Profane Devotion (Hellhounds of Purgatory #1)
Chapter 1 – One Month Ago
One
Hunter
One Month Ago
“There’s only one human for Ammon Strong.”
Hunter rolled his eyes as he followed his pack leader into the quaint-looking bar. The old man had found his mate. Wonderful. He got it. No need to run it into the ground.
Ammon had raised him from a newly created pup, and Hunter appreciated him for it, but the old hellhound always had a flair for the melodramatic.
Was that why he enforced this uniform of all-black ensembles Hunter found so annoying? Was a splash of color so offensive? He didn’t mind wearing a suit, but the shirt was black as well. Not even a pocket square.
Hunter loved a pocket square.
Maybe when all Hunter’s brothers arrived in town, he could convince them to gang up on Ammon and fight for some better outfits. Purgatory, Massachusetts wouldn’t know what hit them when all the Strong brothers reunited.
Capes and kilts sounded amazing.
As the two of them entered Jim’s Garden Bar, Hunter took in the scene, focusing on Tristan Ward.
The skinny jeans-wearing man was the owner of the bar and Ammon’s mate.
He leaned against the counter with a casual and confident smile on his face.
It matched the well-loved furnishings around him.
Between the carpet—balding in places—and the bar top—in desperate need of a fresh coat of varnish—there was a scrappiness to it.
It was easy for Hunter to feel at home here.
Despite his annoyance at Ammon’s uncharacteristic fawning, Hunter had grown to like Tristan. The human had a good head on his shoulders and, more importantly, didn’t put up with Ammon’s shit.
As Ammon started up a conversation with his mate and another customer, an older dandy of a man sporting sparkling cufflinks named Tyrone, Hunter noticed a slumped-over figure one seat over. The person swayed, brushing against the older customer.
“‘Only one human,’ huh? What an odd way to put it. Well, you are one lucky human, Tristan,” the older man replied to Ammon as the slumped-over figure roused to reveal himself as a clean-shaven guy in his mid-twenties. He wore a smoothly pressed black button-down with a white clerical collar.
Damn, the priest was handsome, with his cleft chin and perfectly coiffed caramel hair. Such a waste.
Butterflies sprang up in Hunter’s stomach at the sight of him, but he forcefully tamped them down. Any romantic interest in one of Heaven’s servants would be a colossal pain in the ass.
“Lucky humans…I’m not a lucky human…” Ammon and Tristan both turned toward the mumbling priest. Their attention made Hunter uneasy. He wanted to protect the poor guy, who was clearly going through something intense.
Intense enough to get blackout drunk on a Tuesday, anyway.
“You’re okay, buddy,” Tyrone said. “You just need to sleep it off a little.”
“No!” The priest grew animated, but soon relaxed back into a gentle stupor. The temptation to reach out and stroke the man’s fluffy hair was strong, but Hunter knew better. “Sleeping is the worst part…”
“I didn’t serve him that many drinks,” Tristan said, furrowing his brow. “He never gets this drunk. No idea what’s wrong. Do you know him, Tyrone?”
“Father Roy?” The older man shrugged. “He’s the associate pastor over at St. Stephen’s. Rumor is he’s had trouble with the pastor, Father McDonagh. I’m not Catholic, so I don’t have more tea. He’s obviously a lightweight.”
An image sprang to Hunter’s mind, of himself in his hellhound form, hunting down an old clergyman with a pockmarked face. Disemboweling him. Making him suffer in retribution for hurting this little priest.
Killing had always been one of Hunter’s favorite pastimes, but this was an outsized reaction. Wasn’t it? Why would he feel so protective of a random clergyman?
Some light snores came from the drunk priest, his head resting on the bar top between several almost-empty wine spritzers. Hunter could not look away. The priest had sounded so lost, so alone.
Now he was like a sad puppy napping in front of an empty food dish. Why was he drawn to comfort the man?
Hunter didn’t like it at all. He didn’t want to feel a responsibility to someone he didn’t know.
Tristan was staring at him. Hunter didn’t know why, but the man’s knowing gaze was like being stripped naked, as if the human could see right through him.
Perhaps he was already developing the skill of being the pack leader’s mate. Hunter had heard of such things among werewolf packs and vampire covens. The mate of the person in charge would take on a counselor role.
He preferred it when packmates didn’t notice or care about each other’s feelings.
“I’ll need to order him a car,” Tristan said. “No more liquor for him. He needs to go home.”
Hunter sprang into action. He had to take care of Father Roy. No one else could do it. It was his job.
“I will take him,” Hunter grunted, and before Tristan could say another word, he lifted the sleeping priest over his shoulder and headed out the door.
There was a tiny part of him objecting to all of this. It didn’t understand why the hellhound was making such a big deal over a dead-drunk priest who smelled of cheap wine, no matter how handsome the man was.
Hunter squashed that part of himself, instead following his instinct to protect Father Roy. The beast inside him was insistent. Hopefully, if he got the man safe to his bed, then his inner hound would stop ordering him about.
He’d get the priest home, wherever that was, and he wouldn’t think about him ever again.