Rogue Huntress: a new adult urban fantasy novel (Rogue Huntress Chronicles Book 1)

by Thea Atkinson

  Without seeming to notice or care, his hand moved down my calf. I watched his profile as he worked and wondered how I could ever have mistaken his rugged features and hardened jaw as those of a simple businessman.

  The first time I'd seen him, we'd been in a dark alley, granted, and I'd been hovering over a young man I'd just executed because he'd come at me with deadly intent, spewing threats about how he was going to rid the world of all us werewolves. Jeb had caught me just after the killing, when I'd been pondering what to do with the body, and I'd been surprised, yes. But that couldn't have been it. I'd been surprised plenty in my tenure. No. It had been the suit, I realized. How many times had Galen tried to teach me to read all of the information presented to me, not just one signal. Had I not been so disconcerted back in the alley about being caught by a human in the middle of executing a young hunter, I might have read the information correctly. I might have noticed the muscles in his neck, the way he carried his body as though every movement was a calculation. Perhaps some businessman possessed such deportment, but the tiny scar just beneath his ear lobe might have indicated to a real assassin that this man had been held at knife point before. The world of business simply didn't get that scary.

  Jeb still had hold of my ankle, and with the other hand was making tiny circles over my knee. In seconds, he would be close enough for me to slip my hands over his head and pull him beneath the water. I tried not to let my muscles tense to indicate any sense of intention because I couldn't afford to give a soldier like him that much warning.

  Soap moved to the inside of my thigh as his fingers whispered inward. I swallowed, trying to force down the clump that had suddenly taken over my throat. Just rage, I told myself. Indignation and fury and the need to escape. Even so, my collarbone ached with a peculiar tightness. My belly gurgled with something that had nothing to do with hunger. My mind's eye sent me a flash of both men coming at me. One at my feet, the other at my face. Strange that it wasn't with deadly intent that they came, but rather a lusty sort fantasy, with hands that travelled my flesh in delicious abandon. I gasped as the vision sent a shudder through me. I had to shake my head of the fantasy. This man had dug into my shoulder, the other had imprisoned me. In all my decades, my beast had never been so fickle, so contrary. It was used to being the strong one, the one with all the power. Even in the face of Caleb's superior strength, I'd always been smarter.

  It had to be the pain and stress. Nothing else made sense. I refocused by detaching myself from the way his fingers moved closer to my inner thighs, told myself that I could be free very soon. Just a few more inches. Even the burning in my wrists from the silver contact seemed to dissipate in the face of anticipation. For two seconds, I could imagine so vividly his face being pushed beneath the water, burying between my legs, that I surprised myself at the intensity of the pleasure that rippled through me. I wanted to kill him so badly, it seemed, that the thought of it made me moan out loud.

  In the next two seconds, his hand flew to my throat and I found myself thrashing beneath the water before my mind even realized he was drowning me.

  My first instinct was to cry out, and I pulled in a lung full of water. My mind gave way to the primitive instinct buried within the deepest tissues of our muscles. I kicked and bucked, fighting against the urge to drag in oxygen to fuel the struggle. Time stretched out like a rubber band.

  Then it snapped back and I found myself hanging over the tub, his grip on the back of my throat as I heaved out what felt like a gallon of soapy water.

  "Are you going to behave?" he said.

  "Bastard," I choked out. Soap burned my tongue and made my throat sting.

  "Are you going to behave?" His hand moved, shifting its hold on my neck to my chin as he knelt in front of me, peering up into my face.

  "You asked me why I was doing this," he said, running a calloused thumb over my chin. "I'll tell you: he has someoneI would not want killed because I let myself get taken in by a bit of smooth skin and baby blues."

  A flash of my own body knowledge struck me. He'd seen me. He knew how many scars marred its butter cream surface. I should have been proud of each one of them. "Not smooth," I coughed out.

  He grunted at that, and it could have meant anything.

  "I wasn't going to do anything," I said and then surrendered to a coughing fit that made my lungs burn.

  "You lie."

