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Details on what actually happened were fuzzy, with few privy to actual information. All anyone knew for a fact was one night, Ander Snow took a terrible tumble down the stairs. He’d died instantly, found by his wife and son.
Fearing that Odin Snow would kill his father and take his strength, Isa murdered his mother, Isabel Frost, first. With his new influx of power, he ousted his step-brother and took control of Faraway Mansion.
That’s how the story went, in any case, and Hunter had never bothered correcting the minor details. Letting on that he knew the truth of that horrible day? Not wise.
For a few chaotic years, Isa attempted to run the Brumal on his own, fighting with the Hail family for control until the step-brother he’d tried and failed to have murdered returned with a vengeance.
No one knew what had happened to Odin in those years he was missing, but there were rumors, not that Hunter had paid much heed to whispers spoken in the dark on cold winter nights. Whatever happened though, it was clear he’d been busy collecting allies and building an empire of his own.
The Red Light District of Ovid was infamous, so much so that no matter where he went in the world, Hunter hadn’t been able to escape hearing of it. That’s how he’d gathered any and all information he knew about his home country and his home city, word of mouth.
He could recall with great clarity where he was when he heard important information too. Trying to take a nap on a park bench in Freezeborn when two joggers passing by mentioned Odin Snow’s return. Eating soup that was more broth than anything in Perka when a woman told her friend the rumor Snow and Shen had joined hands.
Making out with a stranger he’d just met at a bar in a rare moment of weakness when he’d allowed his guard to drop and had gotten a little tipsy…That’s where he’d overheard two junkies the stall over talking about Liaand Norra, the proper name for Ovid’s Red Light district, and its king, mafia head Odin Snow.
The news had completely killed any spark of arousal he’d managed to muster between sloppy kisses and overly aggressive hands. Hunter had shoved the guy he’d been making out with away and stumbled out of the bathroom, so keen on getting away from the name Snow and anything to do with it that he’d almost forgotten to pull up his pants before entering the hallway.
As the years had gone by and Liaand Norra had grown, he hadn’t allowed himself to so much as picture a single building or room in the place. Striking it from his mind almost as soon as the thought of it sprung up.
Which was why, when he finally blinked his eyes open again and rested his gaze on tufts of red tulle strung over the high ceiling, there was no reason for his brain to instantly place him there. At yet…Hunter knew with a burning certainty that he was in the famous Liaand Norra and, what’s more, that he’d somehow been brought straight to the one place he’d sworn he’d die before ever stepping foot in.
Club Cherry.
He waited for the panic to set in, but either he’d been drugged or he was still too mentally exhausted over what had transpired in that warehouse to muster the feeling. It couldn’t be called calm, what he was feeling, more like resignation. He didn’t have to check to know that his body was in no condition to fight and if he’d been brought here surely there was a reason. He wouldn’t be allowed to simply get up and leave.
That thought had his lips lifting, a small smile forming before he could help it. Because, no, walking out on a Dominus once and living to tell the tale was probably all the luck he was likely to get in this lifetime.
“Something amusing?” a honey-toned voice cut through the silence, killing that tiny thread of humor Hunter had felt. The speaker shifted, possibly getting to his feet, and moved closer.
Every sound of his approaching footsteps made Hunter’s heart pound in his chest. How interesting, that only a moment prior he’d believed himself incapable of panic.
How wrong he’d been.
He tried to move then, but his body wouldn’t listen. He managed to get his fingers to twitch, but that was about it. It was worse than he’d been in the warehouse, because those guys had been nothing in the grand scheme of things. But Snow?
Snow was so much more.
Finally, Odin stepped into view, coming right up to the side of the bed to peer straight down at him, and Hunter felt the breath catch in his throat.
He was taller than he remembered, and broader. His hair was cut short, neon green bangs swept off the side of his forehead. His milky white skin had a pink tint to it from the lighting of the room they were in, and there was a lot of it on display. The long-sleeved black fishnet shirt highlighted the swirls of ink tattooed across the top of his chest and down the tops of both arms and standing this close, it was impossible not to notice the definition of his body, all the harsh lines, and the ridges of his abs.
He’d pierced his ears, three silver ball studs in his right, a long dangly silver charm hanging from his left. It was a far cry from the put-together boy Hunter had known in the past. That boy had always been in pressed suits with his ebony hair slicked into the latest high fashion. He’d held himself ridged, expressionless, cold.
The man before him now was none of those things. He openly grinned down at Hunter, showing teeth, and then reached out with a ring-covered hand to lightly take his chin between two fingers.
Odin tipped his head up—as if he didn’t already have Hunter’s full attention—and sighed, lazily, like his sister’s alley cat had after he’d been fed for the first time in days and had found a nice sunny patch to lie down in.
“Can you speak, Huntsman?” the nickname seemed to roll easily off Odin’s tongue, despite the fact he hadn’t spoken it in so long.
Only he’d ever called him that.
Hunter used to like it.
Now it made his chest constrict.
“Try for me,” Odin ordered.
Hunter clenched his jaw instead. He’d never do anything for the Brumal again. Ever.
