Stalker (The Hunt Book 3) Page 12

  Whether he believed in Malachi’s change of heart or not, he couldn’t deny that their family had wealth—none of which Severus had helped himself to before he had gone topside. In fact, said wealth had been a critical piece in his plan to locate Diriel, and he was pleased to learn that he wouldn’t have to fight for what rightfully belonged to him.

  “Do it then,” he said tersely, “find Diriel, but I cannot fathom what you expect to gain in return—”

  “For you to have a modicum of trust in me,” Malachi told him, “and nothing more. You’ll see, Severus, that I am not the same demon I once was…” His brother gestured toward him with his glass, a smidgen of leftover scotch sloshing around the bottom. “Just as I can see that in you. You’ve grown up, little brother.”

  Severus rolled his eyes. He hadn’t come back to Hell in search of his brother’s approval—nor did he want it. Rather than lashing out, he merely held out his hand and snapped at Malachi’s glass, which the golden-haired demon passed over without a word. Popping the crystal cap off one of the dozen bottles of expensive liquor, Severus refilled both glasses, then strolled around the couch. The heat of the blaze warmed his weary legs; the steadily darkening room, touched by the descending night outside, was a mere reminder that he had crossed between worlds today—and he needed some time to recharge.

  Malachi accepted the glass with a half smile, one that grew as Severus lifted his own too-full tumbler for a toast.

  “To a modicum of trust,” he offered.

  “To Diriel’s head on a spike,” Malachi crooned back, and they clinked their glasses together. The scotch scorched a path down his throat, even now with his third drink. Scotch might have originated on Earth, but demons had perfected it in Hell. Severus smiled thinly when he realized his older brother was still watching him, then returned to his spot on the ridiculously uncomfortable couch.

  “Yes, well, I suppose I’ll have to see it to believe it.”

  “I’ll come through, brother,” Malachi told him, drifting back to the fireplace. He rested against it, propped up on his arm as he watched the flames dance. They flickered and crackled, intensifying under his presence, the firelight catching in the black pits of his eyes. “I will do this for you. You’ll see.”

  “Hmm.” Severus had nothing more to say on the matter. He would believe it when he saw the results. Malachi had never been the sort to just do a good deed for anyone without expecting something grand in return. So, while he could almost, maybe enjoy this new demon his big brother had morphed into over the centuries, he didn’t trust him.

  Not yet. Not until Malachi proved himself.

  Until then, Severus would keep him at an arm’s length, in no mood to be burned for the thousandth time in their relationship.

  So, they watched the flames hiss and spit, drinking their scotch, neither moving, neither speaking again—not until the thickening clouds outside split open, the weather extremes of Hell finally unleashed. Setting his empty glass aside, Severus stood and nodded to his brother when the reds of their eyes met, then strode out of the room to check on Moira, eager to get back to her after what had been the most surprising, and confusing, conversation with Malachi of his very long life.

  Moira awoke with Severus’s arms wrapped around her and a chill clinging to the tip of her nose. Inhaling deeply, she tried to shuffle about, but even the slightest movement made his arms lock tighter. With a wince, she glanced over her shoulder and found him dead asleep, his eyelids dancing and his jaw slack. A stiffness permeated her limbs, courtesy of the unfamiliar bed and the inability to move as she slept. She stretched as best she could, trying not to wake him, then blinked the sleep out of her eyes as she studied the dark, silent room around her.

  Severus had been so thorough when he checked it, searching under the bed, between the sheets and the mattress, inside the bedside table drawers. Apparently his brother had liked to hide little magical bombs around his room when they were children; Moira could only imagine the distrust that would create, and the pranks seemed like the tip of the iceberg with these two. Still, the fact that he was back here and sleeping as soundly as he was had to mean something had gone right.

  With some effort, grunting, Moira managed to roll herself over in his arms, facing him now. His breath hitched in the process, brow furrowing, but it all evened out once she settled, and Moira pressed her lips together, smiling, when she felt him fiddling with her hair in his sleep. Coarse black claws, likely capable of unimaginable savagery—twirling her hair as his eyes continued to twitch under their lids.

