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A legend among his own kind…even among the Hunters, Malachi was unique. He always had been… from the beginning.
Once a slave, Malachi hadn’t ever lived free, until a mysterious woman turned him into something he didn’t understand. At first he fights it, seeing it as a different kind of bondage. Then he realizes it is his destiny. Embracing that destiny could lead to freedom—or it could lead him into an endless hell.
Author’s note: This is the story of how Malachi was Changed and how he was led to the Hunters~ although his future mate is alluded to, this isn’t their story. It’s Malachi’s story, or at least, the beginning of it. Customer Ratings:
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Excerpt:
Hours later, he was swearing bitterly as he made his way through the darkened forest. The torch on the cart did a damn poor job of lighting the way. Although he knew these paths as well as he knew the back of his hand, traveling them in the dark, hauling a heavy load of wine was enough to have his anger returning in waves.
Lifting his eyes to the sky, he studied the angle of the moon. His mouth was dry, his belly was an empty knot and he was not looking forward to being forced into another fight.
It was that thought that made him do it.
Abruptly, Mal dropped the handles of the cart and turned, grabbing some of the wine. Jerking the oiled rag from the mouth of the jug, he tossed it onto the cart. Leaving the cart behind, he moved off the path and dropped onto the damp grass.
Tipping the jug back, he let the cool, sweet wine run down his throat. Damn a fight anyway. As late as it was, maybe they had all drunk themselves blind. After a little bit of wine, they’d never know if they were switched from the good stuff to the every day wine anyway, now would they?
For a moment, the image of Heta’s face danced behind his lowered lids.
But instead of pushing to his feet and heading on, he took another drink of wine. Then another. And another. He kept drinking until the edge of his mind went blurry and the anger gnawing at his gut finally eased off.
He never noticed when his lids lowered. When the jug fell to the ground with a hollow thunk, he slept on.
The woman came to him like a whisper on the wind, moving on silent feet through the trees. The wind blew long golden strands of air around her narrow shoulders, across her face. She reached up and brushed a strand out of her eyes, staring at the man sleeping under the tree.
She had sad eyes and as she studied him, her expression grew even more despondent. “I am sorry.” She moved a little closer, kneeling on the ground beside him. He did not move as she reached out and touched a finger to his cheek. “I have been watching you.”
As she sighed, her breasts rose and fell under the gleaming white of her gown. “Part of me hoped that you would never come to me. Each time I called, you turned it aside. Such a strong man.”
The deep red of his hair seemed nearly black under the silvery light of the moon. She had watched him, night after night, as he bedded the lady of the house, and her instinctive fear had warred with curiousity. How would that lovely hair feel wrapped around her hands? To feel that powerful body moving over hers? He never once used a cruel hand—she suspected even if he had not been bedding the mistress, he still would have used such care.
This was not a cruel man.
Did he enjoy making his Mistress cry out in pleasure?
And she had also watched him fight. Yes, she had been watching him for months and months. Fear sometimes forced her to leave, but always, she came back here. To watch him.
He was the one.
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