Ensnared (Brutes of Bristlebrook, #1)(113)

Beau doesn’t swear. Not like that.

When Dom hands me my pack, my hands are trembling with foreboding.

I glance around the clearing. All evidence of our messy, perfect tryst is gone. Dom and Beau’s faces are wiped of emotion too. They’re back to pure soldier mode now. If the aching weakness in my muscles wasn’t screaming at me, I could almost think it hadn’t happened.

“Please,” I ask, and Dom pauses. “Why does that name matter? What does it mean?”

Dom looks down at me, and my knees turn to water at what’s in his eyes. I know it’s bad then. It’s really bad.

For the first time since we met, Dom is afraid.

“It means this trap wasn’t meant for us.” Dom looks away and slings his rifle over his shoulder. “It means Bristlebrook is under attack.”





Chapter 31


Jasper


SURVIVAL TIP #199

When you discover your fatal weakness,

either protect it at all costs . . .

or destroy it.

“D amn it!”

I hit the desk in frustration, then push back in my chair, scowling at the screens. Scrubbing a hand over my eyes, I sigh. There’s a twinge in my back that tells me I’m not as young as I used to be—I’ll be paying for sitting up in this chair all night and most of the day. My stomach is tight with hunger but I’m reluctant to stop long enough to get myself some food. I caved and had breakfast, but lunch had been due hours ago.

Why would that group just sit there? It doesn’t make sense. The spot is exposed, and the closest source of water is a fifteen-minute trek away. But there are men camped there—they slip into frame often enough that I’m sure of that.

Ever since Eden arrived and alerted us to the hunter issue, something has been off. My instincts have been screaming at me for days. We’re missing something critical. I am missing something critical, and I don’t want to fail again. Jaykob may have been crude, but he had a point: I’ve missed too much already.

Perhaps there is a flavor of self-flagellation to my tired vigil, where the sadist in me relishes even my own penance. But a few uncomfortable nights aren’t enough to make up for missing the cameras, or for Eden running off.

And that’s not even to mention my greater failures.

With another heavy sigh, I push myself back over to the desk and rewind one of the videos that has been bothering me. The picture is clear, from yesterday afternoon just before dusk, from a camera just half an hour from Bristlebrook. The trees are sparser here, and there’s a wide view of the forest. A woodpecker with a small yellow patch of feathers above its beak swoops in and perches on a nearby branch. My brow creases.

“Shit, Jasper. Did you even go to bed last night?”

A thousand needles prickle at the nape of my neck, then down my spine to the backs of my legs. Cursing myself inwardly, I glance down at the small screen on the desk which shows the hall and wide-open door. Yet another thing I missed.

I don’t turn, keeping my eyes locked on the tiny woodpecker. Looking at Lucien is always a mistake—one I avoid whenever possible. I don’t need to look, however, to know my seeming indifference slices into him. His hurt is a tangible, sour taste at the back of my tongue. He’s been stiff and uncomfortable around me—almost cold—ever since our conversation in the kitchen, and I can’t blame him for it.

“I’m working, Lucien,” I remind him politely, and rewind the video again, trying to focus on the little bird.

“Oh, sure, but I thought . . . Look, I just think you—”

Lucien huffs, and there’s a strangled, frustrated whine to it that teases at the dark mood I’m in. No matter what constraints I put on myself, hearing charming, chattery Lucien become tongue-tied around me is one of my most secret delights. One that makes my dick stir and thicken instantly, every time.

Unable to resist it now, I turn my chair so I can see him. His cheeks are flushed the exact shade of pink that always makes me want to bite them, and he’s carrying a tray of food, looking like the star of one of my favorite maid and master fantasies.

I wonder if he knows how irresistible he is like this, servicing me so sweetly. Lucien’s desire to please is so natural to him, so wound up in his perfect, innate goodness, I doubt it occurs to him to do it for any other reason than to be kind.

And therein lies the full sting of my Lucien problem. How can I be distant and unfeeling toward someone so deserving?

How much longer can I resist delivering him the pain and control and love he craves, when I so badly crave the deliverance also?

But how can I say yes, when the last tattered shreds of my honor hang on my resistance?

“I made you dinner,” he finishes in a rush, avoiding my eyes. “You, um, you should take a break.”

The painful tempest inside of me decides to batter at my heart, like it might knock it right out of my chest. “You made me dinner,” I repeat softly.

The pink in his cheeks spreads to his ears, and he glances at me. Our gazes tangle, and whatever he sees in mine makes him suck in a shivery breath.

Casually, I cross my legs, hiding my now-insistent interest. His parted lips are a sin unto themselves.

“I made it for Jaykob too,” he mutters defensively. “It’s no big deal.”

Tearing my gaze away is more difficult than I’d like, but I take in the meal he made me. Healthy, the way I like it, simple poached pheasant, a side of grilled vegetables, and . . .