  Moira snuggled closer to his bare chest. While his skin had cooled somewhat in Hell, the tip of her nose was colder still, and she warmed it in the hollow of his throat. She listened to his deep, even breaths, the constant, slow thud of his heart. If she hadn’t felt so alert suddenly, the combination would have lulled her back to sleep. Instead, she cuddled up to him, enjoying him, relishing these few peaceful moments before the real work began.

  Although she hadn’t admitted it, not even to herself, really, Moira had feared what Hell might do to Severus. The inner demon usually flared whenever he was angry or aroused, and the thought of dealing with a forever angry, horny Severus had made her stomach turn. Thankfully, he was more or less himself, even with the physical changes. Less himself in the way he touched her—always touched her, his hand on her lower back, sometimes clasping hers. Severus was more forthcoming in Hell—more upfront to the rest of the world—realm?—about the fact that they were together.

  She blinked.

  Were they together?

  Had it happened so naturally that she hadn’t even noticed?

  Her cheeks warmed at the thought, but Moira could acknowledge that the incubus’s possessiveness here was a tactic. You know, announce to all the demon creeps that she was taken. Mark his territory.

  Keep her safe.

  It would have been easy to get indignant over the fact that his touch, his kiss, his caress was basically just him peeing a circle around her. As much as she wanted to prove herself, to withstand Hell on her own two feet, Moira knew she needed Severus too. She needed his support. She needed him standing behind her, glowering at anyone who dared show too much interest. Because this was a land of demons. Demons took what they wanted. They consumed. They stole. They were self-indulgent and cruel, petulant and unpredictable—she had experienced it all with Diriel and his cronies.

  Now, there were thousands of Diriels around her, and she had no idea whom she could trust.

  But she knew she could trust Severus. He’d keep her safe. He’d bring her home. He’d stand by her side in this fight until the bitter end.

  Because they were partners. Just you and me, that’s all I want. Moira had meant it when she said it.

  So, really, was it such a stretch to consider them together, in the grand scheme of things?

  She inhaled deeply again, forcing the thoughts away, the frantic, rushing, racing thoughts that hammered her skull. Thoughts of Severus, Diriel, her dad—the rest of her life, if she even had one. Instead, she traced the swell of muscle across his chest, tracked the corded bands up his arm, taut, even in sleep. The bulge in his throat. The sharp lines of his jaw. The thick black lashes twitching with dreams.

  Only when her body screamed, in need of a good stretching in every direction, did Moira finally try to wriggle free. Severus refused to budge, dragging her up against him to the point where it was difficult to breathe. Wincing, Moira managed to wrench her arms loose, then cradled his face and peppered it with a dozen soft, fleeting kisses.

  Slowly, he relaxed, loosening his grasp. His downturned lips quirked up, and when Moira finally had the freedom to get out, she took it. To make up for her disappearance, she slipped a pillow into her place, sitting at the edge of the bed as Severus tugged that to him instead.

  A chill washed over her now that she was out from under the thick blankets. She had thought they were ridiculous when Severus first pulled them back—Hell was hot, and she had been sweat
ing up a storm under her leather jacket. However, now that night had fallen, the temperature had taken a nosedive to the point that her teeth chattered.

  Her skin erupted in little goosebumps the second her bare feet touched the tile, and she dug through her duffel bag at the side of the bed, rooting out a long black sweater dress to cover her baggy sleep T-shirt and shorts combo. The dress tickled her knees when she stood, and she tugged the material about, finding it tighter and itchier than she would have liked—just one of the many new items Ella and Alaric had bought for her yesterday.

  Today?

  She blinked, feeling strangely out of sorts not knowing the time difference between Hell and Earth. It was night now, a storm raging outside, but how long had she been gone from Earth? Minutes? Hours? How did this all work?

