Chapter Eight. The Huntsman #2
My dick jerks against the zipper of my jeans, pressing hard as if trying to get at her.
Electric pulses race from my balls up my spine to sizzle in the back of my neck before tracking a return trip down to my throbbing length.
It takes every scrap of self-control I possess not to thrust a hand through that mass of dark auburn curls, shove her to the ground, and make her mouth do something about my hard-as-fuck cock.
“Don’t get under this same skin?” she continues in that low, almost-contemplative voice that probes too deep, seeks too far. A voice that vibrates through my clothes to my skin beneath like the touch I’m denying both of us. “Don’t see what you try to hide from me like I’m everyone else?”
Slowly, she sinks back to her feet and tips her head to the side. I expect that dick tease of a mouth to curl into her usual smirk or taunting grin. But her lips are curved into a dark snarl. A light that’s damn maniacal gleams in those gold-and-green eyes.
“You made the mistake of coming for me, Malachi Bowden,” she whispers, but I hear her warning with crystal clear clarity.
“And now those consequences are your bad. I warned you about who you are to me, and you chose to follow me anyway, so now here we are. Two years. Two fucking years,” she hisses, and I frown at the cryptic words and the narrow-eyed fury twisting her face.
But like a switch, in the next moment, her expression clears, and it’s smooth as glass.
Almost … pleasant. “Malachi. The Huntsman. The man. The bogeyman. You’re both mine.
And I’ll cut the throat of anyone who even looks like they’re thinking of fucking you.
” A sigh escapes her, and she slowly shakes her head before rolling upward again and pressing an oddly tender kiss to the underside of my jaw. “You should’ve stayed away.”
Malachi. The Huntsman … You’re both mine.
You should’ve stayed away.
Rage. That’s what should be pouring through me like fire-licked gasoline. Not a fierce need. Not a roaring hunger that screams so loud, she should be reeling back and staring at me in horror, in fear.
Not a yearning so soft, so fragile, it trembles against my sternum with butter-soft wings.
A faint metallic flavor hits my tongue. Blood.
I’ve bitten my tongue. The cost of holding back the howl of pain, the snarl of lust, the whimper of need that has nothing to do with an aching dick.
My lungs seize, and when they stutter to working order again, she’s gone, melted into the thick masses surrounding us once more.
The vacuum we disappeared into for those few precious seconds dissolved, and we’re once again among the living, the real world where she’s my prey, a moving target with my sight dead set in the middle of her chest.
I give my head a hard shake.
What in the fuck just happened?
Fury at Eshe, at my damn self, swirls through me like a Category 5 storm. Fuck stealth. I plow through the bodies in front of me, following in her wake.
Fuck Eshe Diallo. My fingers flex, stretch, curl again. Feeling the frantic flutter of her pulse under my hands as I imagine slowly tightening my grip on the slender column of her throat.
She played the wrong muthafucka—
The blast erupts through the warehouse like a rampaging dragon, heat and a great clap of sound rolling through the space. I fly, but my fall is cushioned by the crush of bodies beneath me. For a moment, I lie there, the screams and cries assaulting my ears.
“No.”
The word rips from my chest, lost in the chaos around me. After launching to my feet, I jump over the prone bodies littering the floor, dodge people not laid out by the bomb, knocking more out of the way.
Where the fuck is she?
Shit.
Fuck. Gotdamn.
Blood, the meaty scent of burning flesh, and black, cloying smoke choke the air. Jerking the collar of my hoodie over my nose and mouth, I ignore the ringing in my head, the aches and throbbing of my battered frame.
She was in the path of the blast. But she can’t be. No. Fuck no. She can’t be … There.
A knee-high boot. A leather-encased thigh.
The dogpile of bloody, soot-stained, motionless bodies covers the rest of the petite frame, but I’d recognize it anywhere.
The blood in my veins ices over, and I stop several feet away, an unmoving statue in a roiling sea of madness.
Somebody’s going to die.
Painfully. Slowly.
Badly.
And I’m going to enjoy every fucking second of it.
I stare at the steady rise and fall of her chest.
It’s been seventeen hours, and Eshe still hasn’t woken up.
Maybe I should slap the shit out of her, I contemplate, biting into my slice of cheese, mushroom, and onion pizza. It’d hurt, but all this sleep can’t be healthy either. She should’ve been awake by now.
I snort, shaking my head as I swallow, then take another huge bite.
Stretching one arm across the top of the chair I’m straddling, I tip forward, balancing on the back legs.
