Stalker (The Hunt Book 3) Page 18

  As Cordelia plucked off a glove and sank a sharp tooth into the flesh of her bony index finger, Severus shot his brother a skeptical look.

  Why the rush to go topside, brother?

  Was he running away from something down here—or running to something up there?

  Only time would tell, and Severus knew that time would vindicate him; Malachi would disappear the second they stepped out of the gate, and all this talk of rekindling their relationship, of being better brothers, would be shown for the bullshit he knew it to be.

  Severus just knew it. He could gloat at last—for he would finally be the victor in this never-ending marathon of fraternal competition.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  Moira had never seen so many family portraits in one place before—not unless said place was a museum or gallery, and even then, this was excessive.

  She stood before one wall of four that was lined, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, with portraits of varying sizes. They all appeared painted; oil paintings, it seemed, but she didn’t dare risk a touch, even if she was curious about technique, about the oils used in the finishing. Not only had her degree forbidden her from touching any work of art with her hands, museum relics and artifacts included, but she half expected the demonic faces to lunge out at her if she got too close. Hundreds of twisted yet handsome figures peered down at her—down their noses at her, more like—and, ever since she had innocently wandered into this grand hall on the first floor, she’d felt like someone was watching her.

  Well, not someone—someones. The artist had managed to create portraits with eyes that followed her no matter where in the room she stood. It should have unnerved her enough to send her running, but she found she couldn’t look away. There was just so much intricate, rich detail to take in. While nothing here was remotely close to Severus’s style, she couldn’t help but wonder if his love of portrait work stemmed from this space. It sprawled the entire three levels of the building, and had she worn shoes, she knew each tentative footstep would have echoed.

  Like much of the rest of the house, the room had been neglected after Malachi and Severus’s parents passed. Dust coated the tops of the portraits she could reach, and there wasn’t a speck of furniture or décor to be found. Just a giant room with hundreds of demon paintings—and just about every single one of them looked smug.

  Must be a Saevitia thing.

  She frowned, saying Severus’s last name over and over again. Saevitia. When she had first learned his true name, back on that fateful day in her bedroom, her world falling apart all over again, he hadn’t offered a last name. Just Severus. Incubus. He identified more with that, with this caste of demon looked down on by all the others, than he did his own family. That should have been telling enough, but as Moira studied the portraits, hands clasped behind her back, she wished she knew more. More about him, about the clan and its history. More about his relationship with his brother, his parents, his extended family.

  Moira just wanted to know him. She loved him. And she loved her family. It had always been important to her to fall for a man who shared those values, but she could understand why he chose to go it alone.

  She could be his family, then, and Severus could be hers. Severus, and Ella. Moira could live with that—quite happily.

  Because the only blood family waiting for her in Farrow’s Hollow was some high-ranking angel who wanted her tortured and murdered. If that hadn’t changed the emphasis she placed on relationships with her immediate family, she’d be a lunatic.

  Aeneas. Onions.

  What had she ever done to him?

  Did he loathe her on principle? Could he really be so petty—so cruel?

  She knew she had to stop thinking of him as an angel in the traditional sense. Angels were supposed to be loving—to protect mankind from the evils of the world. Apparently her dad had missed the memo.

  She shook her head, dragging in a deep breath before moving on to the next portrait: a female demon, her wispy white hair painted down to her shoulders, flyaways and all. Moira admired the bluish undertones in her otherwise pale skin, her full black eyes and sumptuous mouth. The Elizabethan collar had the most wonderful detail, with all its little buttons and pearls and gold embellishments.

  Moira wanted to use the clothing to take a stab at the era the portraits were completed in, but time ran differently in Hell, and if Cordelia could dress like she had just waltzed out of a Victorian gothic romance, then there was no telling when Elizabethan collars had been in fashion.