  Shaking her head, she did a quick scan of the room, blanketed in shadow and sparsely furnished. A king-sized bed dominated most of the space, paired with small tables on either side. While white and gold threaded throughout Severus’s childhood home, visions of eighteenth-century French palaces coming to mind, sparkling and opulent with a Marie Antoinette aesthetic, most of the furniture in this room was dark, a stark contrast to the light, airy structure of Severus’s childhood home. From what little she had seen, the place was enormous, and his old bedroom was no different. A positively cavernous space stretched out around her, but as far as things went, items to make it feel lived in and homey, there was just a bed and some tables. Bland. Dark and boring. Like the rest of the house, the room lacked décor, unless you counted the shaggy black rug in front of the fireplace near the bathroom door—a fireplace that hadn’t seen fire in quite some time.

  In fact, nothing in this house—mansion, estate, whatever—had seen much of anything. While the architecture was beautiful, the amount of dust and spiderwebs was insane. It made her itchy and wheezy just thinking about it.

  One enormous window faced the east side of the property, and she padded toward it, arms crossed as she fought to still her shivers. The view overlooked the dense gardens below, the towering white wall surrounding the Saevitia estate, and then barren grey waste beyond, as far as the eye could see.

  Or, could see on a clear day, anyway.

  The night was anything but clear. In fact, as Moira stared, her jaw hanging open and her brows knit, a snowstorm bustled across the landscape outside.

  A snowstorm. In Hell.

  Thunder boomed over the property, drawing her gaze up to a black sky. Thick, oppressive clouds hung, and she gasped when a dozen lightning bolts splintered the darkness, illuminating the red tinge in the clouds she had seen earlier. Another onslaught of lightning, so close, so vivid that she flinched back, fearing it would strike the house. But it didn’t. The light flashed like fireworks in several more impressive displays, followed swiftly by another rumble of thunder that she felt in her bones. All the while, hail billowed across the landscape, catching the bright white shimmer of each lightning bolt.

  It was almost…beautiful.

  When Moira realized she had pressed herself up against the window, desperate to see more, her breath fogging the glass pane, she made a beeline for the balcony. Severus had locked the door earlier, but it was nothing more than a simple latch—hardly a deterrent. After gently nudging the towering glass door’s handle down, she glanced over her shoulder to see if her rustling had woken Severus. Nope. He continued to snooze away, hugging the pillow.

  It was the most relaxed Moira had seen him in weeks. A new pang of guilt wedged itself into her heart, one of many. He hadn’t been relaxed because of her, because of what she had dragged him into.

  She owed him the world when all this was over.

  And Moira intended to give it to him—however she could.

  A gust of cold, howling wind barreled in as soon as she opened the door, and Moira slipped outside before any of it could reach the nearby bed. While the bedroom had been chilly, the outside air was positively freezing. She gasped, the chill burning down her throat, then hugged herself tighter. The frigid wind, brutal across the cracked grey terrain, batted her about on the small semicircular balcony. Situated at the back of the house, it was as if Severus’s parents had wanted to put him as far away from everyone else as possible.

  The hail blitzed sideways, not down, just beyond the balcony, and her heart dropped to her stomach at the next boom of thunder, the stone tile rattling underfoot.

  She drank it all in with a wide-eyed stare, mouth hanging open unabashedly now. The raw power of the lightning strikes illuminated the entire realm, the sky ablaze with red, white, and black. Moira gathered her hair in one hand, trying to contain it as the wind whipped it about. Her breath fogged in front of her, briefly, before being swept up in the storm. As she padded to the edge of the balcony, still sheltered by the corner of the building, she realized she couldn’t feel her toes.

  And it didn’t bother her. The pain. The cold. It was worth it to experience this. Standing just outside of the storm, even Moira felt powerful. Hail whizzed by in a steady current about a foot out from the edge of the balcony. It glittered and shimmered, carrying a tune, a melody, that had her thinking of bells—the sweet, tinkling high notes of bells. Curious, she reached out with her free hand, wanting to touch snow in Hell. Out, out, out her long fingers stretched, her arm tensing against the wind. Her mouth lifted into a smile, a laugh on the tip of her tongue, no more than a breath away from touching the…

  Shards of glass.

  It was raining shards of fucking glass.

