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He’d always been a decent shot.

Storm could have gotten away scot-free after that, but the one-track mindedness of his kind demanded that he honor the debt he was in, even though his people had just thoroughly tried to kill him or beat him to within an inch of his life and drag him back home where he could be forced to mate with some of the females, all of which were his blood relatives.

At the time, Storm had genuinely thought that Tony was a regular hunter, a human who had no idea that shifters existed and not the kind who hunted paranormal creatures like him. He’d thought that Tony had only shot at the other cougars because of the way they were attacking a smaller, injured cougar like him, and maybe Tony had thought they’d attack him too once they noticed him. The three cougars had pretty much stumbled into his camp as Storm ran and the other two chased.

Storm’s mistake likely had more to do with the string of rabbits and pheasants Tony carried at his hip, as well as the fact that he was completely alone.

Hunters liked traveling in groups for safety reasons. It was a good 12

Marcy Jacks

idea, considering the big game they hunted.

Storm had presented himself to Tony, shifted, and then explained what he was and what he now owed the other man. Then he waited.

He’d expected to be shot on the spot like the others, and naturally, Tony didn’t believe him at first about any kind of honor debt.

Not until he’d told Storm to suck his dick, and Storm had done it without question. Hell, he’d been glad to do it.

Only then, by the way Tony spoke afterward, gloating about having his very own shifter servant, did Storm realize what kind of hunter Tony was, and it was way too late for him to do anything about it.

Tony refused to be separated from Storm ever since then. The man probably thought he’d hit the jackpot with his new shifter bodyguard. The only thing he couldn’t get Storm to do was kill other shifters. Storm tracked them when ordered and made Tony happy with lots of sex, which made the man forget all about what a worthless killer his bodyguard was, and that was it.

Until last November when a werewolf of all things killed Tony, freeing him from his debt.

He could still remember the look in that kid’s green eyes when they first met. It was a hard sort of look that was both eager and hungry.

The werewolf wanted him. For lust or revenge for Storm’s part in his friend’s kidnapping, or both, he couldn’t say, but Storm wanted no part in it.

It had been bad enough that Storm had worked with hunters, betraying his own kind while tricking himself into thinking that so long as he let Tony fuck him, he was keeping the man from being crueler to the creatures than he needed to be, but he didn’t want to become another punching bag for an angry shifter.

It was depressing when Storm realized that the kid had probably earned the right to take a few shots at him. Hell, even after he finally got out from under Tony’s thumb, he still couldn’t stop himself from Hunted and on the Run

13

feeling a sexual pull toward the younger were that made him completely uncomfortable and feel the worst sort of shame imaginable.

How sick in the head was he? Had he really allowed himself to be so brainwashed that now he would just jump into bed with anyone and fantasize about fucking anyone?

“Found him, boys,” said a masculine voice, the owner of which stepped through the shrubs with the kind of grace that Frankenstein’s monster might have.

The man was middle aged, with short salt-and-pepper hair on top of his head and a wide belly that Santa Claus might have. The guy certainly looked jolly enough. He just didn’t have the beard.

Three more men, all of whom were of similar age, except for one, who looked closer to Storm’s age at twenty-nine, stepped through the shrubs with a lot more grace than their leader did.

“Jesus, you’re good at tracking,” said the youngest man, looking down at Storm with wide, curious eyes.

“That I am,” the older man admitted. “To be fair, this one looks tired and haggard. Probably too old to be running. Maybe that’s why his pack abandoned him.”

Okay, these men were definitely not hunters of the innocent variety. They were out to kill him for some religious reasons or personal revenge for a wrong some other shifter committed against their family.

They must be new to this. Otherwise they would know that cougar-shifters didn’t stay in packs. They stayed near family members and other cougar-shifters who were related for the protection, but it wasn’t the same dynamic as how werewolves worked, and there was no alpha leader to answer to.

One of the hunters actually walked right up to Storm and nudged him in the side with his boot.

Storm groaned, but he didn’t move.

“Shit, he’s already half-dead.”

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Marcy Jacks

Good, kill me.

In another show of bravery, the hunter came forward and took the bag of clothing and money that Storm had been carrying around. It had been right near Storm’s mouth, too. If he’d had the energy, or the will, he could’ve easily bitten the man. He could’ve taken a good chunk right out of him in retaliation, but he didn’t, and the hunter knew he wasn’t going to.

Storm must really look like roadkill.

“What happened to his eye? Did you shoot it, Dad?” asked the youngest of them.

He would only think that if there was blood on the place where his eye used to be. Storm hadn’t thought he was that injured.

“No. It probably lost the eye in a fight with another shifter. That’s fine, though. We can put a glass one in the head once we get the skin off.”

Fuck, they