Chapter 3 #2
I shouldn’t feel anything but fear when I stare into his green eyes. I force myself to look away rather than ogle. I know better than to make eye contact with this man.
Why the hell did I look him in the eye in the first place?
I drop my eyes to his chin.
“She smells of horse. Is that intentional? To mask her scent?” one hellhound says in the background.
“What. Did. You. Do,” he growls. I jump and glance down at the pup in my arms, not understanding his question. “What have you done? How can she be in wolf form? She is a nine-year-old child.”
Oh, wow. My eyes widen. Oh, I see. I know that born shifters do the whole shifting thing in their twenties. I can see with my own eyes that she is tiny. I want to smack myself on the forehead for not putting those two things together.
Poor pup.
All I can do is shrug—well, I try to shrug, but my rigidity makes the motion look strange. I have no idea what happened to her.
I want to hunch into myself, but I force myself to keep rigid and stand straight. His scary presence seems to require good posture. I might be mostly human, but I have my pride. I might feel like prey, but I don’t have to act like it.
“I’m sorry…I don’t know…I found her like this and came straightaway to get her help. I don’t know anything else. I’m glad she is safe, but I need to get home.” My voice drifts away into mumbles. Gah, nice one, Emma. Very assertive.
The hellhound crosses his arms. He taps his massive hand against his forearm in a rhythmic motion and narrows his eyes when it becomes apparent to him I have nothing further to add.
I swallow again. Pure fear is clawing at my throat.
I need to get home.
Ha, I talk a good game, but now I’m hunching for all my worth in an attempt to hide my shaking.
With shifty eyes, I quickly search the hellhounds, looking for…
looking for…there. Him. One hellhound is quietly watching the proceedings like a rock in a rolling storm, seemingly unaffected by the masculine rage of his peers.
I kiss the top of her head. “Goodbye, pup. Be brave, be safe, and be happy,” I whisper.
She whimpers as I shuffle meekly towards the hound I have chosen and hand her over to him.
He has kind grey eyes; they stand out against his dark skin and hair.
He takes her gently in his massive arms. I brave a final stroke of her fur. Then I skitter away.
“Where did you find her? Where is the rest of my pack?” asks the scary hellhound as he follows me with his eyes. He looks me up and down, taking my measure, and his lip curls with disgust. Oh yeah, he finds me lacking.
I self-consciously adjust my top and the waistband of my jodhpurs.
Since puberty, I have never had a man look at me with anything other than interest or poorly concealed lust. Not very nice, but unfortunately it’s the world that we live in.
This guy looks at me as if he wouldn’t think twice about pulling my head off and using it in a game of football.
I’m a thing to him, not a person. A thing that is in his way.
I take in a shaky breath, lift my chin, and meet his eyes head-on.
I am not a thing.
“I didn’t see anyone else. I hope you find your pack. I really do. I am sorry, but I can’t be of any further help. I really have to go.” My voice is quiet, but I’m proud to say I keep it even, strong, resistant.
I can’t explain where I found her—I can’t give any details that would implicate the demon.
Not out of loyalty, but self-preservation.
You don’t snitch on the people that are your prime protection.
You don’t break their rules, either, the helpful voice in my head pipes up.
Mhm, thanks for that. Heck, I have to get out of here.
I back away as Mr Angry Hellhound advances.
He steps into my personal space, dwarfing my five-foot-six frame. The humongous man must be almost seven feet tall, and his body is every bit as pleasing as his face. Massive shoulders, each arm bigger than the span of my waist. Body corded with slabs of powerful muscle. Narrow hips.
This hellhound is made to be feared.
I throw away my moment of false pride and bravery with a wobbly smile and an awkward double-thumbs-up.
I gave the scary hellhound double-thumbs.
Oh, God, what the heck am I doing? I fold my arms behind my back. Next I will be doing jazz hands. The hellhound growls and the look he throws me is one of pure, acrimonious rancour. I can feel his angry energy as it buzzes over my skin. He wants me dead.
Bloody hell, he is going to eat me. Like a packet of pork scratchings, there is no way I won’t be tasty. Crunchy.
I gulp.
Why can’t he say thank you, like a normal person? I didn’t steal his kid. I barely refrain from opening my mouth and pointing that fact out to him.
“You refuse to answer me?” he asks, his voice quiet—deadly. I know that I’ve crossed some invisible line with him.
The two of us are staring each other down. I catalogue each thick bulge of muscle, not for its beauty but as proof of all the ways that he can hurt me. Stiffening, I straighten my spine and brace myself for the consequences. Which will probably be painful.
I hear a grunt, a thump, and the scrabble of claws on the pavement. Then a bundle of cream-and-red fur barrels around the hellhounds. My pup dives between the scary hellhound’s legs and throws herself in front of me.
“For fuck’s sake, Owen.”
Adorably, she growls and snaps her teeth.
“Sorry, John, she bit me,” the grey-eyed hellhound says, poorly hiding his small smile, which is directed at my pup and her adorable antics. She turns her head and gives me a look as if to say, “Go on then, run.”
I spin and run into the shop. Like an idiot, I waste precious seconds grabbing my hat and gloves—I don’t want to be accused of being a litterbug. I was eyeing the back exit before, and that door is now calling my name. I need to get home.
There is a sound behind me.
Before I can turn, I feel a sharp blow to the back of my head, and then darkness.