Hunted: A Claiming Novella (The Claiming) (9 page)

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 secret, then you’ll close that door, turn around, and finish this
conversation with me.”

Her shoulders flew back and a growl
vibrated from her throat—an animalistic sound—as she spun around, bearing her
teeth like a rabid wolf.

He’d struck a nerve.
Perfect
. He
had her in a corner now. He’d deftly taken the upper hand and she didn’t even
know it yet. He had her where he wanted her.

Because he knew her secret. A secret so
heinous, the king himself would turn her in to see her beheaded. An arena would
cheer as they watched her die, so hated would she be. If they only knew what he
knew.

Pistol or not, he’d get what he wanted.
On second thought, this would require another drink. He finished another swig
of fire before continuing with his plans.

She didn’t share the same patience he’d
summoned. “My secret?” Her eyes changed then, turning into something cold and
deadly. A look that nearly made him tighten his grip on his sword handle—but
that’d be silly—she was no real danger to him.

“Yes, your rather ugly little secret.
Only, it’s not so little, is it? What would people think if they knew, Lysse?
What would they think of you?”

“I’m a whore. It won’t be much different
than what they think of me already.” Her eyes rolled. She sighed like a
dramatic actress, her expression telling him how very boring this all was to
her. How very boring
he
was to her.

It grated his nerves like eating rocks.
She never did take him seriously. His hand curled into a white-knuckled fist.
Then he forced it to relax; no use getting riled up. Not when he had her where
he wanted her.

“Angry? You always did lose your temper
easily.” Her smug laughter rankled him more than he liked.

Patrick glowered, not finding her
laughter anything close to humorous.

She tossed her long hair over her shoulder.
“You always were oblivious to the truth. As if I’d tell you anything. You’d be
surprised at the things I hear. At the thoughts people let slip out around me
when they think I’m not listening or too dumb to understand. It’s even better
when they think you’re stupid. My dear Patrick, it’s all rather glorious how
easily they are played.”

“Even the king?”

“Yes, even Lyle.” Her eyes twinkled with
smug satisfaction.

He had no doubt her words rang true.

“Do explain, love. I’m aching to hear
all.” Sarcasm dripped from him like ooze.

“Lyle feels quite the affection for his
friend, the general. The king had a long list of names he could have chosen
from for the Claiming Ceremony. All the women were perfectly attractive and
healthy, but he chose Penelope Farris. A ballet dancer from town who’d created
quite a name for herself. She’d managed to entrance the attention of the
general.”

“I believe that’s because of how high
she can kick her legs.”

Before she could blink, Patrick
unsheathed his pinpoint sword from his cane and held the tip to her neck.

She sucked in a breath, caught by
surprise. Delicately, she arched her neck away from the deadly point.

But he kept the silver-plated tip poised
at her neck, his arm ready to finish the deed. Though, it’d pain him to end
her. In ways he’d always—appreciated—Lysse and her tenacious personality. It
reminded him much of himself. Or maybe it was because they were both on the
lower rung of life, in ways, and they shared that in common.

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “I want you to
tell me everything you know about Ryon’s schedule for the Claiming Ceremony
tomorrow.” He tapped the edge of his sword to her throat—a warning.

Her pistol was pointed at his knee, so
at least his manhood was safe. For now. “Why should I?”

“I want to know where Ryon will be
staying before the ceremony, and when he’s brought to the arena. Surely you
know the location. It changes year to year. Which room will he be taken to?”

Cold eyes watched him like a hawk to a
mouse. Any moment he felt she might pounce on him.

“Why do you want to know about Ryon
Ward?”

“Stupid question, Lysse. You know I
can’t tell you that.”

She was silent for a minute. He thought
she might not speak.

“I really don’t see why I should tell
you.
If
I know anything at all.”

“Don’t be a liar now. You know more
about this kingdom and its people than the actuary
.
It’s a simple
request, Lysse. I just want to know where he’ll be. Let’s say I wish to give
him a warm handshake before the competition, eh?” His attempt at cracking a
smile felt forced, and judging by her expression of disbelief—it hadn’t worked
either.

“And do I need to remind you that I know
you well, Patrick? You wouldn’t want to know where he was staying unless it was
very important to you. It must be difficult to have to succumb to
my
level,
isn’t it? To have to coerce a whore for information via threats.”

His molars attempted to grind into dust
as he chomped away with agitation. Why couldn’t this have been easy? Women
never made anything easy.

“It’s surprisingly easy to bend down to
your level, Lysse. Did I mention my blade is made from silver?”