  He reached sideways with his free hand to pull a hand towel from the rack. As he mopped my face, I thought of all the ways I actually would kill him. Drowning was too simple. I was more creative than that.

  "Will you behave?" he asked.

  I nodded. I'd behave for now.

  "Good," he said.

  "You wouldn't have killed me," I said. "You need to do your little duty to your boss and he wants me alive."

  He nodded. "Smart girl," he said. "But that doesn't mean I'll let you rob me of someone I love. I will kill you before I do that. Are we clear?"

  I nodded meekly. My shoulder burned even more, the wrists that were cuffed by silver stung, but it was my lungs that were taking the worst hit. That and my pride. I remembered the way my body had responded to his touch as it moved up my thigh, the way I'd imagined his muscled flesh next to mine, and I seethed inside, wanting nothing more now, than to strike out at him and be done with it. With him.

  But I couldn't. Not now. I was growing weaker as the silver worked in my system. The pain of the bullet wound was eating at my resolve and the burning pain in my wrists each time I moved created a fresh wave of hell that I had to bite down on. The exhaustion was nothing to the need to get free.

  I needed to get the bullet out of my shoulder. I needed to get the hell out of the bath. And I needed to get this thing done and over with so that I could punish Caleb for what he had inflicted on my family. Jeb was second to all that. I had priorities. It was time I began thinking about them.

  I placed my palms on the edge of the tub and tried to push myself to my feet. Water sluiced down my body noisily and I ended up having to cling to the edge of the tub in case the bastard tried to dunk me again. I was nowhere near a full stand, rather squatted half way to my feet because the pain was making me dizzy.

  "Did Caleb say anything about digging this bullet out of my shoulder?"

  While he didn't avert his gaze, neither did he allow it to move below my shoulder. A brief seesawing of his jaw and no more until he spoke.

  "I imagine he won't dig that out until he's had you." Stoic tone. Stoic words. I wished he'd choke on them.

  "Had me," I echoed sarcastically, imagining those hateful hands on my body. "He'll get more than he bargains for."

  The crystalline eyes met mine and held them; for an instant, I forgot to breathe. When he spoke, the huskiness of his words nearly stole the rest of my strength.

  "I'm sure he will."

  It was as close to an apology as I imagined I was going to get.

  "I'm finished," I said, feeling sick and wanting out.

  He nodded and stood, reaching to the side to pick up a bath towel from the bar. He spread it open before me as though he were offering a truce, but I noted that he didn't turn his head to offer me any shred of dignity. Well, be damned. I shouldn't be ashamed of my body. It was a good body. Riddled by bruises and scars, he should see exactly how war-ravaged I was. How many wounds I had taken in service to my alpha. Taken and survived. He might offer me some respect then.

  I tried to climb out of the tub and discovered it was too deep and my knees too weak to hold me. I staggered and nearly fell, the pain in my shoulder making me cringe. He caught me, his fingers grazing the side of my breast as he sent his arm around me. One simple touch and my skin felt electric.

  "You're OK," he said. "I've got you."

  I glared at him, my chest shuddering suddenly. "I don't need you," I said. "I don't need anyone."

  "I know," he said. "But I'm here anyway." He wrapped the bath sheet around my front, twisting it behind me as I lifted my arms. Then he scoope
d beneath my knees, cradling me as he pulled me from the soapy water. I felt the thudding of his heart against my ribs for the moment he hesitated and then he dropped me gently onto the floor. His gaze whispered for a second over my mouth and throat, making it ache as though he'd touched my skin.

  "Lift your arms," he said as my soles met the tiles. With one hand on my waist, he reached for a roughened hand towel on the shelf with the other.

  "No funny business," he said even as I considered dropping my arms over his head and twisting his neck till he fell to the floor.

  "Wouldn't think of it," I said sweetly. Even so, I was dizzy with conflicting emotions and pain. I thought of the razor in his pocket and wondered if my fingers were deft enough to pluck it out unnoticed.

  He mopped up my neck and shoulders and then twisted the towel into my hair. I had to hold onto him to keep from stumbling and when he dabbed at the skin around my wound, no matter how tender his touch, I couldn't stop the tears from streaming. It hurt so damned much--I couldn't keep up the charade much longer.