  She needed this—the distraction. After Severus had dropped off a much-needed meal—fluffy breads and a platter of thin-sliced, maybe raw, meats—and disappeared to see what his brother wanted now, Moira had been left to dwell on everything. On what she had seen today. On the way she still saw the merciless red glare of the hellhounds whenever she closed her eyes. On Asmodeus and his cruel smirk. And on her dad. It all came back to him, and it made her stomach turn. Unable to sit still a second longer, she’d polished off the breads, still leery of the raw meat, and gone exploring on her own.

  Moira had forced herself to admire the details of the home, from the crown molding to the pillars, to the accents of gold throughout and the enormous white marble staircases. She thought back to her lectures on architecture and interior design. She kept her mind as busy as she could, hoping to block everything else out, but she only succeeded in that when she found the portrait room.

  Time had no meaning surrounded by all these portraits, but she guessed she’d been at it—her curious, somewhat academic inspection of Severus’s family—for about an hour when she heard the curt click of shoes stalking toward her. Wingtip oxfords, most likely; Severus seemed partial to them in Hell and on Earth. She cocked her head to the side ever so slightly, a small smile playing across her lips as she listened to the familiarity of his gait, his strides long and leisurely, yet precise as always. She knew he’d have one hand in his pocket—she knew it without so much as glancing back.

  The clicks stopped directly behind her. He had no hum in Hell. No faint vibration, nothing hiding under the surface. She smiled, leaning into his sturdy figure when he wrapped his arms around her middle, and tipped her head back to rest on his shoulder, her neck exposed. Severus trailed his lips across the sensitive skin, murmuring a soft rumble of approval.

  “You had me worried, you know, when you weren’t in the bedroom.”

  “I had to walk,” she told him, her gaze drifting upward, higher and higher, across the portraits. “I had to get out of my head.” Still, she didn’t want him to worry. He did enough of that already. Exhaling softly, she leaned back even further to kiss his cheek—a quick peck and nothing more, giggling when he tried to turn swiftly and catch her lips too.

  “Tease.”

  “I didn’t mean to make you worry. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I like worrying about you. I’ve never worried about anyone except myself, and I find the change of pace refreshing,” Severus insisted, his mouth back on her neck, their bodies swaying ever so slightly side to side. Their own little dance, here, with hundreds of judgy eyes watching them. Moira smoothed her hands along his arms, clutching at his elbows and grinning at the faint hint of teeth on her throat.

  “I’ll keep that in mind, I guess.” She nibbled her lip for a moment, still staring at the portraits, but no longer seeing them. It was easier to get lost in him—and infinitely more fun. Moira found comfort in the strength of his body, firm and unrelenting, even after today’s battle. In his scent, masculine and gruff, yet reassuring too. Strange how a smell could do so many things, elicit so many feelings—touch every one of the senses. His scent stirred visceral memories of their naked bodies entwined as rain hammered his Farrow’s Hollow bedroom, of wicked smiles and dangerous glances. It made her wet—and it made her whole.

  “Everything all right with your brother?” she asked, knowing the subject merited a quick check-in—even if being wrapped in his arms made her knees weak.

&nbs
p; “As all right as it’ll ever be, I suppose,” he said after a sharp exhale, his breath hot against her skin. His head lifted from her neck, and a tentative glance up showed his black-eyed stare wandering between the portraits, that red pupil especially noticeable amidst the white and gold airiness of his family home. She wanted to press him more about Malachi, but it was clear as day that the topic needed to be handled delicately. So, Moira waited. Let him bring it up again—if he wanted to. If not, she’d try another day.

  She only meant to glance back at him briefly, get a read on his expression, the look in his eyes. But in his true form, Moira just couldn’t help but openly ogle him. Severus had been startling at first—the ashen-grey skin, the horns, the crazy black hair, the claws. He should have sent her running. It was her first thought whenever she learned something new about him, whenever she saw a new side to him. Run. But she couldn’t—she wouldn’t.

