Page 22 of Hunted by the Headless Horseman (Roars and Romances #5)

JACK

Ifollow the sheriff up the mountain.

He drives cautiously up the narrow dirt road, the old truck’s headlights cutting through the dense fog that blankets the mountain’s base.

Each bump and rut in the path jostles the vehicle, and the tires kick up loose gravel, but I can easily keep pace with him, slipping in and out of shadows like the cursed phantom I am.

I absorb the shadows and become one with the trees, moving silently through the thick forest.

I am a part of the night itself.

And I know every inch of these mountains.

With my resurrected head thanks to taking my sweet summoner against the wall, it is effortless.

A needling sensation pricks my spine.

Can I truly expect her to stay where she is? I will fulfill my vow to burn and bloody her arse if she doesn’t.

Or perhaps…hmm, yes, I consider my other idea, storing it away for later.

As the sheriff slows his truck, I pause, taking in the structure emerging from the mist.

The high stone walls are weathered but strong, serving as a solid foundation for the iron fences that rise above them.

The iron forms spikes at the crest, a sharp barrier meant to keep citizens inside and outliers beyond its reach.

I shouldn’t be too surprised by the more modern advancements and facilities.

Such a framework enables more control.

I spy four watchtowers, and a growl rumbles in my chest at the militia guards with their automatic weapons.

It’s been nine years since Belle was in the clutches of this ominous place.

And her grandmother helped her flee last time.

If she falls back into their hands, those jaws will close around her, ripping her from me forever.

Over my goddamned, missing heart.

A large, wrought-iron double gate marks the entrance, daunting and unyielding.

Hidden among the thick pines, I observe as the sheriff reaches the checkpoint. Two bulky guards in dark uniforms stand at the gate, armed with rifles. One steps forward, raising a flashlight to inspect the sheriff.

The sheriff jerks up his sleeve, exposing his wrist.

I narrow my eyes as the beam of light catches a brand in the shape of a circle—a mark I’m assuming is the Covenant’s insignia.

The guard nods, satisfied, and the gates groan as they swing open, the sheriff’s truck rumbling through.

I wander closer to the fence, careful to keep to the darkness, studying the compound’s main area and its mix of old-world ruggedness and modern efficiency.

Beyond the high walls, the compound proves to be more sophisticated than I expected.

Generators hum quietly, providing a steady stream of power to the buildings.

Floodlights are mounted on tall iron poles, casting sinister shadows upon the compound.

Security cameras on several walls monitor the area. Thankfully, none can catch my profile, but it would detect a blurry shadow of a man.

I can’t be caught.

Most buildings are newer, constructed with modern materials.

Metal siding reflects the artificial lanterns with the eerie glow of LED lights through the windows.

The combination of technology and antiquity creates an unsettling atmosphere, a clash between the past and present as if the Covenant straddles two worlds—one foot in the modern era, the other still rooted in something archaic and dark.

My gaze drifts to the western corner of the small city, about five hundred yards away.

It’s like staring through a portal to the past, an era too similar to mine.

It must be the original part of the settlement, though it’s more ruins.

A stark contrast to the modern compound.

Time and weather have battered the old farmhouses.

Their wooden boards are splintered and gray, peeling paint and exposing damp and rotting lumber underneath.

Rusty tin roofs creak in the wind, and the faint sound of rooftop weather vanes turns lazily, their arrows screeching through the air.

I recognize it as the Covenant’s desire to preserve their foundation, these remnants of the past—groundwater pumps with iron handles, butter churns abandoned on sagging porches, and broken wagons left to rot.

They are ghosts of a forgotten time and seem to whisper memories of a simpler but darker, more primal life.

The air is thick with the sensation of patriarchal energy and old-world blood.

Hooded figures and black magic rituals by roaring bonfires, branded flesh, and forced breeding.

Vicious possession fills me at the thought of Belle in this horrific place.

I will do whatever it takes to protect my angel, my bookworm, who is everything sweet and good in this rotted world.

By now, the sheriff has parked his truck near the entrance.

I watch and wait for him to advance and disappear inside the main building.

Then I shadow over the fence with a supernatural grace gifted to me by the curse, though until now, I didn’t see it as a blessing.

Landing without a sound, I crouch in the dirt, scanning the area.

The foreboding weight of the place presses down on me, the sense of being watched never leaving my skin.

It seeps into my bones and chills my blood.

