Page 36 of The Huntress and Her Hound

He spins around, his eyes narrowing with accusation. “Enough to know you have secrets—and my guess is they’re big ones.”

“Fuck you,” I snap at him.

“Bet you wouldn’t,” he scoffs. “I’m not your type.”

I clench my fists as he smirks down at me, anger simmering in my chest as I speak. “You don’t even know my type.”

“Wealthy assholes who don’t take no for an answer and will fuck anything that walks past them.”

Damn, he’s good.

He waits for me to answer, but then sighs, and heads away again. “I’m getting coffee.”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning,” I reason, picking up my pace. “Henry is going to be worried about you—and you need to go to bed, sleep off the drunkenness.”

“You afraid I’ll spill your sex addiction?” Jude says flatly, heading toward a twenty-four-seven coffee shop.

“I don’t have a sex addiction.” It’s a murder addiction.

“Yet you go to sex clubs in your little modest, sexy get up and take the first dick that gets hard for you.” He spits it out with so much aversion I feel it in my core. “You deserve better than some guy who just wants to pump-and-dump and leave.”

A knot forms in my throat, and I’m surprised at the truth spilling from my lips. “I don’t sleep with them, Jude. It’s not like that.”

He stops right outside the door of the small café, his expression incredulous. “Right. Maybe your brother will buy that cute little schoolgirl excuse, but I don’t.” Jude grabs the handle and rips the door open, shaking his head as he stalks toward the front counter. My shoulders drop as I follow him, avoiding the gaze of any curious onlookers. I want to scream at Jude as his expression remains annoyed—with me.

I don’t sleep with them, Jude. I just fucking kill them.

If we were anywhere other than Vegas, someone might look at us funny given our odd dynamic tonight, but thankfully, eccentricity permeates this place. Standing next to Jude as he orders, I fold my arms across my chest.

“You want anything?” Jude glances down at me with nonchalance—like he didn’t just berate me for last five minutes.

“No,” I say flatly, borderline pouting.

“Cool, so she’ll have the same thing as me,” he tells the barista, who starts giggling beneath her thick eyeliner.

“What’s the name?”

“Jude.”

“I love that name,” the cute little barista coos in a way that makes me want to pull her hair and cut her vocal cords.

“I don’t.” Jude doesn’t even look up as he pulls out his card and drops it on the counter.

I exchange a quick glance with the woman. Yep. Now you know how it feels to be ignored by Jude, too. Sucks, huh?

“Have a good evening,” she mutters as she hands him back the card. I watch as Jude takes the card from her, shoves it back in his wallet, and puts the whole thing into his back pocket. I have no idea why watching him do something so simple is so intriguing, but here I am, my eyes drinking in the veins in his arms and the dead expression on his face. My mind wanders back to when I grabbed his hand, and suddenly...

I’m tempted to do it again. What would it feel like if there was no urgency? If it was intentional...intimate.

“What’re you staring at me for?” Jude’s slightly drunken voice cuts my thought short.

“Nothing,” I mumble, looking away. My heels click on the floors as we make our way to the other side of the bar, waiting on our drinks. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to avoid staring at the man I’m here with.

Why do I feel like I’m in high school again?

I keep waiting for the voices to show up, too, but they’re suddenly silent—and I don’t know what to do with that. They never seem to stop chattering in my head. Ever.

The barista sets two iced coffees on the counter, and I reach for mine, my fingers brushing Jude’s. I freeze, ignoring his gaze. His hand quickly retreats, and I pick up the cup, taking a long gulp of the vanilla tainted drink.

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