Page 53 of Hounded
I fixed my attention on the floor while hearing nothing but the sound of my own ragged breathing.
Things had happened so fast that I struggled to make sense of it all.
Whitney knew about Indy.
He told Nero.
The hounds would be trained to hunt. To seek out my treasure. To bring him to Hell where the demons would destroy him.
And I… I…
The stomp of Nero’s foot shattered the quiet. “Go on,” he told Moira. “You have work to do if the other mutts are to have any hope of catching this fantasticalbird.”
Once the demoness pried herself away from Whitney, she was in a rush. It was reminiscent how she’d fled the gala after Nero shamed her, hurrying to hide her broken state. She beckoned me with a wave, and I followed her out of Nero’s chambers into the corridor.
Beyond the closed door, Moira stalled with her chest heaving and hands trembling. The hallway stretched ahead, but she stayed in place as though caged. At last, she turned to me. A faint mist clouded her eyes, but her features were resolute.
“It falls to you, Lorenzo.” She stepped close and used both hands to tuck my hair behind my ears, then cupped my face in her palms. “Whitney isn’t the only one who must impress. And, with him gone, you no longer have a shadow to hide in.”
A melancholy smile twisted her lips while she brushed her thumbs over my cheeks in slow, repetitive strokes. “I need you to come to me, pet,” she murmured. “Comeforme. In my bedroom. It’s been too long.”
For all the feelings that had assaulted me in Nero’s chambers, her statement brought a slew of new ones. I didn’t manage indifference nearly as well as Whitney did and, with the demoness staring deeply into my eyes, I knew she could see my hesitancy.
Her clawed fingers hooked around my jaw. I bit down, grinding my teeth as though crushing the refusal I wanted to give.
I’d never loved her, and I was confident the only thing she loved about me was my ability to follow orders. Even in that, she preferred her “pretty soldier,” but I sawthrough her now. She’d been defeated, and she would salve her own wounds by opening some in me.
“Yes, Miss,” I whispered.
“Surely that’s not all you have to say.” Her nails pricked my skin. “When a lady invites you to her bed, what is the correct response?”
“Yes, Miss,” I repeated, then faltered, unable to form the words. Finally, they wrenched out of me on the beginning of a sob. “Thank you, Miss.”
19
Loren
Manhattan, New York
September 21st, 1897
When the key rattled in the lock, I rose from my desk and set my book aside. The door swung inward, and Jonathan entered with a bundle of flowers tucked in the crook of his arm.
He looked trim in his business suit, and the light from the fireplace gave his countenance a rosy glow. When he smiled, it stirred my heart with such desire I almost forgot how long it had been since his last visit. Our arrangement was for Tuesdays and Thursdays, the nights he told Beatrice he worked late at the law firm. But, as he missed our rendezvouses more and more frequently, I wondered how he could tolerate such lengthy absences.
But he was here now, offering the bouquet of flowers with frilled red petals and yellow stamen. Hibiscus, an exotic bloom that symbolized love and passion. He claimed they reminded him of me.
“Good evening, darling.” He beamed. “Shall we putthese in water? I thought they would brighten up the place.”
And replace the last arrangement that had withered and died on the streetside windowsill. I’d put them there in the hopes he’d see them when he passed by and remember me, always here, always waiting.
I wasn’t allowed to go to his office. My days of cavorting with his coworkers and high society friends were long gone. Beatrice filled that role now, assuming the position that had once been mine. When Jonathan wed her, he assured me nothing would change. Plenty of gentlemen had affairs; it was common practice. And Beatrice was content with five days out of seven and the two beautiful daughters he had given her. She needed nothing more.
But I did.
I carried the flowers to the kitchen and retrieved a milk glass vase from an upper cabinet. After filling it with water from the sink, I nestled the hibiscus stems inside. Jonathan followed from the living area and crowded in behind me. His hands rubbed down my arms as I cranked the faucet off then braced myself against the countertop.
“I’ve been thinking of this all day,” he murmured, his face near my ear. “Thinking of you.”