The wind carries a faint metallic tang, a hint of blood and iron. It’s enough to make any man shudder.

Not even the Devil would embark into this place.

Staying low, I move toward the building, a central meeting house judging by the view beyond the windows.

I carefully avoid the patches of light and the security cameras.

Through the windows, I see shelves lining one wall, filled with worn leather-bound books, jars of odd, preserved substances, and old, tarnished brass instruments, probably used for some ritual.

A skull—a deer, by the looks of it—sits on the top shelf, with darkened, hollow eyes that seem to watch over the room.

Moving toward the end of the building, feeling my blood quicken, I listen intently to the muffled voices inside.

One window is cracked, offering more.

Every nerve in my body is on edge, malice coursing through me.

I am a predator, a ghostly presence that no living man can sense unless I reveal myself.

One glimpse inside shows a faded tapestry on the wall, one stained in blood like a relic.

Several men have gathered around a rectangular wooden table.

I glower at the deep royal purple robe the one at the head wears like he’s some monarch.

Judging by his position and age, I’d wager it’s Thaddeus.

The sheriff is in uniform, but the others wear a simple black robe. All robes bear the Covenant insignia.

If he were a skinny little weasel, it would be better.

Unfortunately, Belle’s former husband is no skinny weasel.

He’s a wolf.

His features are chiseled and sharp with high cheekbones and a strong, angular jaw. Full and well-defined lips and his straight, aristocratic nose give him an air of authority.

Despite his cold and calculating nature, hands calmly folded on the table, there’s a magnetic quality about him that draws people in. Thaddeus can bend people to his will with one narrow of his piercing, icy eyes, which could cut anyone to the core.

He’s well-built, tall, broad-shouldered, and sits straight and high as a king, commanding all other presences.

“You failed me, Jeremiah,”

he says in a deep, resonant voice like a distant, rolling thunder as he turns to the man at his left—the true skinny, little weasel. The inferior man mumbles something I can’t make out, but the sound of his voice confirms he’s the one who attempted to take Belle. Jeremiah.

Thaddeus lowers his brows halfway, enough to create shadows around his eyes but exuding a chastisement—not anger.

“You and your men couldn’t handle a single girl. Belle is mine by right, by blood, flesh, and the word of God himself. She belongs to me, and I’ll not have some masked interloper come between us.”

Other men around the table concur, lowering their chins in respect.

A menacing energy lingers beneath the surface of his magnetism. When he turns his head to the other side of the table, the faint scar on his cheekbone proves he’s seen his share of violence. And enjoys displaying it.

Cold fury laces through me, but I keep it contained, slowing and calming my breaths as he continues.

“She is my wife, my first-blood bride, and my Covenant womb-bearer.”

His voice is daggered, hardened, resolved.

“She will soon learn there’s no running from me. Not in this world, not in the next.”

I clench my leather-clad hand, forcing myself not to act. I grip my cane with my other, no doubt wearing out the glove.

“Thaddeus, I swear, we tried to bring her back, but this…this man, he wasn’t human. He moved like a ghost—like he was in two places at once. I saw one of my men die, saw the blood, and yet…his body vanished like smoke.”

Jeremiah’s fear is palpable, and a smirk tugs at one corner of my lips. The sniveling coward is shaking in his robe.

Thaddeus presses his lips into a tight seam. A neatly trimmed beard frames Thaddeus’s jawline, hinting at years of experience and influence. Well-maintained, the beard only adds to his aura of authority and control.

“I’ve seen things in these mountains,”

Thaddeus says darkly.

“Black things, ancient things. But none of them are blacker than me. Belle’s blood is mine, and I’ll carve my name into her skin and soul if I have to. If that masked fool thinks he can take her from me, he’ll learn that I am the devil in these hills. If I can’t have her, no one will.”

The urge to charge in and tear Thaddeus apart roars through me like a raging lion, but my teeth grind hard enough that it grants me a jolt of grounding pain.

“She’ll learn to love me. She’ll remember who she belongs to, or I’ll make her beg for death before I ever let her go.”

Arrogance and power define him. I saw it in every goddamn noble I robbed during my highwayman days. He’s combed his thick, dark hair back smoothly, a slight wave that gives him a polished and effortless look. He takes great lengths to preserve his appearance…and expects others to notice.

One of the men at the table, a wiry, older member with a grizzled beard and gaunt cheeks, leans forward.

