Page 38 of Hounded: Ashes to Ashes

I wondered if he would sleep. Loren didn’t always, especially when he had a lot on his mind. There was a solid chance I would be the only one resting while the hounds glowered at each other until sunrise.

When we finally crawled into bed, Loren held me tighter than any time I could remember. Crushed against him, tucked in safe, I whispered the story of our lives, all the best parts. From before our graveyard kiss until he left me in Pennsylvania. I had been bitter about that. Hurt and confused even though I knew why he did it. Why he had to. Because he loved me.

Despite our hellish guest a few feet and a curtain away, and despite that Loren couldn’t talk, he listened. He smiled at the happy things and, when I got teary, he kissed my dry cheeks.

It was damn near perfect, and it scared me to think for a fleeting moment that it could be—would be—even more perfect if I was high.

Indy

I wasn’tsure if the hounds slept, but they were both up before me. The sun was beaming through the trailer windows when I pushed the bedroom curtain aside and pranced into the living area.

Whitney sat on the couch with the furry purple blanket folded beside him, and Loren leaned against the kitchen cabinets, monitoring the Nespresso machine. He looked delectable in plaid PJ pants and a thermal shirt that hugged his ribs, and I made my way to him, anticipating the feeling of his hands on my bare skin.

He turned to my arrival, and his eyes widened with surprise. I spun a little circle, giving him a good look at the lace boxer briefs I’d stripped down to in the heat of the night.

Loren didn’t wait for me to get close before he made a beeline for the bathroom. I watched as he ducked out of sight, then emerged with my robe in his hand.

I grinned. “Am I showing too much ass to your friend?”

Glancing back, I found Whitney turned aside, staring out the window like our neighbor’s front lawn was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

Loren shot me a scolding look, and I snickered as he stepped behind me and wrapped the satiny fabric around my body. He may have been bothered by my indecency, but not so concerned he didn’t let his hands linger on my waist as he looped the tie into a bow.

As he pulled back, his fingers grazed my ass and gave a pinch that made me squeal. I rounded to find him stifling a grin, and it was such a welcome sight. I caught his arm before he could retreat and pulled him in for a kiss.

“Thank you, baby,” I murmured.

He returned to the coffee in progress, and I faced the fridge with a growing sense of dread. Since we’d hauled the Airstream back to New York, the trailer had been closed up like a time capsule. Loren must have done some tidying before I woke up because it had been a mess last night.

Unsecured items were jostled in our cross-country trek; the bathroom and my art desk had seen the worst of it. But looking over at the wood slab desk across from the living room sofa found it impeccably organized. My canvases were stacked, brushes sorted, and the trays of watercolors had been carefully arranged.

Smiling to myself, I tugged the refrigerator open. After weeks without power, everything inside was spoiled, including a bloated gallon jug of milk and a few takeout boxes that likely contained molds unknown to science.

I shut the door and went to the pantry instead. Nothing spoiled in there, just… not much of anything.

“We need to go to the store,” I announced. “Maybe later today, Lore? What do you think?”

The espresso mug he held looked like a dollhouse miniature as his grip tightened around it. Concern pinched his brow, enough to make me reconsider.

“Or tomorrow,” I said. “There’s no rush. We can order delivery.”

Whitney hadn’t moved from the couch—he’d barely even blinked—and it felt uncanny having a third person in our close quarters. But it felt stranger to ignore him, so I called over, “What do you like to eat, Whit?”

He glanced up at my inquiry, less abashed than he had been when I was in my panties, but when his gaze strayed to my bare legs and thighs, he grimaced.

“I bet you’re fancy,” I continued. “Lore’s kinda fancy. He doesn’t like junk food.”

The other hound looked past me at Loren. “You eat?”

Before Loren could respond, I countered, “You don’t?”

Whitney stood and fiddled with the folded cuffs of his shirt sleeves. I got the feeling it was an excuse not to look at me. “There’s no point,” he replied. “Dead things don’t need sustenance to survive.”

I rarely thought of Loren as dead, undead, or otherwise. He was warm to the touch, and his blood flowed, at least enough to get his dick hard when the need arose. I supposed he was kind of like a vampire defying the laws of nature. As someone who sprouted from a pile of ash every decade, I had no room to criticize.

“The point is that it tastes good,” I told Whitney, then made another attempt at my initial question. “What was your favorite food when you werealive?”

The other man looked aside as though trying to remember. He must have had to think quite a ways back because it took him a few seconds to come up with an answer.

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