Page 7 of To Run with the Wild Hunt

"From me," he said, his voice harsh. "From everything I represent. You're hers. Her hound." His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "So make her feel safe."

New Acquisitions

Alexis Sharpe

Iwoke up, which surprised me. I'd been run down and savaged by a pack of wolfhounds, and my last memory was of looking at someone on the edge of humanity while I bled to death. I wasn't the sort of person who had visions or hallucinations. I didn't usually even dream. I owed my aunt an apology for all the times I'd rolled my eyes at her insistence that she'd seen ghosts.

Before that moment, my life had been… well, not normal, precisely, but certainly within the realm of lives a human being could conceivably expect to live. I'd done a lot of unusual things, namely stealing art from wealthy assholes to sell to other wealthy assholes, but all of that still lay within the realm of the possible, however unlikely for the average person.

What had happened in the hills of Ireland wasn't possible. Those sorts of things only happened in fairytales and myths, and despite the number of crusty old guys at bars who would swear otherwise, myths and legends didn't walk among us.

Except that maybe I'd be the crusty old guy at the bar now, swearing up and down that I'd encountered the Wild Hunt, and had the scars to prove it.

…Scars.

I'd been chewed up by dogs, and my legs didn't hurt.

Somehow that stray thought penetrated my muzzy brain enough to make me sit bolt upright, mummy-rising-from-the-grave style, my eyes flying open. My mind wasn't fully online yet, but a critical part of being a thief is the ability to rapidly incorporate new information, and an attention to detail that would make an IRS auditor weep with pride. So within one thudding heartbeat, my subconscious grabbed all of the signals pouring in through my wide eyes and slammed knowledge into my waking mind, one piece of recognition after another.

One: an enormous black hound was sleeping next to me,

Two: on a massive four-poster bed,

Three: in a room worthy of a castle,

Four: filled with what looked like really expensive art.

Fuck me.

I was mostly naked. Lying on furs. And the hellhound I'd startled awake was looking at me like I was his new best friend, his red tongue lolling out as he panted happily.

There wasn't blood on my legs or arms. There were dark blue tattoos in the shapes of bite marks from dogs, stylized with loops and whorls in a Celtic-looking style.

I had human feet. No hooves anywhere in sight.

"Holy shit," I whispered, my voice shaking as I tried very hard not to hyperventilate.

The dog started licking me on my face. That was a no-go for me, not when his bite marks might be tattooed on my limbs.

I scooted off the bed, getting to my feet, deeply grateful both for my bloodstained boxer-briefs and my sports bra.

The hound stood up and shook himself, hopping off the bed with his tail wagging. With his ears perked, he trotted up to me and stuck his nose up against my crotch.

I shoved his huge head away, fending him off. "Hell, no," I said, when he tried to get around my hand as I stiff-armed him. "I only let men put their faces between my legs."

The dog… changed. It happened in the space of a heartbeat, his shoulders spreading and limbs thickening, until there was a black-haired man on his knees in front of me instead of a pushy hellhound.

He wrapped his hands around the back of my thighs, body heat sinking into me as he looked up into my face with a sultry, red-eyed gaze. "If that's what you want," he said in a musical voice, and ran his mouth and nose against my underwear.

I just stood there, too shocked to react as the black hound ran his tongue up between my legs, licking me with a look of focused bliss on his sharp-boned face.

He smiled up at me, eyes half-lidded, staying there with his cheek leaning against my thigh.

"You… you're…" I stammered out, turning crimson. Holy shit, the dogs hadn't just been people. They were people.

The dog inhaled again, with slow savor. "I'm yours, Lexi," he said, leaning his face on my thigh with an adoring gaze, his tail doing a slow wag. "You know my name."

"No, I… don't…" I said, trailing off. Because I did know, even though there was no way I could have. His name was Keilain, and he liked to be called Key by those he loved. It came easily to my mind, the memory of it as bone-deep as the knowledge of my own name. The shock of having a man at my feet had nothing to do with seeing him shift, the movement easy and comfortable to my eyes. The black fur running down his spine and the canine ears on a man's body were as natural as his hound's form had been. The heat of his body felt like a part of me.

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