  Moira screamed as soon as the first batch pelted against her, razor-sharp edges slamming into her skin, embedding themselves in her hand and wrist. Pain scorched up her arm, a thousand tiny knifepoints stabbing her over and over again in the span of three agonizing seconds before she snatched her hand back. The wind sucked up her screams, the gale dragging them out—milking it, stealing her hoarse cries of agony before she finally staggered away from the edge. She lost her footing, tripping over her numb feet, and landed hard on her knees, sinking onto her side as she cradled her hand to her chest.

  Shaking, she risked a look at it, her stomach roiling at the sight. As if she’d been struck by a porcupine, glass shards stuck out everywhere—embedded in her palm, the undersides of her fingers. They sliced through the coarse fabric of her sweater dress, biting into the tender areas of her bony, pale wrist, dangerously close to vital veins. Her stomach dropped suddenly, mouth dry and head spinning, as hot, thick tears cut down her cheeks.

  “Moira?” The balcony door flew open, Severus striding through, shirtless and alarmed. His black and red eyes dropped to her, and in an instant he was by her side. “What did you do?”

  She dragged in a ragged breath, light-headed but blushing, and weakly lifted her glass-riddled hand. His whole being seemed to tighten as he grasped her forearm.

  “Of course it rains glass in Hell,” she choked out. Pain thrummed through her as Severus quickly assessed the injury, then started to help her to her feet. “Of course it isn’t hail.”

  You fucking idiot.

  He tsked, an arm around her waist to steady her. Even the slightest movement had the dozens of puncture marks burning, and she whimpered, her knees giving way.

  “Now, now, darling,” he murmured, and when she dared look up, she swore he was trying not to laugh, his lips twitching, “I think it looks like hail too. An honest mistake.”

  “A stupid one.” She whimpered as he helped her inside. Severus quickly seated her at the end of the bed, then jogged into the bathroom. As soon as he disappeared through the dark doorway, she glared at her quivering hand, hovering above her lap, every muscle, every tendon, screaming for her to just put it down. Severus emerged moments later, towels and a white opaque bottle in hand. She looked up at him miserably. “I’m so stupid. I don’t—”

  “Enough, Moira.” He knelt in front of her and set his supplies aside. A ghost of a smile still played on his lips. “You made a mistake. You’re tired. You’re in Hell for the first t
ime, and you made a mistake. At least this mistake we can fix.”

  “I guess,” she muttered, pleased that the wooziness had started to pass—although it came raring back as soon as he lifted her hand for inspection.

  “We’ll just take all the shards out, which,” he met her eye briefly, “might hurt, but then we’ll bandage it up and you’ll be healed within the hour. Sooner, even. And then we’ll all laugh about it.”

  “I don’t want to laugh about it—” Another scream tore from her throat when he pulled out the largest shard, which had settled in, nice and deep, where the base of her hand met her wrist.

  “Sorry,” he murmured, setting the bloody chunk of glass on the bed. “I’d hoped you were distracted enough.”

  Warm red liquid spilled out of the wound, trickling down her arm, the other shards splitting the bloody river into little streams. Moira nodded mutely, her hand numb, her teeth starting to chatter again, as a fresh batch of tears sliced down her face. Head down, Severus worked quickly and efficiently, plucking the sharp bits of glass with more tact than she would have on her own. Still, she couldn’t hold back her screams, not as pain seared up her arm, a stark reminder of what an idiot she had been.

  The bedroom door flew open after Severus had pried a particularly jagged piece from her palm, her hoarse cry echoing around the room.

  “What in Lucifer’s name are you doing to her, brother?” Malachi demanded from the doorway, his face brimming with morbid curiosity. Moira wanted to turn away, to hide her tear-stained face, to keep him from seeing what she had done to herself, but it was too late. A few steps in and he saw everything, a bark of a laugh flying from his lips. “Did you… Did she really—”

  “Start a fire, Malachi,” Severus ordered sharply, continuing his task without missing a beat. “I need some better light.”

  The larger, burlier demon snorted, then crossed the room to the hearth. By then, Severus was down to just a few pieces, but Moira could still feel the miniscule bits of hard, unrelenting debris whenever she flexed her fingers.