And like that, any semblance of teasing
banter evaporated between them. Leaving her stiff with malice. Her eyes dipped
to study the blade and verify the truth in his words. When she looked at him
again, he fought not to take a step back at the murder in her eyes. She wanted
to kill him, he could see it so clearly. Cold, dead eyes, ready to strike.
Sweat broke out over his forehead, the squeezing grip on the leather sword
handle growing moist.

“Some mistakes can never be fixed.”
Eerie words. Unsettling words.

“What does that mean?” he snapped.
“Don’t be obtuse. It doesn’t become you.”

One thin eyebrow quirked up. “You don’t
want to see what becomes of me, Patrick.”

His heart skipped a beat—a bolt of fear.
He staggered inwardly, his arm wavering around her neck, unable to stay locked
straight. No, he didn’t want to see that. He hoped to the Lord he never had to
see it.

“Just tell me where he’ll be. I plan to
give him flowers and offer to shake hands with the man who’s fighting for the
woman I want. It’s nothing more than some masculine posturing, Lysse. I also
plan to propose to Penelope Farris. I want her for myself.”

She looked skeptical. “You think one
lousy proposal from you will sweep her off her delicate little feet? Do you
really think you stand a chance against the general? He’s built like a
mountain, while you…” she looked up and down, “resemble a poor farm boy.”

His lingering fear fed his confidence.
He was so close to getting the answers he needed. She was close to caving, he
could see it as the resistance left her posture.

“I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you,”
Lysse said after a minute. “He’s supposed to arrive before noon. He’ll be taken
to the men’s waiting room on the west side of the building. A secluded
compartment separate from the main arena.”

Her words rang with truth, though he
wished he could press further.

“Lysse—” he didn’t know what he was
going to say, but she stopped him before he could anyway.

“Quiet!” she ordered and spun around. He
flicked his blade away, narrowly missing nicking her neck. “I hear people in
the hall. I hope they’re not looking for me.”

The excitement in her voice made him
think otherwise.

“This is all your fault.”

She shoved the pistol back into her
satchel.

What was this? What was she up to now?

Not that he could complain at her being
in a weakened position. While she listened at the door he poured another drink,
filling the entire glass this time. He downed it in two swallows. Damn, but he
needed that. Maybe even a whole bottle after this encounter.

Voices were rising outside, a commotion
in the hallway.

Lysse peered outside the door, only
opening it a smidgen. “There’s a crowd forming in the hall,” she whispered back
to him. “It looks like they’re about to break down one of the doors.”

“Why’s that?” he asked.

She didn’t look concerned, more like she
wanted in on the gossip. Always a secret seeker, Lysse didn’t wait to hear
about gossip, she preferred to learn of it firsthand, then use that information
as leverage. Just as he’d done with her secret today.

“It appears that someone’s using the
butler’s study for a bit of fun and now a crowd is gathering to see what will
happen.”

“Well, I’m leaving before someone shows
up here and starts pounding on our door.”

“
Me
first.”

Of course. A small victory for her, or
so she would think. She slipped out with only the soft rustle of her swaying
dress following her.

He let her go. He had plans to
implement.

Chapter 8

Penelope
rose from bed late in the night, unable to sleep. It had been hours since she’d
last seen Ryon at the celebration. After what they’d done… It was only
inevitable that sleep eluded her. So she pulled on a simple frock and tiptoed
downstairs.

The
middle Farris sister, Priscilla, had insisted, or
demanded
rather, that
she stay the night with Pen, since it was the day before her Claiming. Tomorrow
would be a busy day. Someone would be styling her hair, another bathing her and
covering her in sweet scents, another dressing her in the ceremonial outfit.
The female and male are supposed to abstain from luxuries the morning before
the ritual so that hunger was pronounced. It made the males ravenous in battle
and therefore more violent. Or so the story goes.

She supposed she was going to find out
one way or another. There was no getting out of this. The king had chosen her
name out of all other choices. She wanted to do her duty and bear a child, not
just for the kingdom and her people, but because she wanted one. A baby of her
own to love and befriend and protect. She could do it and she would even do a
good job at it.

Penelope slipped past her sister’s guest
room door, exhaling a breath of relief when she made it outside. The
temperature had cooled and the wind felt good blowing against her hot skin.

Already her nerves began to relax. This
week, ever since she’d received that scroll with her name as the first Claimed
chosen for this year, she had been operating in deflecting mode. Maybe a part
of her had thought she could ignore the truth of what was happening. But this
wasn’t all fun and games. She was really going up there tomorrow before king
and country. She would watch as male participants—those who wanted to fight for
a chance to have her—would step forward. They would fight.
For her.

Some have died in Claiming Battles,
though the battle was not supposed to be a fight to the death. Accidents
happen, they say.