the thick ink of the small room, he seemed both larger and stronger than before.

  His attention was fixed on the passageway they’d just abandoned.

  “Listen,” he breathed against her neck.

  She fought the urge to stiffen, to betray her nervousness about whoever was approaching.

  “Not going to hurt you,” he muttered, misunderstanding her apprehension. “Gave my word. Watch.” The large hands shifted her forward another step, his body following until she was pinned between the cold stone and him.

  The flarestick was abruptly extinguished and she blinked.

  The sound of someone running echoed through the passage. The footsteps were light, but erratic. A small body. Female. And not conditioned for that sort of rigorous exercise—harsh panting accompanied each urgent footfall as the runner struggled for breath. Miu heard no sounds of pursuit—and yet . . .

  “The Hunt?” she whispered.

  She felt rather than saw his nod.

  The female burst into the corridor, holding a flarestick. Miu was uncomfortably relieved to realize that the runner was not the young girl she’d stood next to in the procession. This woman was of medium build, curvy
, her dark hair intricately braided into hundreds of careful coils. The familiar white silk robe of a potential mate fluttered around her with each step she took. Flummoxed by a split in the corridor, the woman stood indecisively.

  What followed her into the corridor had Miu’s blood pounding wildly in her veins.

  A massive cat, ears flattened against its tufted mane, streaked out from the darkness. Impossibly large, the Cat stood seven feet from its massive paws to its dark, tufted head. Eyes glowing in the light of the flarestick, the animal crowded the woman toward the wall.

  Heqet save her, Miu swore silently.

  Left, she wanted to howl. Take the left tunnel. Or the right. Either choice was futile—the Cat would have its prey in seconds—but just standing there seemed so wrong.

  “Good puss,” the woman murmured in a throaty voice.

  “She likes him,” an amused voice whispered in Miu’s ear. She bit back a squeak of surprise as Jafar’s arms pulled her up against his body, his legs pressing into the backs of hers. He held her still, immobilized between his warmth and the stone.

  She wanted to fight those hard arms—no one had held her down since she’d been given her thief mark. Burned into her forearm, the black scars circled her flesh like a lover’s fingers, thin enough to cover with a bracelet, if she had wanted to. She never did. She wouldn’t hide from what she’d become—or forget who controlled her. As if on cue, the mark burned. The pain, she knew, was merely a warning. A small taste of what the Master could deliver when—and wherever— he wanted.

  “Watch,” Jafar growled.

  Desperate to forget her memories, she did. The large cat shimmered in the air as he leapt toward the woman. She just stood there, arms by her sides, watching him come. The feline shape wavered and then, in the blink of an eye, disappeared. A large, rawboned man stalked toward the woman. His eyes devoured her even as his hands reached out.

  “The stories are true.” She was shocked to her core.

  “Of course.” Jafar sounded satisfied. Smug. “He’s found his mate.”