  "Sorry about that," he said and his voice sounded throaty and hoarse.

  "Hurts like a bitch," I said.

  He nodded. "I know," he said. "But there was nothing for it."

  "I didn't mean the shoulder," I said, thinking of the assault Caleb had made on my pack, of seeing my family and their blood on the tiles.

  "I know that too," he said. I wished he would meet my eyes, but they seemed glued to my bandage. As though he were trying not to let his gaze fall anywhere more dangerous.

  I looked down at the towel wrapped around my torso and sighed, thinking I was close, so close to this being over.

  "I suppose that needs to be changed," I said, knowing the bandage was sopping wet. I felt heavy against my skin as though it were bagging out with an influx of water.

  A small thread of a smile touched his mouth before it disappeared. I had the feeling I was missing something. A message. But he didn't repeat it.

  "I had better get dressed." I made to back away, but he held me firm.

  "He won't expect you dressed," he said.

  His fingers went to my collarbone in exploration, tentative at first as though he fully expected me to throttle him, and strangely enough I allowed the touch as though it could somehow heal me. I caught my breath as I peered at him beneath lowered lids. He was a gorgeous man--not handsome like Caleb, just painfully, ruthlessly gorgeous. If he'd been a wolf, I'd have whimpered at his feet like a bitch. The thought made my throat ache. He wasn't a wolf. He was my jailer. Caleb's lackey. It didn't matter why he was those things. He just was.

  The moments stretched between us like soft toffee, sweet and sticky and it was only the sound of a door opening and closing in the other room that broke the spell.

  I felt him stiffen. "It's time," he finally said. "That will be the camera crew setting up. He won't be far behind."

  "Then so be it." I took a deep breath, and to camouflage my feeling of awkwardness and reinstate a sense of confidence, I hooked my thumb into the knot he'd made of the towel and pulled it. The towel puddled around my feet. I stepped over the material toward him and laughed as he stumbled backwards.

  "What's wrong?" I said. "It's just a bit of skin. You've seen the whole dessert menu anyway, cherries, whipped cream and all."

  His jaw clenched for one second as he took me in. "I'm more of a meat and potatoes guy."

  He took off his suit jacket and threw it at me. It landed on my head and draped over my chest. For a blazing second, I was in a crate again, wrapped in a sack my mother had put me in. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't break the surface of the flood of adrenaline that shot through me, squeezing out anything but the flailing spastic movement of my limbs. I had to get it off. I couldn't get it off. I ended up tangling the sleeves around my neck. They wouldn't release. They had me in a knotted grip that left me open and vulnerable to attack, blind and naked and afraid. I was ten again, fighting my way from that sack with blind panic. I lost my breath, yanking at anything I could grab. The bullet in my shoulder screeched at me with every terrified movement.

  Before I could catch my breath his hands were on my shoulders.

  "Stop," he said, plucking at the jacket. "Stop."

  My limbs automatically stilled. I dragged in a breath through the material. It came to my lungs hot and dusty.

  He pulled the jacket away and I met his blue eyes with mine. He had a hand towel in his grasp, and he wound it silently around my wrists beneath the cuffs, cushioning the metal, relieving the sting of silver. Within the depths, this close up, his eyes were quiet, controlled. Flecks of black marred one iris. I hiccuped.

  "That's it, Shana," he said. "You're OK."

  "The hell I am," I admitted and an encouraging smile threaded itself across his face.

  "Sure you are. You're a warrior. And warriors do what they have to to protect those they love."

  I gathered the hiccups into a choking gasp. "Damn right I'm a warrior."

  He nodded. "A warrior does what she needs to."

  "Yes." He was hypnotizing me with those eyes, I knew it. I expected him to snap his fingers and I'd be padding my way into the bedroom and vamping my body for the entire world to see.

  He gripped me by the shoulders. "A warrior understands one battle is not the war."

