Free Hunted: A Claiming Novella (The Claiming) by T. A. Grey

crude, common slur which he’d heard
thousands of times spoken from man to man had never fazed him, but now, hearing
this lovely woman say the same thing made him burst out laughing. When he could
see straight again, she was glaring at him.
    The material bunched up high now, he
finally placed the tips of his fingers on her thigh and felt soft, warm flesh.
    It had been a long time, he thought, his manhood awakening swiftly. It wouldn’t even take long,
and with the way she was flushed and panting, he bet he could get her off in
even less time. His gaze narrowed dangerously.
    She must have seen his expression, for
she cut him off before he could so much as make a move. “You don’t have the
right to touch me anymore. Patrick .” She purposely didn’t add his title
and she looked smug about it. He bit off a grin. “I belong to Lyle now.”
    “Lyle,” he scoffed. “I know you’re
fucking him, but don’t pretend like you’re on a first name basis with him. You
can’t fool me.”
    She hunched her shoulders. “Like you
would know. Besides, your jealousy reeks.”
    He squeezed her thigh in a quick,
bruising grip. That got her attention—and a gasp, which, if his ears didn’t
fool him, sounded excited. A sound he could still remember hearing, once, a
long time ago, panting in his ear.
    “I know everything about the king,
Lysse. It’s my job. Everything. Do you understand?”
    “Yes, I do. Now remove your hand from my
leg.”
    “Or else what? Will you scream? Do you
think your beloved king will come running to save you?”
    Eyes colder than ice stared back at him.
    Lesser men would look away. He didn’t.
    “No, but I’ll pull the trigger on this.”
    The unmistakable iron-cold prod of a
pistol barrel was shoved deep into his stomach, and brought him back to
rational thought. This wasn’t the first time he’d had a pistol drawn on him.
The silver-made bullets hurt like hell with even the slightest grazing wound.
Everyone used the silver-made bullets for protection from their worst enemy.
    The pistols were useless at any distance
more than a couple feet.
    Clever girl.
    At such close range, she’d drop him like
a heavy sack of grain. And her smug grin said she knew it too.
    He took a step back from her while
lifting his hands to face her. His cane dangled from his right wrist by a thin
leather strap. His own silver blade hung inside, thin but deadly, if he
required it. “Easy there, dove. No need for violence. Tonight is supposed to be
a night for celebration and remembrance.”
    Soft laughter trickled over him. “You
don’t have to tell me that.” Her pistol arm remained unwavering.
    He didn’t like this at all; one wrong
move and she would lay him out.
    She continued, “Now that we’re standing
on even ground, tell me why you followed me.”
    “Like you really need to ask,” he
drawled, letting his eyes glide meaningfully down her body.
    She didn’t flush, not Lysse. She was
used to such attention now. Her smile softened her face while making her sex
appeal even better. A true beauty. “You never could resist a nice bum, could
you?”
    He grinned rakishly, then strolled to
the sidebar that was stocked with an aged whiskey and poured two fingers in a
short glass. He tossed the drink back, the burning sensation in his throat like
scorching fire. “Not yours, apparently.”
    Silence found them, his words weighing
in the room. Maybe he was seeing things in the dimly lit room, but he thought
her gaze appeared warmer than it had a few minutes ago. She still kept the
pistol pointed at him but her arm had lowered greatly so he was only at risk of
losing his manhood at most.
    Fantastic .
    She grabbed the doorknob and began to
turn it. “Well, if that’s all…”  
    “I do think you should keep that door
closed, Lysse.”
    “And why is that, Patrick?” She
pointedly used his name.
    He decided to let it slide this time. He
had other plans for her. 
    “Unless you want me to tell the king
about your