by H. D. Gordon
In a voice so calm it chilled my own heart, I said, “You know what kind of males beat on females? Cowards, that’s who.”
“Rook! Watch out!”
Goldie’s voice echoed in my head and I released my hold on the Hound in time to duck the blow of one of the other Hounds who’d risen from their seats at the table. The Hound’s baton sliced through the air just above my head, the breeze of its wake stirring my hair.
The beast in me that relished the fight awoke like a dragon from a light slumber. It was always there. Always close. Always at odds with the other parts of me. On many long nights, when I would lie awake, unable to find dream’s doorstep, I would secretly worry that one day all that would be left of me was the beast within. With each life I took, it was like something essential was chipping away inside me.
But in the heat of the battle, when I yielded to that beast, these things made no matter. I ducked the blow of the Hound who’d snuck up on me, sweeping my leg out and knocking him off his feet. He hadn’t even landed on his tailbone before I had taken out the third Hound, punching him hard enough in the solar plexus to leave him gasping for air.
Mekhi was recovering by then. His lips were pulled back over his teeth, his eyes aglow, and his mangled fingers set at an unnatural angle. A deep growl issued from his throat.
“You stupid bitch,” he snarled, snatching the baton from his belt with his good hand and raising it into the air. “You’re gonna pay for that.”
He swung—hard enough to knock teeth out, but I was too fast for him. I danced back, the baton cutting through the air where my head had been just moments ago, and kicked a barstool with the sole of my boot. The stool skidded fast across the hard floor and knocked into Mekhi, the air rushing out of him in an oomph!
The other two Hounds circled, calculating and coordinating an attack now that they understood the degree of threat they were facing. One side of my mouth pulled up into a crooked grin, and I settled into a fighter’s stance, my right leg shifting back and my muscles loose and ready.
I met the Hounds’ gazes with the burning challenge in my own. It was too late now; I would pay for this dearly either way.
So I might as well make it good.
“Enough.”
The command echoed through the bar, drawing the attention of the three Hounds to the door, where the person who had issued it stood.
I could feel a presence there, standing before the swinging double doors, blocking out most of the light with a tall, wide form. But I didn’t dare flip my gaze away from the other Hounds, not when my body was still thrumming with the rhythm of battle, my tongue thick with the need to taste their blood.
However, as the three Hounds snapped to attention like children caught out of line, I realized that one of their superiors must have entered, and my gaze slid to the door at last.
His eyes were bluer than any Wolf’s I’d ever seen, and his hair was a shade of golden brown that nearly glistened in the sunlight. He was tall and lean and muscled, his skin a shade that suggested many kisses from the sun. By the way he carried himself, I knew he was indeed a Head Hound. Judging by the black uniform with the blue anchor sigil over his right breast, he belonged to Reagan Ramsey, Master of the West Coast Dog fighting ring, no doubt in town for the fights this weekend.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice deep and low.
Mekhi the Dipshit spoke first, jerking his chin in my direction. “This bitch was causing trouble,” he said, his chest somehow managing to puff out more. “We were handling it, though.”
My teeth ground together, and beside me, Goldie cringed, anticipating my snide remark. But the Head Hound spoke again before I could.
“Looked to me like she was handling you,” he said.
If I hadn’t been so stunned, I might have laughed. Mekhi, on the other hand, looked mad enough for steam to billow from his ears.
“Go back to your posts,” the Head Hound commanded, his tone allowing for no argument.
The two Hounds whose names I didn’t know started toward the door, but Mekhi held up his mangled fingers. “She did this,” he snarled. “She has to be whipped for it. It’s the law… sir.”
The growl that issued from the Head Hound’s throat was laced with enough warning that my stomach muscles clenched.
“I know the law, Mekhi,” was all he said.
Mekhi cast one more burning glance at him, during which I had to resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him like a child, before shoving out the double doors to join his weak ass companions.
The Head Hound with the golden brown hair and crystal blue eyes remained unmoving.
I pulled out a stool and slid atop it, giving him my back—an obvious show of disrespect.
From behind the bar, Bernard flashed me a warning look, and I could smell the fear floating off Goldie, who had apparently given up trying to talk sense into me. I appeared relaxed, but I fully anticipated an attack of some sort.
Instead, the blue-eyed Hound approached the bar and stood beside me, close enough that his large form towered over me in a way that made the hackles of my inner beast rise.
For a moment, he said nothing, but the clean, masculine scent of him filled my nose with his proximity. Still, I was tensed for an attack.
He ordered a neat of moonshine from Bernard, who poured the drink with watchful, anticipatory eyes. The Head Hound swallowed the alcohol in one deep gulp, set the glass down, and turned to look at me.
I kept my eyes forward, dismissive and unconcerned. I took a slow sip of my spiked apple juice and pretended not to notice his attention or location.
“You’re lucky I walked in when I did,” he growled, voice low and threatening.
My brow quirked, my eyes flicking toward him and away again in utter dismissal. “Pretty sure your boys were the lucky ones,” I said.
The look that flashed behind his eyes was so intimidating that I almost flinched, but managed not to. The shade of his gaze had turned to that of ice.
“Stay away from those males,” he said, too calmly. “I don’t know how things work here in the middle of nowhere, but those are not Hounds you want to mess with. So don’t be stupid, and stay in your place, Dog.”
With that, the Head Hound shoved away from the bar and exited.
I wasn’t aware of clenching my fist until a sharp pain shot through my palm where the glass that had held my moonshine and apple juice lie shattered between my fingers.
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Also by H. D. Gordon
The Alexa Montgomery Series
Blood Warrior
Half Black Soul
The Rise
Redemption
Heiress of Magic Trilogy
Born of Magic
Thief of Magic
Throne of Magic
The Aria Fae Series
The Halfling
The Masked Maiden
The Blue Beast
The Haunted Hero
The Wolf Wars Series
Moon Burned
Moon Broken
Moon Born
Moon Battle
The Blood Pack Trilogy
Moon of Fire
Moon of Shadows
About the Author
H. D. Gordon is the author of several urban fantasy novels. She is the mother of two amazing daughters, and a lover of kick-ass females, beautiful things, and nerdy t-shirts.
She believes our actions have ripple effects, and in the sacred mission of bringing love and light to the world.
H. D. spends her time with family, eating desserts, and taking strolls by the sea.
She resides in southern New Jersey—which she insists is really quite lovely.
For more information visit:
www.hdgordonbooks.com
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