“Thaddeus, how can you be sure she’s the one to grant you a child? You’ve had multiple wives. You’ve gone through the rituals, the prayers, but you’ve never given us proof.”

Skepticism is written all over his features, but one withering glare of Thaddeus and the man shrinks, ready to fold himself in pieces until he disappears.

Thaddeus narrows his eyes before he sweeps into a stand, retrieves a thick, worn leather-bound book from his robe, and slams it down on the table with a force that startles all the others.

My breath catches in my throat as I recognize the book—the summoner’s tome that served as my lifeline’s road back to living. Belle holds the original. This must be the copy, the one Cassandra Kravitson referenced, hidden in their treasure box. Somehow, Thaddeus discovered it and must have studied every word of Elizabeth Holloway’s medical notes, including the one regarding Belle’s abortion.

“This,”—Thaddeus announces, stabbing a finger at the book, his voice low but carrying a dominance, one that demands absolute obedience,—“is my proof.”

His fingers, long and pale, trace the worn cover, reverent and possessive. His knuckles are rough and rugged, more signs of his practiced violence.

“This book holds the history of Belle’s sin—her greatest transgression. It is her punishment, her destiny, to bear my child. She took a life from this world—one that was to be mine—and for that, she will answer. I have nothing to lose. The stakes are highest for me.”

His sudden intensity cows all the men, particularly when he begins to circle the table with a predatory grace. His eyes never leave the book as he goes on, “It was a deep sin against me, against the Covenant, and God Himself. She committed the most grievous of offenses by denying me what was mine—my blood, my legacy, my future.”

More stern nods. More glaring eyes. And noses curling with disgust. Disgust. A loathsome word that could never apply to my Belle.

Coming full circle, remaining behind his chair, Thaddeus does a cursory sweep of the others.

“But there will be no trial by fire. She will not be offered the chance to repent in flames for what she did. No, that is far too merciful.”

“She will be bound to me in flesh, marked with the sacred brand that signifies her as mine.”

His voice has dropped an octave, but it carries to every corner of the room with a chilling finality. They are venom to me, one I will spit out and shove back down his worthless throat.

Gripping the edges of his chair, Thaddeus scrutinizes the robed figures.

“She will be imprisoned within my house, within my bed, until she gives me what I am owed. She will have the honor of bearing my seed, of redeeming herself in my eyes and the eyes of our Covenant. And if, after a year, no child is conceived…”

A furious tremor rips through me at the bastard who allows the silence to hang in the air, his eyes flicking up to meet the sheriff’s, who shifts uncomfortably under his gaze.

“Then,”—he hisses,—“I will see to it that she burns. Her ashes will serve as a reminder of what happens to those who defy the Covenant.”

Rage seethes through me, dark and dangerous, monstrous. Thaddeus will soon know what it truly means to come face-to-face with the blackest beast in these mountains. One who will protect his beauty with every fiber of his being, whatever the cost.

It takes everything in me not to charge through the window, shattering glass, and bringing nothing but blood and punishment.

“I questioned her, you know,”

the sheriff says, an undercurrent of annoyance in his tone.

“Belle claimed she didn’t know anything, but she gave evidence of the wounds dealt to her. She’s much stronger and more intelligent than I’ve given her credit for. That woman’s been through hell, but she’s stubborn, and you know as well as I do, she won’t file a report. Problem is, she’s got the whole town wrapped around her little finger.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks as Thaddeus listens, and for a moment, I catch the flash of anger ripple through the Elder like a storm cloud.

“Of course, she won’t file a report. She knows she’s holding onto her freedom by a slim thread. She knows I am coming for her and is undoubtedly spinning her little web, spreading rumors and lies to the townspeople. Another reason a liberated woman is dangerous—as Helen of Troy kindled a war over her beauty. And Eve ate the forbidden fruit. All the more reason to reclaim her for my bed, where she belongs. Motherhood is the highest calling, and she will come to accept such.”

Feral ice carves through me while blood roars in my ears. Wherever my heart lies, it is hammering, thundering.

“She’s made herself a pillar of that community.”

The Sheriff shrugs.

“Got half the town eating out of her hand. And if she decides to start talking…Well, she could stir up more trouble than she’s worth. Women always do,”

he mutters.

“As for the town?”

Thaddeus spat, stepping closer to the sheriff, his voice dripping with disdain.