  He seemed to be waiting for something. His face was inches from mine. I smelled his aftershave and the gunpowder on his shirt, the blood on his hand where the jailer had peeled away a piece of skin. Even as I was trying to work out what it was, he leaned in and touched my mouth with his. My throat ached at the contact, sending an electric shock through my collarbone.

  "The bullet has been out for hours already," he murmured against my lips, then he turned heel and, in direct violation of his orders from Caleb, left me alone, blinking in surprise.

  Apple Juice

  Out. My right hand, cuffed to my left, flew to my shoulder and dug beneath the bandage. My fingers buzzed like they'd been shocked when they touched a hard metal and misformed chunk. I scoured my fevered memories, recalling the way Jeb had worked over me, his comments that it was out. I gasped as I stood there and realization struck me. He'd not been torturing me at all. He'd dug the bullet from the tissues and bandaged it against my wound so I'd think it was still there, and to keep me from transforming. I had to cram my fingers in my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. The only thing keeping me from letting the beast out now was this set of cuffs.

  And Jeb had left. Cunning. So cunning. He hated Caleb, that was obvious, but what could he gain from dislodging the bullet for me? A gift was a gift but I wasn't foolish enough to mistake it for anything other than a Trojan horse. Did it matter? It took me several moments before I realized the moment for what it was: a perfect opportunity gifted to me by a man just as imprisoned by Caleb as I was. Whatever else had motivated him, I would make use of it. His reminder of my heritage clarified things for me and I thought of my mother. A werewolf of pretentious but astute suspicions, she always stored things in the oddest of places in the off chance she might need it: a knife, a gun, poisons of all sorts. She was a wolf with a distinct lack of trust for anything that didn't come from her own body, and she never left one moment of vulnerability to chance. She might have been mated to the alpha but she was careful never to take her safety for granted.

  All of that had been so many decades ago, and this wing abandoned for so long, that I'd got used to never coming here. I'd even managed to bury thoughts of my real mother and replace them with the very present reality of the young woman I'd begun to think of as my mother in the original's stead. A far kinder woman, more matronly. The woman Caleb had murdered along with my father in his bid for the leadership. That didn't negate the fact I'd been born to a different woman--one who was ruthlessly selfish and paranoid, one who taught me the value of those qualities.

  I'd asked her about it once, back when I was a preteen and we'd lived in East London a few decades after the Ripper was foully afoot and setting t
he city on edge. She'd told me that a woman never believed in a man's loyalty or promises of protection. A woman, and especially a she-wolf, had to watch herself at all times, trust her instincts more than her eyes. She never answered me more than that, but I always assumed it had something to do with the revolting human murderer that preyed on the women of the night.

  She had several favorite hiding places in her mansion and Caleb would have been as aware that they existed as I was. I could imagine that Caleb wouldn't have found all of them, not as many as she'd created of the mansion: under floor tiles, behind loose bricks in the fireplaces, inside and above the lintels of the closets. But this bathroom, as he'd said, was her sanctuary. Few were allowed in.

  I flew to the toilet tank and stared down at the cover. With the cuffs on, it would be difficult to lift, but I could leverage the corner if I was careful to make enough noise to mask the sound of the cover being scraped off the tank. I leaned into the wall for support and flushed the toilet with my foot, all the while easing the corner of the cover away. I managed to work it off enough that I could peer down into the water by the time the tank was finished flushing. Even as the water streamed back in, I felt my own chest flooding with relief. As if by some miracle, I had selected the right side to reveal the treasure within.

  To the casual eye, the tank would look like it was harboring a harmless mickey of gin. I smiled to myself. I knew better. My mother often let it slip she needed a nip now and again, to smooth out the rough edges. She had carefully cultivated the illusion of addiction even with my father so that some of her more obvious hiding places became so mundane in everyone's eyes, they ceased to look like hiding places at all.

  Within that tiny bottle rested water so laced with wolfsbane that it would burn a werewolf's gut purely from the inhalation of the fumes. I stuck my hand into the tank and extracted it, wondering where in the hell I would secret it that neither Caleb nor Jeb would find it till it was appropriate.