The Men of Otherworld: Collection One by Yasmine Galenorn Page A
Authors: Yasmine Galenorn
Ads: Link
her off, trying to laugh. Dredge couldn’t be here. Vampires slept during the daylight, even the strongest of them. And Dredge wasn’t the hunter, not this time. No, Dredge wouldn’t know him from a rock. Because Dredge was halfway to insane, and the only thing that mattered to him was the current kill, the current prey. Rozurial had hunted him across the world and back again before giving up to settle in and have as normal of a life as he could. Last he heard, Dredge was tracking through Ceredream, feeding off the whores and the homeless—castaways who wouldn’t be missed. No, it wasn’t Dredge who had set him on alert. Just who it was, he didn’t know. But not Dredge.
Stopping in at the house to pick up his lunch bucket and to give Fraale a kiss, Rozurial found her cussing out the summer oven yet again. She had burned two loaves of bread thanks to the uneven heating and now she swung around, hands on hips.
“You promised me you’d repair this. I can’t do up the harvest preserves until you fix it.” She was pretty—plump and round, with brown hair and eyes that flashed when she was angry…and when she wanted to make love.
Roz swept her into his arms, his lips pressing against hers. She was warm and soft, cushioned in all the right places, and as he buried his nose in her hair, all he wanted to do was sweep her into the bedroom and kiss his way down her body. But she pushed her way out of his embrace, laughing.
“Chores first. The fields will not till themselves, and the fruits won’t fall into the baskets on their own accord. Now, when are you going to fix my oven?” But her eyes danced as she slapped her hand against his chest.
He grinned. “Tonight. I promise you, I’ll fix both the summer oven and the fireplace. Now, give me my lunch, woman, and make me some cookies today? Please?” Again, the boyish smile flashed as he gently smacked her on the ass. Even if settling down had dulled his senses, it was worth it—the sun on her hair, the smells of home around him. The sense of family he’d lost thanks to Dredge in childhood, he’d regained when he met Fraale.
She pushed a bucket into his hands. “There’s bread and cheese, meat and cake, and a bottle of milk. Go on with you, then.”
And so, Rozurial headed off to build and mend and harvest and generally take care of business.
He was partway through the afternoon when he got the feeling something was wrong. The same shiver he’d felt in the morning hit him again. He shaded his eyes. From the pasture in which he was standing, the house was barely visible—a faint protrusion on the horizon. He was a twenty minute walk from home, on the highest hill of their property, staring through the fields of corn and root vegetables. Trying to ignore the feeling, he went back to shoring up the last boundary marker that was leaning precariously. But, unable to shake the worry, he decided to head back home early.
On his way, his walk became a jog became an outright run. Roz was in good shape, and by the time he came to the fence that divided their house from the gardens, he slowed, hoping he wasn’t making a fool of himself. Fraale would probably laugh herself silly at his expense—there were no signs of fire, no signs of trouble. He debated whether he should just turn back. He could finish bringing in the wagon filled with berries and fruit, and carrots and corn that he’d picked during the afternoon. But an odd noise—one he didn’t recognize—made him pause.
Slowly, he edged around to the side of the house. There, tied to the gate, stood a white stallion—huge and gleaming in the late afternoon sun. No saddle…so whoever owned it must have either been leading it by the bridle, or riding bareback. The horse was restive, pawing the ground, and he thought he could see a puff of steam come out of its nostrils, but that made no sense. He drew his hand across his eyes to clear them.
At that moment, a sudden scream from inside the house broke
Stopping in at the house to pick up his lunch bucket and to give Fraale a kiss, Rozurial found her cussing out the summer oven yet again. She had burned two loaves of bread thanks to the uneven heating and now she swung around, hands on hips.
“You promised me you’d repair this. I can’t do up the harvest preserves until you fix it.” She was pretty—plump and round, with brown hair and eyes that flashed when she was angry…and when she wanted to make love.
Roz swept her into his arms, his lips pressing against hers. She was warm and soft, cushioned in all the right places, and as he buried his nose in her hair, all he wanted to do was sweep her into the bedroom and kiss his way down her body. But she pushed her way out of his embrace, laughing.
“Chores first. The fields will not till themselves, and the fruits won’t fall into the baskets on their own accord. Now, when are you going to fix my oven?” But her eyes danced as she slapped her hand against his chest.
He grinned. “Tonight. I promise you, I’ll fix both the summer oven and the fireplace. Now, give me my lunch, woman, and make me some cookies today? Please?” Again, the boyish smile flashed as he gently smacked her on the ass. Even if settling down had dulled his senses, it was worth it—the sun on her hair, the smells of home around him. The sense of family he’d lost thanks to Dredge in childhood, he’d regained when he met Fraale.
She pushed a bucket into his hands. “There’s bread and cheese, meat and cake, and a bottle of milk. Go on with you, then.”
And so, Rozurial headed off to build and mend and harvest and generally take care of business.
He was partway through the afternoon when he got the feeling something was wrong. The same shiver he’d felt in the morning hit him again. He shaded his eyes. From the pasture in which he was standing, the house was barely visible—a faint protrusion on the horizon. He was a twenty minute walk from home, on the highest hill of their property, staring through the fields of corn and root vegetables. Trying to ignore the feeling, he went back to shoring up the last boundary marker that was leaning precariously. But, unable to shake the worry, he decided to head back home early.
On his way, his walk became a jog became an outright run. Roz was in good shape, and by the time he came to the fence that divided their house from the gardens, he slowed, hoping he wasn’t making a fool of himself. Fraale would probably laugh herself silly at his expense—there were no signs of fire, no signs of trouble. He debated whether he should just turn back. He could finish bringing in the wagon filled with berries and fruit, and carrots and corn that he’d picked during the afternoon. But an odd noise—one he didn’t recognize—made him pause.
Slowly, he edged around to the side of the house. There, tied to the gate, stood a white stallion—huge and gleaming in the late afternoon sun. No saddle…so whoever owned it must have either been leading it by the bridle, or riding bareback. The horse was restive, pawing the ground, and he thought he could see a puff of steam come out of its nostrils, but that made no sense. He drew his hand across his eyes to clear them.
At that moment, a sudden scream from inside the house broke
Similar Books