  While Hell might have been too overwhelming for her, Moira found she adored Severus in Hell. There was something different about him down below—a cool, genuine confidence that she hadn’t always seen on Earth. He knew who he was. He didn’t take shit from his family anymore. And his raw, open affection with her was priceless. Confident, laid-back, yet still in control—demon Severus was sex on a stick. If she wasn’t so terrified of everything down here, so in her head about her dad, Moira had a feeling they would never leave the bedroom.

  “Take a picture, you ridiculous creature,” Severus said, his tone straddling the line between teasing and self-deprecating. Moira chuckled, tipping her head to the side, an unspoken come hither for his mouth.

  “Speaking of pictures,” she said, trailing her nails along the landscape of his face—gaunter in Hell, with higher cheekbones. “I haven’t seen your portrait yet. I found Malachi’s, but not yours.”

  “No, I suspect you wouldn’t.” He broke away suddenly, snagging her hand and tugging her along until they stopped at the painting of his brother. With all that golden hair, he looked positively angelic. Moira smirked; maybe she should tell him that.

  “But—”

  “I had one. I assume they took it down when I went topside and never came back,” Severus mused, loosely clutching her hand as he studied the other portraits around Malachi’s. “I’m sure Father burned it.”

  “I’m sorry your parents were such dicks.”

  He snorted, drawing her into his arms again, her back fitting perfectly into the hard dips and lines of his chest. “Don’t be sorry. I don’t care. Not anymore.”

  Moira bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from blurting I very much doubt that. She had seen his face when he learned that his parents were dead. He cared—at least a little.

  He nibbled at her ear, each soft breath eliciting a new wave of goosebumps coursing down her body. Moira had forgone all the tight leather and uncomfortable studded crap they had packed for this trip, and instead opted for an airy floor-length dress instead. Eggplant-purple with a high neckline and sleeves to her elbows, it dripped opulence with each flutter of the excessive skirt fabric, and while it needed to be worn with a belt to hug her figure, Moira had gone without that too. It hung loosely down her body, concealing it, which she knew Severus wouldn’t like—but she looked forward to the hunger in his eyes when he realized she’d ditched the underwear too.

  “If you want to keep looking at the, er,” he waved a hand toward the wall, “pretentious paintings, feel free. I just wanted to tell you that we’re going home tonight. As soon as we’re packed, we’re gone.”

  Home. The word, spoken in his gravelly baritone, plucked at her heartstrings in a way so real, so primal, that Moira found herself blinking back a sudden onslaught of tears. She quickly swiped her finger under each eye, unable to stop herself from smiling.

  “Home?”

  “Mhmm.” His mouth was back on her skin, like he just couldn’t stay away. “Now that we have your father’s name, our business in Hell is complete. I have no desire to stay here longer than necessary, and I’m sure Ella is positively beside herself in your absence. I think we should go home.”

  Home. He thought of Farrow’s Hollow as home. She swallowed hard. Of course he would. He had lived there for years, much longer than she had always imagined, but the way he said it—we should go home. Together. They should go back to their home—and Moira realized in that moment that home was wherever they were together. It wasn’t a place—it was a feeling.

  Lower lip caught between her teeth, she turned in Severus’s arms, sliding her hands up his chest and cupping his chin. His jawline was sharper here, his entire being more angular, and still he was the most handsome man she had ever known. Demon. Not man. The word didn’t bother her anymore; she should get used to thinking it. His hands threaded together, resting on the small of her back.

  “I’m home with you,” she whispered, then pushed up onto her toes and kissed him. He didn’t respond right away, and before her eyes fluttered closed, she caught him staring straight down at her—maybe in shock. Maybe he was too surprised to kiss her back, and maybe he was just cherishing the moment. Whatever the reason, it brought a smile to her lips, and she wrapped her arms around him and nipped at his lower lip—again and again, tugging at it and letting it snap back into place before he finally growled and descended upon her.

