Read Hunter's Prey: Bloodhounds, Book 2 for Free Online Page A

claws, even with the full moon weeks away. “Because that ugly bastard won’t stop poking at me.”
    Wilder glowered at them both. “Satira and I are leaving. Can you two get through dinner without making asses of yourselves, or do you need to leave now too?”
    The last thing he wanted to do was head to the brothel, where he’d have to endure awkward small talk with Ophelia’s friend while waiting for madness to overtake him. “I’m going out back to train.”
    “Whatever you two do, behave yourselves.” Wilder grumbled under his breath as he stalked away.
    “Dinner,” Archer mused aloud. “May as well sit down for a nice meal before I go.”
    Alone. With Ophelia.
    The bastard was trying to get a rise out of him, and Hunter needed to be too controlled to let it happen. Too superior, too confident, too human .
    He repeated those virtues to himself more than once as he lunged toward Archer, ready to drive a fist into— through —his jaw.
    Archer took the hit with a laugh and launched a counterattack, a single, hard punch to Hunter’s midsection, hard enough to drive the air from him. Even so, bitter satisfaction came with the pain. It felt good to fight, as if the sheer release of violence served some higher purpose far beyond his rage.
    This was what he was reborn to be. A fighter. Snarling, Hunter weaved out of the way of Archer’s next swing and came up underneath it, catching the other hound’s wrist in a bruising grip as he twisted his hand.
    Archer’s laughter vanished, and he cursed bitterly and snatched at Hunter’s head. As he closed his fist in his hair, cold water splashed over them. Archer stumbled back, sputtering.
    Ophelia lowered the bucket. “Are you finished?”
    Icy water dripped down the back of Hunter’s neck, cutting a chilling path between his shoulders. It should have doused the heat of his anger, but Ophelia’s presence twisted the world until every breath rattled in his chest.
    At least she wasn’t looking at Archer with particular fondness, and that made it possible to speak. “Yes.”
    She avoided his gaze. “Dinner is on the table, but I think both of you should consider going to Sylvie’s. Now.”
    Hunter shifted his attention to Archer, his hands clenching into fists. Most of the time the older hound treated him with a gruff sort of friendliness, offering advice and assistance as often as sharp words or laughter.
    Now, he licked his lower lip as he backed away. “Yeah, I think I’ll head on over. Not hungry, really, and there’s nothing much to do here. May as well.”
    Tension rooted Hunter in place until Archer disappeared into the back of the house. A deep breath dragged in the scent of Ophelia’s perfume—and it was intoxicating, an exotic flower with a hint of something earthy beneath it—and now he wanted to bury his face in her hair. Or anywhere else she’d let him.
    Instead he tried to apologize. “I can fetch some rags and clean up in here.”
    She sighed. “The longer you stay, the more riled up you’re going to be when you get to Sylvie’s. Are you trying to frighten yourself, Hunter?”
    “No.” And it was true. With Archer gone, the blistering rage had mellowed to a warm throb that held more heat than hatred. “It’s not so bad when the other bloodhounds aren’t around.”
    Ophelia swallowed hard and looked away. “Have you thought about why that might be?”
    He couldn’t stop watching her pale, smooth throat. He wanted to nuzzle it. Taste it. Bite it. “No.”
    The bucket rattled in her hand. When she met his gaze, her eyes were filled with anger—and hurt. “She’s waiting for you.”
    Words were more impossible than usual. Somewhere inside him, what was left of Matthew Underwood railed at this tongue-tied stupidity. He should know how to make this right, how to coax her to speak, how to wrap her in charm and care and soothe whatever hurt her.
    She was sending him away. To another woman’s bed, where he would do unspeakable things,