“Let them adore her, let them whisper their praises and pretend she’s some saint reborn. When her sin is revealed, it will make her fall all the greater.

“Regardless, it changes nothing,”

he adds, twisting his lips into a cruel smirk.

“Because at the end of the day, she is mine. And I’ll make her remember that. And ultimately, the Council will not quarrel with us. They know better. Nor would they endanger their way of life for the sake of one woman, no matter how charming she is.”

I roll my eyes, grimacing at the hypocrisy. One moment, she is worthy of a comparison to Helen of Troy and Eve. The next, she is not worthy of the town defending her honor.

“It’s clear I made a grievous error delegating this responsibility. It is mine and mine alone.”

Something twisted and gruesome flickers in his eyes.

“Once I set everything in order, I will personally collect my wife. And when she’s back where she belongs, bound in flesh and blood and screaming my name, they’ll understand that there’s no place for a woman like her to rise above a man like me.”

By thunder!—I will castrate him as I did Edmund Thorne. I’ll drag him through the Appalachian Mountains until the flesh is ripped from his worthless corpse. Then I’ll hang that withered corpse in the center of their damned Covenant for all to see.

He does not deserve to breathe her air. He does not deserve to look upon her.

I swallow poisonous rage, biding my time.

A few minutes later, the meeting adjourns, and Thaddeus emerges from the meeting hall after the others have gone.

His broad shoulders cast a long shadow against the lantern light as he advances toward another building deeper within the compound. The night air is heavy with a damp chill clinging to the skin. The soft hum of the generators fades into the background, swallowed by the blanket of darkness…and the steps of Thaddeus, along with the swish of his robe.

Gritting my teeth, I trail behind him, slipping from shadow to shadow. Cane gripped like an extension of my hand, I blend into the darkness. Whatever residence the blackguard is aiming for, it borders the thick woods at the edge of the compound.

Thaddeus moves with purpose, boots crunching against the crude path of stones and dirt, his every gesture exuding that same cold, arrogant confidence from the meeting.

When Thaddeus slows, I pause, eclipsed by the long shadows of the great tree nearby. The Elder comes to an abrupt halt in the middle of the path, his posture stiffening. My breath falters in my throat.

Thaddeus inclines his head to one side, then the other, ears pricked like a predator scenting the air, his movements eerily still. A faint smile tugs at the corner of the devil’s mouth, almost as if he can feel the eyes on him.

Glancing over his shoulder, the Elder lets his gaze drift over the surrounding darkness, searching, hunting.

“Come out,”

he murmurs into the void, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

“I know you’re there.”

One corner of my mouth twists into a leering smirk. I relax my grip on my cane. I don’t bother holding my breath or stepping further into the shadows.

No, I will not show myself, nor will I hide. Instead, I let my presence linger on the periphery of Thaddeus’s awareness, like the whisper of wind against the nape of his neck. Let him believe it’s a phantom. I narrow my eyes upon the bastard who turns in a slow, calculated circle. Let him believe it’s a monster curling its chilling breath along the back of his neck.

For a moment, Thaddeus stands there, head still tilted as if listening, as if trying to catch a hint of movement in the darkness. I remain motionless with an icy determination steadying me as I behold the flicker of uncertainty that crosses Thaddeus’s features. It’s subtle, just a tightening at the corner of his eyes, a slight furrow of his brow.

But I see it. It triggers an electric thrill up my spine and reinforces my protection, my possession of the woman I love, the huntress of my heart.

Thaddeus knows—truly knows—that something is out here, lurking just beyond his reach. Something unknown…with black eyes watching him from the shadows.

My fingers are restless as they hold my cane, the urge to bash his skull in is nearly irresistible.

With a final sweep of his gaze, Thaddeus turns and continues down the path, but his steps are slower, less certain—as if he senses the weight of an unseen beast tracking him. My smirk widens.

I’m ready to follow him home, let the wretch of a knave feel the fear, let it creep into his bones and fester. Soon, Thaddeus will learn what kind of ghost haunts him.

Soon, you’ll see exactly what kind of monster you’ve awakened.

Before I take another step, I feel it—a sharp, searing pain in my chest. A tether pulled taut. My bond to Belle flares to life. By God, she’s suffering, terrified. She’s in danger, and I have no time to waste.

No hesitation. I shadow through the darkness, moving swiftly and silently down the mountain, driven by one goal, one thought, one purpose.

Find Belladonna Holloway before it’s too late.