By all rights, I should’ve left Eshe in the rubble of Elysian.
It would’ve made more sense than bringing her ass to one of my safe houses.
Especially since, thanks to her and her fucking aunt, I can’t go back to my main home.
Logic screams that leaving her in that underground club would’ve solved one of my problems.
I’m quickly realizing logic and Eshe Diallo don’t occupy the same space when it comes to me.
Because what fucking sense does it make to dig her out from under that pile of bodies, carry her out of what was left of that warehouse, bring her here, and personally tend to her wounds, only to turn around and kill her?
Yeah, I should’ve left her ass there.
Malachi. The Huntsman … You’re both mine.
Glaring at her, I toss the crust toward the grease-stained box and rise from the chair, the legs hitting the floor.
Slapping her sounds like a better and better idea.
I take a step toward the pullout couch but abruptly draw up short and pivot, stalking across the buckled and scarred hardwood floor toward the seedy studio apartment’s tiny kitchen.
I yank open the door of the refrigerator that was probably popular about two decades ago and pull out a bottle of water.
Grabbing a towel off the top of the fridge, I drop it on the floor and shove it against the bottom to catch the water leaking out.
With more force than necessary, I unscrew the cap and tip the bottle up to my mouth.
I down half the contents before retracing my steps across the room.
Only when my ass hits the seat of the chair do I notice the bright brown-and-green gaze on me.
Nah, that’s not right.
I feel it on me first.
The tiny hairs on my arms stand at attention, quiver as if a breeze ghosted across my skin. Only, every instinct I possess relays it’s not the air from the ancient window AC unit causing the reaction. The insubstantial yet tangible touch is too primal. Too her.
I’ve known Eshe Diallo a handful of days—and I use known very loosely since my dick in her mouth doesn’t really count—and yet I recognize her touch to the very marrow of my bones.
To my nonexistent soul.
She doesn’t move, and neither do I. We engage in a visual standoff for several silent moments. But I’m the master at being quiet; she can’t compete.
“Well, I’m not dead, though I feel like fucking deep-fried death.” She closes her eyes, a faint wince playing over her strained but beautiful features seconds before she fixes her stare back on me. “What happened?”
Not surprised she doesn’t remember, I say, “An explosion. From what I could tell, it probably came from under the ring, since it and the area surrounding it got the worst of the blast.”
“How bad?” she asks, voice flat, face blank.
I shrug a shoulder. “I didn’t stick around to assess the damage, and with the smoke, people, and debris, I couldn’t really tell at the time. But the shit didn’t look good.”
She nods, the thick fringe of her lashes hiding her eyes from me. Part of me wants to march over to the bed, grip her scratched chin, and demand she look at me. Insist she let me see those eyes so I can decipher what’s going on in that sharp mind.
But I remain with my ass rooted to the chair. It would be a colossal mistake to voluntarily touch this woman. Shit, in my head, I’ve committed this cardinal sin so many different times, in so many different positions, Satan is looking at his watch, waiting on me like, Ticktock, bitch. Ticktock.
“I need to get in touch with my girls. Where’s my phone?”
“Fuck I look like? Your errand boy? It’s probably under a pile of cement blocks and shit. You lucky I got your ass outta there.”
“Dammit.” She chews on her bottom lip for a moment, and I stare. Hard. I want that juicy, lush flesh in my mouth. “I have to check on my Seven. See if they’re okay.”
The worry and frustration in her voice shouldn’t do anything to me. But the fact she’s just woken up after being caught in the blast of a bomb and her first thought is for her people? Yeah, as much as I don’t want to admit it, that does something to me.
“I have burners. I’ll get you one.”
“Thanks.” She narrows her gaze. “Why did you?”
“Why did I what?” I ask, lost at the sudden switch in topic.
“Why did you get my ass out of there?”
I stare at her, unblinking. No way in hell I’m answering that.
Mainly, because I still don’t know the answer to the question. Even if I did, I wouldn’t give her what she wants. Because something tells me I wouldn’t like the truth.
“You haven’t asked where you’re at,” I say instead.
“Don’t need to. Your Dorchester place.”
Shock ripples through me, and it takes every bit of self-control I possess not to allow my expression or body betray it. But Jesus Christ. How does she…?
The shock hardens into a dark block of ice that settles in the middle of my chest. The cold seeps into my veins, my blood.
“How do you know that, Eshe?” I ask, the emotion as empty as my conscience.