The Gunslinger's Man by Helena Maeve Page B

they’d ignored his pleas and generally treated him like he was part of the furniture. Not Nyle, though. If he’d been a dog, his tail would have been wagging at the attention.
    “You didn’t think he threw that little bash in your honor, did you?” Nyle snorted, rolling his wide eyes. “Breather arrogance.”
    “Nyle.” Halloran’s voice was a low warning.
    Asher ignored it. “You mean to say…you all work for Ambrose?”
    Of course they did. Why else would they have been granted the keys to Willowbranch and allowed to come and go as they pleased? Humans weren’t the only regimented species in Ambrose’s town.
    Confirmation didn’t come from Halloran, whose lips were a thin line of displeasure and whose frown had deepened, but from Nyle. “You’re just getting that now?” He snorted. “Sure, if by work you mean culling his rivals, then yes. We work for him. Thanks to you…Señor Anarchist.”
    Tension vibrating in him like steam through a copper chimney, Asher stood from the rocking chair.
    A brief flicker of surprise manifested on Nyle’s smug face. It quickly gave way to a snicker.
    No wonder—they thought Asher was a joke. Halloran didn’t see a need to cuff him anymore. He’d been convinced by Asher’s placidity. He probably believed Asher to be broken.
    He wasn’t wrong.
    An impotent display of anger was just about all Asher could give. Anything more and he’d be pounded into dirt.
    Before he felt compelled to test that hypothesis, Asher rounded on his heel and made for the stairs.
    “Asher.”
    His name in Halloran’s mouth was as effective as a fishhook snagged in his throat. Asher stopped in his tracks.
    Was it his imagination or did a hush fall over the room as the other Riders took notice of him at long last?
    “I’ll want your blood tonight.” Halloran didn’t even bother shaping it into a request.
    Asher gritted his teeth. “Lucky me…that you couldn’t find anyone better to abduct.” Powerless to refuse, he turned for the stairs. Once on the landing, he slammed the door behind him so hard it rattled its frame.
    Though satisfying, the reverberating echo did little to quell his wrath. He could imagine Halloran taking offense and coming up to teach him a lesson.
    Let him. His back against the door, Asher slid down until his backside met the creaking hardwood boards, and put his head in his hands.
     

Chapter Eight
     
     
     
    The telltale creak of footsteps on the landing sent a spike of adrenaline down Asher’s spine. He squeezed the pillow with both hands, determined not to give Halloran the satisfaction of seeing his panic.
    If it was like the last time, it would be over as quickly as it began. Halloran wouldn’t stick around to mock him.
    He was a different sort of monster to Octavian.
    Closer now, the steps faltered outside Asher’s bedroom door.
    What was he waiting for, a written invitation? Asher let out an exasperated breath, knowing full well that Halloran could hear him, wanting him to know this show of dithering wasn’t doing them any favors.
    The hinges creaked.
    Moonlight cast a new shadow over the bed, over Asher. The bruise on his neck, already dulled to a fast-fading brown, began to ache with phantom pain.
    It hadn’t hurt so much the last time, but Asher hadn’t stepped on Halloran’s toes then. He kept as still as a dog playing dead. The mattress dipped, his heart threatening to leap out of his chest.
    Just do it already.
    If it hurt to have his throat ripped open, then it would hurt. Halloran wouldn’t kill him—Asher was mostly certain of that—because to do so would be to deny himself the pleasure of tormenting Asher further.
    He tried to take comfort in that flimsy logic as he registered the touch of cold fingertips at his nape, astonishingly tentative. A shiver swept through him. He got the message. Pressing his face fully into the pillow beneath his head, Asher braced himself for what was to come.
    He didn’t expect to feel Halloran’s