  Moira took the harshness of his reciprocation with a squeal, desire unfurling deep within as he marched her toward the wall. Her back collided with a portrait as the kiss deepened, their mouths parted, tongues tangled—a flash of teeth to keep things interesting. She arched up into him, a hot rush of need slicing across her as his hands explored her. Each one blazed a firm, purposeful trail down her body, starting at her breasts and ending at the curve of her backside. She gasped when he lifted her leg, quickly settling between her thighs like he had always belonged there.

  His cock dug into her harshly, her thin dress doing nothing to soften the blow. Severus was hard where she was soft; hard and firm in muscle and want, his insistent hips grinding against her as he hoisted her up. Their mouths hovered over one another, hers parted and gasping, his parted and taking—drinking her in, taking what little mewls she made for himself.

  As he hoisted her up, however, the portrait behind her lifted off its hook, and it came crashing down when he carried her ever so slightly away from the wall. Moira yelped at the commotion, clinging to him, blushing furiously as he chuckled.

  “Don’t laugh,” she said, half whining, half admonishing. Still grinning, Severus set her legs down, and she looked back, worried the fall had damaged the frame.

  Worried, irrationally, that the two new limbs growing out of her shoulder blades had, what, cut the painting?

  She tucked her loose white hair behind her ears, embarrassed at the thought.

  “Maybe we should be careful—”

  “Fuck ’em,” Severus growled, kicking the portrait aside. Then, with a gleeful smile, he knocked several more down in a single, fluid movement. He tossed them aside and plucked their hooks out of the smooth alabaster wall. When he was through, he’d cleared about ten feet of space for them, family members discarded—but not Malachi. His brother stayed right where he’d been hung; Severus appeared to ignore him. Smoothing a hand over each horn, he faced Moira and bowed low, gesturing to the opening amongst the portraits. “My lady.”

  “My lord,” she purred back, striding dramatically past him and snagging the collar of his shirt with a giggle. Moira pressed herself up against the wall and dragged him to her, their mouths colliding like the interruption had never happened—like they’d never broken apart in the first place.

  And maybe they never would again.

  As his mouth plundered hers, Severus’s hands dropped down, and she moaned at the sound of his belt unbuckling. With his tongue thrust between her lips, their frantic breaths reached a crescendo as she helped him shove his pants down, briefs too, and his shaft fell against her like a lead weight. Her hands closed around the thickness, stroking the silky skin with fervor
, eyes open so she could take in the expression on his face—the furrowing of his brow, the tremor behind his eyelids, the twitch in his cheek as she worked him over.

  Something told her that Severus hadn’t ever had a partner who catered to him before. Sure, he had clients—but sleeping with a client and sleeping with a lover wasn’t the same. Moira refused to believe that. She wanted to cater to him—she wanted to spoil him, to take just one night where it was all about Severus and his pleasure. However, as he gathered the flowy material of her dress and hitched it up, grinding himself against her, she knew tonight wasn’t going to be that night.

  But soon. She’d make it happen, even if she had to tie him down to do it.

  The thought of turning the tables on him, a little torturous pleasure where he couldn’t do a thing to stop it, only added to the slickness between her thighs—a slickness Severus found himself faced with once he had her dress up.

  “You tawdry harlot,” he growled, fighting a smile as he pinned her to the wall, a hand on her throat, squeezing just hard enough to make her pulse race. “Wherever are your panties?”

  Their eyes met, and she replied with what she hoped was a demure but bratty pout, followed by a shrug. She had a whole line raring to go—don’t you like your surprise?—but he had already slammed his mouth back to hers, teeth catching her bottom lip as a snarl revved in his chest.

  His name tumbled from her lips as he skimmed those teeth along her jaw and down her throat, hoisting her up so that she could wrap her legs around him. Ankles locked behind his back, Moira gripped him by the curve of his horns, excitement coursing through her at the dark look in his eye. She held firmer, wrenching his head back a little, remembering how hard he’d taken her last night on the balcony when she’d done the exact same thing. He liked it—and Moira liked that he liked it. Maybe a little too much. When she tugged this time, he responded by biting the crook of her neck.