Page 38 of Hounded

“Oh, god!” Abigail cupped her hands to her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

My glaive faded into the air, then I turned gingerly to take hold of the protruding dagger handle. The serrated edge dragged through my skin as I pulled it out. I wiped it on the thigh of my jeans, cleaning off viscous black blood before I offered it back to her.

She took the dagger with a trembling hand while babbling apologies. Tears spilled from her eyes.

Nero and Moira loomed above. Their scrutiny made me sweat.

“Take a break.” A familiar voice came from behind me. Whitney had approached and stood with his arms folded and his brows dipped in a critical squint.

Abigail ducked her head. The bulky choke chain hung heavy around her neck. She took Whitney’s dismissal and scurried toward a cluster of hounds at the edge of the arena. They made for a sorry bunch, all blood smeared and bedraggled with their clothing ripped by gnashing teeth and claws. More than that, they looked afraid. Of Nero and Moira, their cruel overseers. Of Whitney and me.

With Abigail gone, Whitney closed in to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with me as we surveyed the remaining pairs as they reengaged in combat.

“Respectfully, Loren,” he began. “What was that?”

With our backs to the dais, Nero and Moira couldn’t see us talking. That was for the best because speaking outof turn was the surest way to earn reprimand and, if Moira realized what I assumed Whitney had, I was already due for a scolding.

Whitney needed no response from me to conclude, “You threw the fight.”

I dabbed my fingers to the wound leaking lukewarm blood down my side. I didn’t expect him to understand. He predated me in every way and had participated in my training. Armed with his saber, he’d bested me in every fight. Obedience school, Moira called it. She was most invested in the obedience part.

“They deserve to be taught, not tormented.” I failed to soften the edge that crept into my voice. “You might’ve forgotten what it feels like to have your face ground into the dirt, but I haven’t.”

Whitney sighed loudly, almost a growl. My inner hound grumbled back.

“You’re making this personal, and it shouldn’t be,” he said. “You have ample responsibilities without involving yourself in theirs.”

“I wastoldto involve myself.” The tip of my chin indicated the demoness languishing in the stands.

“You were asked to show yourskills,” Whitney corrected, “not your concern. That would be better spent on your own standing.”

My hound prickled again, bristling enough to cause the hairs on my arms to stand on end.

“Miss notices, you know,” Whitney said. “She’s been making excuses for you, but you oughtn’t expect that to continue.”

Around us, the hounds sparred. They would carry onuntil Moira allowed them to stop or they collapsed from exhaustion. Tomorrow, the process would begin anew. Over and over. For weeks. Months. Years.

After several seconds, I worked up the nerve to ask the question that had haunted me for days.

“Haveyoubeen making excuses for me, too?”

Whitney’s gaze cut sharply toward me. “About your Earth pet?”

Biting back the argument that Indy was no one’s pet, I resigned myself to nod.

Whitney bobbed his head in response. “It hasn’t come up.”

It opened the door to wonder what kinds of thingshadcome up, and if Whitney had continued his babysitting duties while I was unaware. Before I could worry about that, his next statement gave me far more to be concerned about.

“I’ve been looking into it, though,” he said. “On my own.”

Cold and hot rushed my face simultaneously, leaving me bathed in clammy sweat while Whitney stared across the arena.

He didn’t even blink as he added, “I didn’t take you for a bird dog, Loren.”

It might have been a joke. Indy called me that from time to time while teasing or flirting. It usually made me smile. From Whitney, though, it felt like a curse.

“What?” My voice was a rasp.

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