he kept on his instincts slipped in response. Anger. So hard to resist. The blood surged a little quicker in his veins, but he kept his face blank, undisturbed.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
She was verging on full rage. His pulse quickening, Risk leaned lower and burrowed his nose into the waves of her hair. Annoyance, rage, fear; they all were there, and…he placed his palms flat against the door behind her, trapping her into place…something else, something barely tapped. Ignoring the blood pooling in his groin, he pulled his head back and stared into her eyes. They flickered with one of the few colors he could truly identify — the violet of unsullied power.
The intensity of her emotions engulfed him, making him reluctant to leave her side. “What are you?” he whispered.
Her lower lip disappeared between her teeth as she stared up at him. Another gleam of violet.
Whatever she was hiding, it was growing stronger. Like most power, it must be tied to her emotions — and with the strength of hers, whatever she was, unfettered she would be formidable.
He should stop now, take the female to Lusse. Let the witch wring whatever she desired out of her. But…the female’s eyes flashed again…she wasn’t like his normal Lusse-directed prey. This female’s power was…he hesitated…pure. An inaudible laugh escaped him. Pure power. It was impossible, a myth. Power corrupted. It was true, cliche though it was.
No being could grow to adulthood with power over others and not use it to help themselves, harming those around them in the process. Then, once the power was realized, they turned to it again and again, until all that mattered was power. He jerked his hand from behind her head and grabbed on to the chain around his neck. This was proof of that. Lusse’s quest for power had held him for five hundred years. Five hundred hell-filled years.
Spinning away from the female, he fisted his hands at his side. Power, another witch perhaps. Lusse had a particular love of destroying her own kind. He had taken no small amount of joy in it, too. Each one represented Lusse in his mind.
He should kill her himself. Why wait? Why give Lusse the chance to bleed her of her strength?
Kill her before she turned. It would be easy.
A low growl forming in his throat, he spun slowly back toward the door, and his prey.
Lusse whirled from the window, her blond hair snapping as she turned. “Where is he?”
Bader shuffled forward, his gaze glued to the white pile rug beneath their feet. “Venge is in the foyer. He was bloody. I didn’t think you would want him dripping on the carpet,” he mumbled.
“Not the whelp. I have no need for him. Risk. Where is Risk?”
Bader’s eyes darted toward the white double doors that opened to the hall.
“Where is he?” she repeated.
“Missing.” Bader hunched his shoulders, waiting for a deserved blow.
Like she had time to mess with him.
“I thought you said he fought the boy. Didn’t he return with him?”
Bader gave a slight shake of his squat head.
Pausing in front of a gilt mirror, Lusse ran her forefinger over her brows. “And the girl?”
Another shake.
“Words, use words.” She glared at Bader’s reflection. “Did she survive their fight?”
“I’m not sure, but there were no signs of her blood on Venge, or much of…Risk’s…” he finished.
Not a surprise. Lusse didn’t expect Venge to get the best of Risk. In fact, she’d hoped Risk would be angered enough by the whelp’s appearance, in what she knew Risk thought of as his territory, that he would allow his hellhound nature to take over completely. She’d hoped to have little more than a ginger-colored hide left of the whelp as a result of his dedicated service.
She turned her back on the mirror, pressing her spine against the marble top of the server that set beneath it. Risk had potential to be unstoppable, but his annoying edge of humanity kept getting in his way — her way.
She pressed her palms and fingers together in front of her face.
“Should I call him?” A carved horn hung from a leather strap in Bader’s hand.
Lusse glanced from the horn to Bader’s flat face. “Not yet. Let’s talk to Venge first. I need to know what’s keeping Risk before I summon him.”
With a short nod, Bader shuffled from the room.
Lusse spun back around to study her reflection. This had not gone at all as she had planned. She plucked a tube of lipstick from the tray in front of her and smeared a line of red across her lips. Risk should be here now, fresh from the capture of the girl — a total innocent.
Lusse’d laid out a test for him and he’d failed.
The boy was just insurance, but even that part of her plan had fallen short.
Not only had Risk not returned with the young witch, he’d allowed another hellhound to step into his territory and survive. It was unthinkable.
She threw the lipstick down. The open cosmetic rolled across the marble before thunking onto the white carpet below.
Risk should be here, finally embracing his darkest side. Finally ready to lead Lusse’s hounds in more than name only. With Risk as pack leader, willingly following her, she would be unstoppable.
Lusse gripped the sides of the server and stared into the mirror at her reflection. The months she’d spent training him, molding him. It couldn’t have been wasted. She had been sure he was ready. No, something was keeping him, and when she found out what it was, she would destroy it and any bit of humanity left in her favorite.
The smell of blood drew her attention back to the room. The boy stumbled in, barely moving faster than Bader who followed behind, his gaze on the floor.
“I see what you mean.” She smiled, admiring Risk’s work. The neck of the young man in front of her was thick with dried blood. “No real damage?” She stepped forward, running a finger along one particularly deep cut.
Bader’s head gave a slight shake. “You know hellhounds—”
“Near impossible to kill. Yes, I know.” She folded her arms over her chest, and studied the other man’s face. So handsome, with his blue eyes and ginger hair. And his physique showed promise, too. Broad shoulders, long muscular legs. But, all in all, he was still nothing compared to Risk.
“What happened?” she asked.
Eyes, void of emotion, stared back at her. “He won.”
She tapped a finger against her arm. Hellhounds were such a pain to break. Although there was a certain amount of joy in the act. She motioned for Bader to retrieve her favorite toy.
Eyes darting, Bader scurried to the silver-strapped chest she kept stuffed with items guaranteed to brighten an otherwise dull day. He flipped the lid up, then hovered above the open chest as if lost.
“The whip,” she ordered, then looking back at Venge, added, “…the special one.”
A tremor shook Bader’s back.
“Now,” she demanded, narrowing her eyes at her servant. Really, he was becoming tiresome, but lucky for him, she had bigger concerns today.
Nodding and mumbling to himself, he crept forward, the cat-o’-nine-tails balanced over his upturned palms.
Finally. She snatched the leather toy from his hands.
“Now, Venge, what did you say happened?” She let the black tails of the whip trail through her fingers.
His gaze didn’t waver. “He won,” he repeated.
Damn hellhound pride. They never learned. She snapped the whip, the tails sparking yellow as they struck together.
Venge’s eyes widened just enough.
He knew what was coming.
Tingles of pleasure danced through Lusse’s center. “There’s no shame in giving in. Your father has often enough.”
