The pleasant smell of baked bread drifted by him as he crossed through the merchant quarter, though Pyre was proud to admit that Rina’s bakery in the forest smelled better. He hated the merchant quarter. It was full of crooks and too loud for his ears. Merchants were the worse. They paraded themselves around as honest folk while robbing people blind. They were the real thieves. At least Pyre didn’t pretend he was something he wasn’t. Anyone who came to him knew exactly what they were getting into. He did not hide his nature, never had.
The barracks came into view, and he scanned the area. This was where he needed to exercise extreme caution, mindful of any approaching footsteps. Infiltrating the Hounds was easy, but it paid to be cautious. It had saved his life many times.
Pyre sniffed the air. A small rumble escaped him at the tell-tale female scent.
Tempest. His Hound.
His lip curled. The Hound. She wasn’t his.
Yet.
Her scent was faint at first, for the air was full of the sour stench of sweat from training members of the Hounds, the tang of metal swords clashing against each other and the overwhelming, acrid bitterness of smoke from a fire. Pyre nosed in and out of various rooms in the barracks, unable to help himself from pilfering a few weapons and interesting items that took his fancy. They wouldn’t miss them.
A dagger with a carved bone handle. An ornate key that was so expensively made it had to be protecting something valuable. Pyre loved a good puzzle, and he would enjoy discovering what the key unlocked. He discovered a map of Dotae with several seemingly innocuous areas of the city circled in bright red ink.
Another puzzle.
Lastly, Pyre stole an emerald ring from the barracks. It was too slender to fit upon his fingers, which meant it was likely a keepsake of some female relative of a Hound. Pyre felt no sympathy for the Hound who would discover it gone. They were paid murderers.
He neared the final barracks building. Tempest’s scent was stronger. A thrill of excitement caused his heartbeat to quicken. The smell of the female Hound always caused such a physical reaction from him. What was it about her that riled him? He used to resent it, but now he had grown to accept that some visceral, animal instinct in him was irrefutably drawn to the woman.
Pyre glanced around and quickly scaled the side of the building to peek inside. It was a long rectangular room full of beds with a large fireplace at one end and a door at the other. Completely empty. Excellent.
Quickly, he picked the lock on the window and slid the glass pane out of the way, before carefully slipping inside and closing the window behind him. Pyre dropped to the stone floor, landing on the balls of his feet. He scanned the room once more for any hidden enemies. He found none. It was a drab room—all utility and no luxury. Beds ran along the two, long parallel walls with weapons scattered about.
This was where his enemies rested. A surge of energy and adrenaline rushed through him. He was in their den, and they knew nothing of it.
His men hated him putting himself at such a risk, and, in truth, Pyre agreed with them. If he was in their position, he would not want the Jester crawling through Dotae simply to nose around the barracks of the king’s assassins.
Tempest’s scent grew stronger still, and he paused by the only bed with a privacy wall next to it. He ran his fingers along the chest at the end of the bed and then across the plain blanket covering her mattress. The urge to roll on her bed pricked him. He squashed it and froze when a noise outside the window gave him pause.
He stepped onto her bed and looked through the glass window above. The hair along his arms rose, and his lip curled back from his teeth. King Destin in the flesh. The bastard’s attention was pinned to the female in the ring who moved like water and sin, her periwinkle hair whipping with her movements.
Tempest.
Pyre looked on, observing the macabre scene as the king waved Tempest over. At first, it was funny, the way Tempest clearly did not want to come close to Destin even though she was being commanded to, but then Pyre noticed the genuine fear flitting across her face. That was dangerous. Pyre knew the king could smell fear miles away. He fed on it. Enjoyed it.
The king pinned Tempest against a wooden pole and kissed her.
A snarl formed in the back of Pyre’s throat, and his claws pierced the skin of his fingers, lengthening. The obvious desire in King Destin’s face when Tempest bit his lip sent Pyre into a confusing rage. How dare that mongrel touch what was his. His entire body hovered on the edge of rage as the king’s gaze roved over Tempest like she was his property, his alone.
Mine.
His claws dug into the window frame. He could do nothing about the situation and had no right to interfere with whatever was going on.
Get a hold of yourself.
The practical part of him filed what he’d seen in the back of his mind; it could prove useful in the future. Though Tempest had been cagey about answering any questions about King Destin before, Pyre had always known that there was more to her feelings for the king than mere fear for a manipulative ruler. Now, he was beginning to grasp just exactly what was going on.
Whether Tempest enjoyed the attentions or not, he pitied her. The king’s advances were not something he’d wish on his worst enemy. He’d seen the effects of what Destin’s attentions begot. Pyre stopped his thoughts there. No need to go down memory lane.
He forced himself to release the windowsill and frowned at the claw marks he’d left. That was unfortunate. Nothing to be done. Tempest ducked underneath the king’s arm and moved toward the barracks. Pyre smiled to himself as he caught the look on Tempest’s face. She didn’t look pleased. That brought him more pleasure than it should have.
Chuckling quietly at himself, he sat down and then stretched out across her bed. From her expression, she looked as prickly as a porcupine. Their next interaction would be spicy, and he couldn’t wait. Her scent teased his nose, and he couldn’t help but roll around on her bed, rumpling the cover and spreading his scent everywhere.
You poor sod. Knock it off.
Pyre frowned at himself. He could not afford to care for the Hound. She was useful to him, and he was useful to her. Their relationship was one of business. So why couldn’t he get the last time they touched out of his head? Instead of attacking him when he was weak, she embraced him. Why? What did she seek to gain? His trust?
Familiar footsteps approached the door, and he shook the thoughts away. He had to be every inch the arrogant, charming, self-serving fox shifter Tempest knew and loathed. A smirk twisted his lips. She would hate to see him on her bed more than anywhere else. For that fact alone, it was worth creeping into Dotae just for the expression on her face.
The door opened, then closed so violently that its hinges rattled. Tempest blinked slowly when she caught sight of him, then flames leapt in her gaze, and his heart picked up pace. This was what he craved. The banter. The fight. With her.
The Lady Hound was rattled.
“Pyre,” Tempest said, so quietly it could barely be counted as speaking. The horrified, furious look on her face was priceless. Pyre’s mouth split into a grin immediately. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Eight
Tempest
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Tempest hissed. “What the hell are you doing here, Pyre?”
The fox shifter twisted around until he was lying on his front, chin resting on his hands. “I thought you might have missed me,” he mocked and batted his long lashes. God, he set her teeth on edge. “It has been so long,” the Jester lamented.