Leap of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #4)(77)

Unfortunately, if she didn’t get what she wanted, she’d refuse to leave. She’d persist—clinging and crying, talking and talking. Her infantile behavior would escalate until she’d start throwing whatever she could get her hands on.

He sighed. “How much money do you need?”


With Darcy beside him, Owen finished dressing in the side room and headed down the hall.

Still in an exhilarant mood, Darcy was dancing, although on feet now rather than paws.

Smiling slightly, he slung an arm over her shoulders and pulled her close. “You did good, little cat.”

Her snort held both delight at his compliment—and exasperation. Her pointy elbow jabbed into his ribs. “Don’t call me little.”

“Ah, right. I forgot.” He grinned down into her dark eyes. Fuck, she was beautiful. Her cheeks had rounded out, and her skin glowed with health. Her lips were full, the lower one tempting a male to nibble on the plumpness.

Undoubtedly catching his interested scent, she stumbled slightly, and to his delight, he caught a whiff of her own interest. To see what she’d do, he lifted her arm and blatantly sniffed her wrist. Oh, yeah. The scent there not only roused him, but the knowledge that she wanted him made his own feet want to dance.

He cleared his throat. Not the time, Treharn. “If you don’t like the word little, I could call you tiny. Tiny tinker?”

Her dainty hiss reminded him of Mrs. Henderson’s Persian. Yep, little cat was the right term for her.

He tugged a lock of her wavy hair in reprimand. “Did you just hiss at your mentor?” He’d never teased a female before this one. Odd how much fun it was.

“Oh, no.” She widened eyes as filled with mischief as a passel of pixies. “I would never. Truly. I know better than to disrespect someone of your venerable age.”

His jaw dropped. The kitten had just called him old? Old? “You are in so much—”

Giggling, she darted down the hallway, around the back of the stairs, and into the main room of the lodge.

At a more leisurely pace, he followed. If Zeb was around, he’d hand her back. Shay or Gawain would enjoy teasing her—or him—but eventually, Owen would have his hands on her again. What could he do to make her eat that insult?

As he rounded the corner, a scent froze his feet to the ground. Loathing filled him.

His mother stood in front of Gawain, accepting a fistful of bills.

Laughter gone, Darcy was within a few feet of them and backing toward the stairs.

Owen couldn’t move. He hadn’t seen Mother since the day in the Pine Knoll restaurant when she’d been loudly sobbing about her cub being dead. An exasperated customer reminded her she had three remaining cubs—and unfortunately, pointed at Owen who’d just entered the restaurant. By the God, he’d never seen such hysterics in his life.

For twenty-five years, he’d not thought of her. And he’d believed Gawain loved her. His littermate had stayed in Pine Knoll, after all.

Owen might have been wrong.

His littermate’s emotions were as easy to read as a fresh-cut trail. Gawain was angry. Frustrated. And almost despairing. Despite his need to protect Gawain, Owen knew any intervention would only lead to a foulmouthed scene, punctuated by screams and wails. Ear-splitting hysterics were Mother’s specialty.

He and Gawain were guests in this lodge; fouling the wolves’ den with their mother’s howling would be wrong.

Owen started to retreat the way he’d come.

The movement caught Gawain’s attention.

Mother noted his gaze, spotted Owen, and hatred filled her face. “You. You’re still alive.” She pointed at Owen as if she’d gladly stab him through the heart with her finger. “You’re the reason my baby, my Edwyn, is dead. You’re more evil than any hellhound.”

He was an adult now, full-grown, and still…something in him wanted to curl into a miserable ball like a cubling. Even knowing she wouldn’t listen, he still protested. “I had nothing to do with Edwyn’s death. I didn’t see him that night.”

“You lie! I know you yelled at him. Called him names. You’re why Phoebe rejected him. Why he drove his new car too fast and crashed it.” Her voice shook. “You killed him as surely as if you’d bit his throat out.”

No reasoning with her. Owen shook his head, barely managing to mutter the words. “I don’t lie. Wasn’t there.”

“You were. Murderer.” She launched herself across the room, striking Owen with fists and slaps.

He turned his head and backed away, and she followed…as she always had. He’d never hit her back—she was female.

“This is bullshit. Stop right now.” Darcy grabbed his mother’s arm—and hair—and slung her into a chair.

“You dare! You—”

With a wolverine’s ferocity, Darcy hissed and raised her fist. “Owen might not hit a female, but I certainly will.” Darcy’s voice was a low growl. The little female was under complete control, despite her anger.

His mother burst into pitiful weeping. “You don’t understand. He killed my son.”

“I very much doubt it. Owen doesn’t lie.” The certainty in Darcy’s voice was a balm over burning welts.

Still—he needed to leave, or Mother would continue ratcheting up the hysterics. He glanced at Gawain.